Dear Dan

Dear Dan,

You do not know me but you and your mom met my wife ten years ago when Nancy arranged an assembly at Jefferson Elementary school in Elmhurst. The three of you talked briefly before you thrilled the kids there with your astronaut program. Nancy still remembers how proud your mom was of you. She also remembers talking to you about graduating from high school the same year you did, and that your mom and her mom were both named Rose. Mostly though she remembers how sweet your mom was. We both want you to know how sorry we are for your tragic loss.

I also just lost my mom too. When I received word she had passed away one of my good friends was online. Marc and I have corresponded for over two years via e-mail. We’ve never met in person but when I sent him an e-mail asking for his prayers he immediately called to offer his sympathy. The Internet can be a terrible thing but also a wonderful thing. It can deliver grief with stunning swiftness, but it can also deliver tender condolences from people you’ve never met who want you to know they are with you in spirit. Many thousands of us down here on Earth are praying for you and your family tonight.

When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut, but I had to give up my dream since my tendency toward airsickness would have washed me out of flight training. The last time I flew with my dad I was 10 years old. Dad had a real hot-rod of a plane, a Thorp T-18, which we flew to a little airport in the California desert where I made the mistake of eating a greasy cheeseburger. Climbing back out of the desert the turbulence was pretty bad, and as we were landing I was frantically estimating how much time it would take dad to taxi off the runway and open the canopy, and whether or not I should try for the weeds or just blow chunks right there on the tarmac.

On final approach I knew I wasn’t going to make it. By then I was looking for anything in the cockpit I could fill with a partially digested cheeseburger. With inspiration born of desperation I whipped off one of my shoes and filled it right to the brim. (I hadn’t told my dad I felt sick; you should have seen the look on his face-- It was a mixture of amazement, pride, and disgust). He landed the plane smoothly despite the fact he was trying hard not to laugh. Or maybe he just wanted to land softly so I didn’t drop my puke-filled shoe. All I knew was it was time to consider another career path.

Many years since then I have landed in your home town of Lombard, Illinois, where all of us are mourning the loss of your mom but feeling proud of you and your achievements, which are a reflection of your mother’s guidance and love. I am thinking now of a book I still have which was signed by Bill Anders of Apollo 8. It has a picture of a spacewalking astronaut on the cover and is a treasured reminder of my childhood dreams. During their mission, Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and Bill Anders all took turns reading from the book of Genesis on Christmas Eve. Here is what Bill Anders said that night:

“For all the people on the Earth the crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you.” Well Dan, we down here have a message we would like to send up to you: May God comfort you in this time of sorrow, and return you home safely to your family.

Gary

A Thanksgiving Carol

When Standish awoke, it was so dark he could scarcely see the figure sitting at the foot of his bed. The figure seemed insubstantial, as if it was more phantom than man. “I am Myles Standish, militia captain of Plymouth Colony, and I know you not Spirit, so identify yourself!” Myles cried out.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, in a story yet to be written by a man named Dickens, where I do a lot of ominous finger-pointing but don’t have any good lines,” the Spirit said. “But my Christmas gig doesn’t start until next week, so I thought I’d drop by and show you a glimpse of a Thanksgiving Eve yet to come.”

“Lead on,” Myles said. “Lead on, for the night is waning fast and tomorrow is our harvest feast, which sounds suspiciously like this Thanksgiving you speak of.”

“You’re much quicker on the uptake than Scrooge, I’ll grant you that,” the Specter said. “Prepare yourself Myles Standish, for I am about to take you hundreds of years into the future, to the morning of the day before Thanksgiving, to show you the many blessings enjoyed by the people of that time.”

Suddenly a town named Danvers, Massachusetts sprang up around them, as if the land had recently and unexpectedly been zoned for commercial use. “This is the year of our Lord 2007, and we are standing only 40 miles from your Plymouth settlement,” the Spirit said.

“What is this vast field we stand within?” Myles asked. “The plots for the crops are well defined by the white stripes, but digging here would be nigh impossible, for the ground is like a sea of rock!”

“This field is called a parking lot, and will soon be filled with small ships that move across the land without the need of wind,” the Ghost predicted. Sure enough, within a few minutes a bright red vessel appeared and docked itself neatly between two of the white lines.

“What magic allows these land-ships to move so freely?” Myles asked.

“A liquid named gasoline, which may be purchased there,” the Spirit said, gesturing with his spectral hand to a strange looking structure with a roof but no walls. “Once the vessel’s pilot has paid for the liquid, it flows through that hollow black rope into a barrel within his land-ship. The vessel then moves until its barrel is empty.”

“How far can the vessel travel on one barrel?” asked Myles.

“Some may go as far as 350 miles, which usually takes about five hours,” the Spirit replied.

“350 miles in five hours?!” Myles cried. “It took us 66 days to travel from England to Plymouth Rock! With one of these fantastic vessels we could have made our journey in less than two days… surely the people of 2007 must be grateful for such a blessing!”

“Their land vessels are expensive to purchase Myles, and the magical liquid is a precious commodity worth nearly its weight in gold. Truthfully, these people of 2007 complain endlessly about the cost of their gasoline, and I should also tell you that while their land-ships cannot float, the people of this age can FLY from England to the Colonies in airships in only a few hours should they choose to do so, depending on the airline they select.”

“These airlines you speak of sound like the work of the Devil,” Myles said. The Spirit nodded.
“Many of these people say that very same thing, Myles Standish. Now, let me show you ‘The Costco’.”

Myles and the Spirit approached a vast structure. “You’re not a member, are you Myles?” the Ghost asked, with a spectral grin. “But I am Spirit, for I signed the Mayflower Compact!” Standish replied hotly.

“Never mind Myles, I will use a Jedi mind trick I learned from George Lucas on this Costco gatekeeper,” said the Specter. “No need to ask for their Costco I.D., these guys check out,” the Ghost said. “No need to ask for I.D., these guys check out,” repeated the gatekeeper in an strangely parroted reply, blankly waiving the pair into a cavernous building filled to the rafters with all kinds of goods-- food, clothes, tools and many other things Myles couldn’t identify.

“This is a huge structure, Spirit,” Myles observed. “Nearly 500 feet across… You could fit 100 Mayflowers within this space!”

Myles and the Ghost entered The Costco and immediately saw dozens of paintings that moved magically within their frames. “What manner of sorcery is this?” Myles shouted. “Relax, Standish, it’s what people of this age use for entertainment. Look, ‘Survivor’ is on!”The pair stood transfixed as several highly defined and nearly naked people played a game of sorts, attempting to survive in the wilderness on meager rations for a short period of time to win a million dollars.

“What think you of this game they play?” the Ghost asked.

“Well, Spirit, of the 102 of us that landed at Plymouth Rock, half of us died after the first winter including my wife. None of us really have much time for fun right now since we are all trying to ACTUALLY survive-- so I can’t say that I like this form of entertainment very much,” Myles said. “But the picture quality is truly awesome.”

The Spirit pointed toward the Large Appliance area of The Costco. “Here are the devices that the people of 2007 use to keep their food fresh, to cook their food, to clean their dishes and to wash and dry their clothes. “What do you think of these marvelous devices, Myles Standish?” asked the Spirit.“

We had very little food left by the time we landed,” Myles said quietly. “Then we had to hunt and grub for our meals. Thank God for our new friends the Wampanoag Indians, who have showed us how to cultivate simple crops and harvest from the sea. We cook over open fires and wash our dishes and our clothes by hand. Surely the people of 2007 must be very grateful for these wonderful devices that make their lives so much easier!”

“Those who live in this age pretty much take these devices for granted,” the Ghost admitted, slightly embarrassed for the people who were now streaming into The Costco. “But look, Myles, here are the tools of today,” the Spirit exclaimed. “Most of them run on electricity instead of Pilgrim-power!”

“What is this electricity you speak of?” Standish asked

It’s like the magical liquid gasoline, but drier,” the Ghost said. “Electricity makes the picture devices work, it lights the lamps above us and even allows these saws to cut wood with incredible ease. Why, with these saws you could cut down hundreds of trees before lunch and not break a sweat!”

“It seems wrong to fell a tree without working hard,” muttered Standish. “It takes a tree years to grow tall enough to harvest. We honor the blessing God gave us when He provided the trees by breaking a sweat when we cut one of them down.”

“I’m not making much progress with this Pilgrim,” the Spirit thought to himself as they entered the Food Section.

By now The Costco was full of people shopping for their Thanksgiving feast. Myles and the Ghost were surrounded by men and women who jostled each other while they piled their carts high with food and spirits: Turkeys, meat, fish, cheese, pies, cakes, beer and wine. Bigger carts moved about, constantly replenishing the supplies. Myles Standish dropped to his knees and sobbed. “I have never seen so much food in my life,” he whispered to the Spirit. How grateful the people of the year 2007 must be for these incredible blessings!”

“You better get up Myles or they’ll run you down like a squirrel in the road,” advised the Ghost. “It’s time to check out now, Pilgrim.” On their way to the check-out, Myles and the Spirit passed many artificial Christmas trees and Christmas displays and all manner of Christmas-oriented merchandise.

Why are these Christmas things being sold before the people have given thanks for their blessings?” asked Standish.

"Beats me bub,” said the Specter, glancing at his watch. The lines at the check-out were long and the people there had the lethargic look of hogs that had eaten too much slop, Myles thought. The Costco’s cashiers frantically tallied cart after cart, barely keeping up with the crowd. Beyond the check-out, several people were eating and drinking in a food court, apparently exhausted by their shopping efforts.

“Spirit, return me to my own time,” Standish begged. “These people have much, I grant you, but they still seem unsatisfied. Please take me back to Plymouth, so I can celebrate a humble day of thanksgiving with my brothers and sisters and our new friends the Wampanoags, where we all are grateful for having just enough.”

The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come finished the hot dog he had just purchased in the food court and snapped his fingers. Myles Standish was instantly returned to his bed in Plymouth, where he awoke the next day, counted his blessings, and promptly gave the most sincere thanks of his life.

Just Say "Non!"

We should pause today and observe a moment of silence to honor the great Marcel Marceau, a man whose fame was based on not saying anything. In remembering him we should acknowledge not only his achievements as a mime, but also this strange irony: Sometimes the quietest people still say the most important things.

In the too infrequent words of Marcel Marceau, “Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?”

Had Marceau talked more, we might have learned sooner that he was a French Jew who narrowly escaped the genocidal madness of the Holocaust, and that his father Charles, who gave to his son a love of theater and music, was murdered at Auschwitz along with more than a million other human beings.

Marceau didn’t say much about his father’s death. Here is what he did say though about the children who were killed at Auschwitz: "Among those kids was maybe an Einstein, a Mozart, somebody who (would have) found a cancer drug," he told reporters in 2000."That is why we have a great responsibility. Let us love one another."

“Let us love one another.” When, if ever, do we hear those words spoken by our celebrities, our politicians, or even amongst ourselves? Those five simple words should pass our lips every day to counter the malicious intent of those who have dedicated themselves to hatred and intolerance.

Marcel Marceau worked with the French Resistance during World War II to help protect Jewish children. Later he was recruited to work as a liaison officer with Gen. George S. Patton’s army because he (Marceau, not Patton) spoke passable English. When he was offstage though, Marceau loved to chat: “Never get a mime talking. He won’t stop.”

(Patton probably replied “Shut up, Marceau-- and quit miming Eisenhower, you know how I hate that).

As a child, Marceau loved the films of Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and the Marx Brothers. One would guess that his favorite Marx brother was probably Harpo, who only spoke in the language of music. Many years later, Marcel said that “Music conveys moods and images. Even in opera, where plots deal with the structure of destiny, it’s music, not words, that provides power.”

In many ways, our world now resembles a Marx Brothers production: Increasingly noisy, frantically paced, and crazy. We should all remember the advice of that famously silent man, Marcel Marceau: “It’s good to shut up sometimes.” If Groucho and Chico could occasionally be quiet, we can too.

Sometimes, though, it is not so good to shut up. In the paraphrased words attributed to many, including Pastor Martin Niemoller (Who refused to shut up and was imprisoned at both the Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps) here are some very good words about silence, and the ramifications of silence, which are inscribed at the United States Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me- and there was no one left to speak for me.

In Mel Brooks’ classic “Silent Movie,” only one word was spoken, and it was uttered by the great Marceau. It was the single word “Non!” which is the very best word for courageous people to use when confronted by social injustice, religious intolerance and bigotry. Think of it as a kind of spiritual weed-killer to use against hatred.

If you and I will just say “Non,” the bright red flower that blossomed from the hat of the world’s greatest mime will live forever.

To Lose a Mockingbird

Perhaps literature’s most famous paternal advice was given in Maycomb County by a lawyer named Atticus to his young son Jem: “Shoot all the bluejays you want, but always remember that it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” As Miss Maudie later explained to Scout, and we were sadly reminded today “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy; they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.”

Luciano Pavarotti’s great heart has now been stilled, his soaring voice silenced. Even now, experts and pundits are scrambling to explain the historical impact of Pavarotti's career. My advice to them, on behalf of a world largely comprised of music aficionados with no formal training or skill is; please don’t bother. Like former Attorney General Ed Meese, who knew pornography when he saw it, most of us know good music when we hear it-- and we didn’t need to be opera experts to know we were hearing something special when Pavarotti sang it.

Our dad’s idea of a perfect Saturday was to work in his shop while listening to opera. (In our family, dad’s workshop was analogous to what most of you know as the garage, since his shop usually held a partially constructed airplane instead of the family car).

“Hey, take this bucking bar and crawl back into the fuselage and hold it against the rivets for me.” (Most kids mowed the lawn; we bucked rivets for our old man while he built his plane). The noise produced by riveting is loud enough from outside a hollow metal chamber, let alone the inside. Between rivets I became dimly aware of a beautiful sound emanating from dad’s cherished radio, which he’d proudly purchased on the Reader’s Digest Easy Payment Plan of $5 a month.

“Hey dad,” I yelled, “Who’s that singing?”

“That’s Pavarotti!” BRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP!

So, my appreciation for opera was born between rivets-- although “La Boheme” is much prettier when your ears aren’t ringing. In a world full of raucous birds that eat our gardens and nest in our corncribs, the mockingbirds are few and far between. When we lose them, their absence is like the silence that follows a thunderstorm, or a rivet bucking session.

“Nessun Dorma” is the famous aria from Puccini’s opera “Turandot” and was Pavarotti’s signature piece. Nessun dorma, “Let no one sleep,” was the order of Princess Turandot, as she proclaimed that all should spend the night searching for the name of the unknown prince.

Tonight, Turandot’s prince sleeps amongst the angels, his aria finished, the curtain lowered one last time.

Bravo, Luciano, bravissimo!

To Spin, Or To Solve

Today’s headlines brought sad news of the passing of Merv Griffin, crooner turned host and game show mogul. It was Merv who developed Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune; it was Merv who conceived the daily double wager and the classic conundrum, “To spin, or to solve?”

Merv was on my mind today as I recalled last night’s interruption of our usual Saturday routine: dinner with Alex Trebek followed by dessert with Vanna. Since Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune had been pre-empted by local programming, we were forced to eat our meal without the thrill of final jeopardization or the vicarious relief of just missing bankruptcy. Alas, even “The Singing Bee” was pre-empted. We were experiencing serious game show withdrawal, but salvation arrived in the unlikely form of Drew Carey and a new program called “The Power of Ten.”

Ten minutes into “The Power of Ten,” and with game show endorphins finally flowing I marveled that CBS management dodged a bullet and hired Carey instead of Rosie O’Donnell to succeed Bob Barker on “The Price is Right.” Well, they say even a blind squirrel can find an occasional nut, and although network television executives are about as bright as squirrels they definitely found the right nut in Carey. Drew is everything Rosie is not: funny, personable and unlikely to induce nausea. Affability is the most highly prized trait of a successful television host. Drew has it, Merv Griffin had it, and Rosie O’Donnell lacks it.

On the premier episode of “The Power of Ten,” a sharp but slightly rumpled nineteen year-old named Jaime matched wits and quips with Carey and went on to win a million dollars by successfully guessing (among other strange scenarios) the percentage of Americans who said that in a duel with Dick Cheney they would probably get shot by the vice-president instead of the other way around. This is a show worthy of your attention, if only for its surreal questions and hysterical comebacks: when Jaime said he planned to buy a car with his winnings, Drew looked at the young millionaire’s wrinkled shirt and said “Why doncha buy yourself an iron, first?”

Now Merv has gone on to join the legendary television hosts of television in what a friend of mine likes to call “eternal syndication.” Maybe tonight Merv is reminiscing with Groucho Marx, who, while not being the most affable game show host, was certainly the funniest during his stint on “You Bet Your Life.” (Groucho once told a contestant who had birthed 27 children and claimed she did it because she loved her husband that he loved his cigar too, but that he took it out of his mouth occasionally).

“Groucho (I imagine Merv saying) things aren’t so bad down there, even on nights when my old show Jeopardy’s being pre-empted. They’ve still got some pretty decent programs, and a funny kid named Drew Carey is hosting two of them. I bet you'd like him... but not on my life!”

Good Dog, Bad Quarterback

Every few weeks we include a trip to Jim’s Puppy World in our errands. While we aren’t in the market for a puppy just now, and we buy most of our pet supplies elsewhere, we’re still drawn to a quant neighborhood “mom and pop puppy shop” a couple of times every month. Sometimes Jim himself is there. He has a flowing white beard and is constantly remodeling his store, wielding his hammer and saw like a modern-day Noah, hopefully awaiting a flood of new business. We usually trickle in with a few other customers, but Jim is nonplussed. He hammers away like he knows something we don’t-- which is kind of unsettling.

Our ritual is always the same. First we visit Babe the parrot, who will bite if you’re dumb enough to offer her your finger. Like people, Babe doesn’t want to be poked at. We tell her she’s very beautiful, which apparently pleases her, and then we move on to the canaries. By inference I’ve deduced that all male canaries hate each other, since Jim carefully shields their cages from one another with sheets of paper clipped to each side. I’m not sure why Jim doesn’t just arrange the canary cages boy/girl/boy/girl-- but he has his system; who am I to suggest improvements in his ark?

Next are the chinchillas, gerbils, hamsters and rats. I always thought chinchillas were relatively placid animals until one day when I stuck my finger in the chinchilla cage and made a low chucking sound which apparently meant “Red Alert Chinchilla Disaster.” I’m ashamed to say that my startled reaction when the chinchilla went berserk and rocketed around his cage is not suitable for young ears.

The puppies at Jim’s Puppy World are the big draw and every week there are new and interesting combinations. Jim doesn’t deal in purebreds, so there are always strange mixes to pick from. Once there was a cross between a beagle and a pug- a Bug. My wife was alarmed when I expressed enthusiastic interest in the homely Bug, going so far to name him “My Bug” and vowing to bring him home the following week if nobody took him yet. Well, someone else got My Bug, and I hope they’re treating him right.

Many times there are mixes that include Bull Terriers, Rottweilers and Dobermans, and I always ask them the same thing I asked My Bug and the countless other hopeful puppies who look at us, hoping for a home and loving family: “Who wants to be in a dog pack?” Invariably they all cock their heads and give you us a look that says “I do,” and I know that’s anthropomorphizing at its worst… so sue me.

Today, dog-fighting is in the news and Michael Vick suddenly finds himself playing defense instead of offense. Our legal system will provide Vick with every opportunity to prove his innocence. I sincerely hope he had nothing to do with cruelty to animals since America is suffering right now from a world-wide perception that we’re all a bunch of violently swaggering lunatics. It would really be a shame if someone from the NFL contributed to this misconception, since most of us normal folks adhere to our charge to rule over and care for all the living things that move along the ground.

And if Jim starts pairing up his canaries and chinchillas, I’ll let you know so you can all head for the hills.

TV Dads and Our Fathers

The 1950s were great years for TV dads. If you liked them earnest but clueless you probably watched Ozzie Nelson on the “Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet.” For those who preferred a more autocratic approach there was Jim Anderson on “Father Knows Best.” TV consoles back then were bigger, screens were smaller, and channel changing was simpler. Dads watching at home just grunted “Channel Seven,” and their kids jumped right up and changed the channel if they knew what was good for them.

Isn’t it ironic that now, our children are the only ones who understand how to use the remote control?

Sitcoms in the 50’s portrayed family life from an adult’s perspective until two writers named Joe Connelly and Bob Mosher came along. Joe and Bob had a crazy notion that children should not only be seen AND heard, but actually listened to. The father of six kids, Connelly chose two of his own boys as the inspiration for the iconic TV sons we all know today as Wally and Beaver. The Cleaver boys needed someone to “lay down the law,” so Joe and Bob dreamed up Ward, the TV dad all Babyboomer fathers are measured against, and June, who set Women’s Lib back a few years by vacuuming their house in an elegant dress and high heels.

Ward always gave his sons simple rules to keep them out of trouble, but in almost every episode his boys disobeyed him-- usually with catastrophic results. Often the boys were tempted into waywardness by Eddie Haskell, the serpent in the Middle Class Garden of Eden known as Mayfield. But no matter how badly his children screwed up, Ward always loved them, patiently reminding his sons again and again that the rules he laid down were for their own good.

Leave it to Beaver was less a TV show than an ongoing morality play. Themes included obey your parents, tell the truth, and treat others with respect. While nobody ever accused Joe or Bob of plagiarism, they clearly weren’t above using a commandment or two for inspiration. (If thou MUST steal, steal from the best).

TV families have changed a lot since the days of the Beave. The black and white ethics of Mayfield have been replaced by the garish cynicism of Springfield, home of the dysfunctional Simpson family and their oafish father, Homer. Even now, several U.S. cities named Springfield are shamelessly competing to be declared the “real” Springfield, hoping to win a special premiere of the upcoming Simpsons movie and lay claim to a civic legacy of pollution, bad schools and nuclear meltdowns. At the risk of sounding like a Ned Flanders, Ward’s fatherly advice was clearly superior to Homer’s, whose less-offensive quotes include: “Well, it’s 1:00 a.m. Better go home and spend some quality time with the kids!” and “You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is, never try.” D’oh!

Of course the real world is neither black and white, nor predominantly yellow. Real dads are often not as good as the best TV dads, but mostly we’re better than the worst. We blow our stacks too frequently, and many times we lecture when we should listen, but we try to be encouraging and we even say we’re sorry when we’re wrong-- although that rarely happens. While our quality time usually occurs at a more reasonable hour than 1:00 a.m., it never lasts as long as it should, and most of us eat too many donuts. Still, as fathers, we all hope we’re more like Ward Cleaver than Homer Simpson, and only a fool would prefer a son like Bart over The Beave.

In a classic “Leave it to Beaver episode” (Hey, they ALL were classics) Beaver was assigned to write about the most interesting character he’d ever known. He chose his dad, but since his first draft lacked excitement, Wally helped punch it up:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He was born at the mouth of the Amazon, which is a river, and when he was a baby, he was stolen out of his crib by a crocodile, and in the nick of time, he was saved by a friendly headhunter with a blow gun. During the war, he was a secret general, where he had many interesting experiences. Now he has a job in an office, but he really works for the FBI. On Sundays, he goes to the beach and saves a lot of people from drowning.

Of course, by the end of the show Beaver re-writes his assignment, and Ward reads it aloud as the “Leave it to Beaver” string quartet plays and everyone gets all verklempt:

“The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. Ward Cleaver. He does not have an interesting job; he just works hard, and takes care of the rest of us…” The paper continues in a similar vein and everyone chokes up accordingly. So in the spirit of Ward and his son the Beaver, here’s my most interesting person:

The most interesting character I ever knew is my father, Mr. John Kerr. He does not have a job anymore on account of he is a retired teacher who taught thousands of kids how to make real stuff like airplanes you can actually fly in and even how to make telescopes. Then he became a vice-principal and suspended a bunch of kids so he could make more money for our family. Only now do I understand that sometimes fathers have to do stuff they’d rather not do so their families can be more comfortable.

Once, when my dad didn’t know I was in his shop he used several words I’d never heard before. When I tried them out myself, he gave me a really good lecture on profanity which came in handy later, when I became a father and my daughter Christa asked me one day “Dad, what the bleep are you doing?”

When I was sick on my eighth birthday my dad stopped on his way home from work and bought me a hockey game with little metal players on rods and a ball-bearing puck. He helped me set it up and played several rounds with me even though he didn’t like hockey. Then he told me I had a fever and should go back to bed.

In the ninth grade when I was taking metal shop from my dad’s colleague Mr. Scanlon and there were too many kids in our class for me to practice welding, so my dad spent an entire day teaching me how to weld. (We had an arc welder in our garage; you think your COMED bill is high?) Mr. Scanlon took one look at my welds and asked if my dad had done them. I said “No sir, that’s my work.” He nodded and gave me an “A.” Only later did I realize Mr. Scanlon was grading three different things: The skill of my father as an instructor, my talent as a welder, and my integrity.

Later in life I was lucky enough to have some professional mentors and other swell guys come along who could be called father figures. My own dad’s a fine teacher, but he knew he couldn’t teach me everything I needed to know.

I’m grateful that my stepsons have grown to love me. While I’ve never taught them how to weld, I still will if they want me to and we can afford the electricity. I see at least a few of my good traits in Alex and Dave and none of my faults and no “real” father could ask for anything more. I hope and pray today that everyone honors not only their own dads, but all good men who’ve devoted themselves to helping children find their way in the journey of life.

Writing this has reminded me how much I hope Christa, Alex and Dave feel the same way about me that I feel about my dad. Everything I’ve done right as a father I owe to John Kerr… and everything I’ve screwed up I blame on Homer Simpson.

The End

So Long, Frank

Frank Lloyd Wright would never have lasted in today’s world. By now he would have broken his T-square over the head of some building department official and retired to milk cows in Wisconsin or to pound sand in Arizona since architecture today is so very frustrating.

One of my clients has a “quick serve” restaurant. As part of a proposed remodel he wants to relocate his drive-thru menu board to face away from an adjacent residential neighborhood. While sound transmission isn’t my usual area of expertise (I’m an architect, Jim, not an acoustical engineer) I can tell you that pointing a drive-thru speaker AWAY from ax-grinding homeowners will probably make them happier.

With this faultless logic I confidently presented our variance request in a recent planning commission hearing and promptly ran into a buzz-saw of complaints about my client’s deficiencies as both a human being and a donut seller.

Construction projects today can’t commence without several acts of submission and contrition. First, you must notify everyone surrounding your site of your folly. Just because you own a building and pay taxes on it doesn’t mean your neighbors shouldn’t be given every opportunity to tell you what color they think you should paint it or what types of bushes you should plant around it or what kind of food they think you should serve inside it. It’s truly a mad, mad world.

Generally you must invite (by certified mail) all property owners within a radius of a thousand feet to attend a public hearing about your proposed project- which is a lot like being forced to carry the rope to your own hanging. When you cast such a large net many ugly things can be dredged up:

“Your delivery drivers honk at 4:00 a.m. to be let into your store.”

“Every morning at 6:00 your trash is picked up-- can’t you make it later?”

“You should have to build a fence.”

“Your donuts are stale.”

Boy did I screw up. Blithely thinking that re-directing the menu board away from the angry rabble would placate them, I was forced instead to account for transgressions previously unknown. Because I thought our proposal would be a slam dunk, my donut client was not in attendance. I was on my own, and there was nothing left to do but grovel:

“We’ll do anything you want; please just give us a permit.”

Since then, we’ve addressed the concerns of the neighbors. Delivery drivers have been instructed not to honk. Trash pick-up has been re-scheduled for later in the morning. We promised to build a new fence, the donuts are fresher, and up until this morning everything was looking good because two days ago the planning commission voted to recommend to the city council that they approve our variance request.

In a truly magnanimous gesture, I called the most vociferous complainer this morning to thank her for her concerns and express my subservient gratitude for her participation in civic government. Here’s what she said to me:

“Last night at 3:00 a.m. my husband called the police because one of your employees was singing what appeared to be an Indian love song over your drive-thru speaker. It sounded like Sanjaya Malakar on American Idol, but worse. Our dog wouldn’t stop barking.”

Oh well, back to the drawing board.

And pass me your T-square Frank; I may just need it.

General Order No. 11

You probably know who’s buried in Grant’s tomb, but quick-- who’s the guy on the horse in Grant Park, Chicago? (It’s a trick question and the answer’s not Grant). General John A. Logan is the all-purpose answer to a variety of trivia questions, including:

• Who saved Raleigh, N.C. when angry Union soldiers wanted to destroy the city after hearing that President Lincoln had been assassinated?
• Who ran with James Blaine as the Republican Party’s nominee for Vice President in 1884?
• Who deserves partial credit for the creation of the holiday we now know as Memorial Day?

By 1868 many Americans had already taken up the custom of decorating the graves of those who’d lost their lives fighting in the Civil War. These “Decoration Day” remembrances were often spontaneous, sometimes loosely organized, and many times just private moments spent by grieving widows at the graves of their husbands.

Consequently, the official birthplace of Decoration Day was contested through the years. In 1966, Congress and President Lyndon Johnson declared Waterloo, N.Y. to be the officially recognized site-- but don’t tell that to Carbondale, IL. or Columbus, Miss.

The problem with Decoration Day was that nobody put anything down in writing until General Order No. 11 came along.

By 1866 General Logan had returned to his pre-war job as an Illinois congressman. Like many surviving members of the Union’s forces, Logan also joined the Grand Army of the Republic, an association dedicated to the care of widows and orphans, the establishment of soldiers’ homes, the procurement of pensions and the exercise of its growing political clout. Five of its members were elected President of the United States, and for many years endorsement by the G.A.R. was a prerequisite for any Republican running for President.

When the Commander-in Chief of the G.A.R. issued a General Order to the organization’s membership, people sat up and took notice. On May 5, 1868 then Commander-in-Chief John A. Logan of the Grand Army of the Republic performed an unexpected act of thoughtful bureaucracy when he issued the the following:

General Order No. 11
The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

Had Logan left out the swipe about “rebellion” in the opening paragraph and restricted his order to the first few lines he might have gone down in history as a great reconciler-- but instead he takes another victorious whack:

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion."

Well, in the eyes of Logan, the Rebels had it coming, I guess. (The G.A.R. was an organization of Yankee veterans, after all). Of course, any order issued by a retired General of the Union Army to his fellow veterans didn’t hold with the folks south of the Mason-Dixon Line, regardless of the lofty concepts that followed:

We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.

Two years before Logan’s famous order, a group of women had gathered at a cemetery in Columbus, Miss. to decorate the graves of Confederate soldiers. They were disturbed to see the unadorned graves of Union soldiers nearby, and placed flowers on the graves of the Yankees as well. (If Logan had witnessed this touching scene he might have been inclined to back off a bit on the rebellion hyperbole). Still, the man had some measure of foresight and sensitivity:

If other eyes grow dull, other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain to us. Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

Somehow, Logan knew that a reminder to honor “the solemn trust” was called for. His prescience was reinforced in December 2000, when Congress passed “The National Moment of Remembrance Act,” which encourages us to keep our hands strong and our hearts warm as we remember all Americans who’ve lost their lives in the defense of liberty. Congress even set aside a convenient time for us to pause in silent reflection: Today at 3:00 p.m.

I recently learned that the dapper gentleman who serves as an usher at our church survived the sinking of his destroyer at Iwo Jima. Bob was just a young Ensign when his ship took three kamikaze hits. That’s the thing about veterans-- they live quietly among us with dreadful memories locked inside which we can't imagine and Hollywood can’t begin to capture-- although the opening scene of “Saving Private Ryan” always moves me to tears when Ryan drops to his knees and sobs at the grave of Captain Miller.

At 3:00 p.m. today I’ll be thinking of Bob’s shipmates, 34 souls among the many who've given their lives so we all can enjoy the blessings of liberty. As General Orders go, it’s a duty I’m honored to fulfill.

Happy Memorial Day!

Hail to the Chief

For Immediate Release
Contact:
Public Relations Department
Seattle Grace Hospital
1-800-223-3627
www.seattlegracehosp.com

Seattle, Washington 5/18/07

Dr. Richard Webber, current Chief of Surgery at Seattle Grace Hospital today reversed his earlier decision to appoint Dr. Calliope Torres as his replacement, announcing that a previously unknown candidate had been appointed instead. Dr. Gregory House, the current head of the department of diagnostic medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital in New Jersey was introduced as the new Chief of Surgery to the staff of Seattle Grace Hospital in a hastily called conference later the same day.

Dr. House immediately moved to allay concerns about a diagnostician filling a role normally reserved for a surgeon: “What Seattle Grace needs right now is a serious “cutter”- someone who can cut thru the crap that goes on in this hospital. There’s a new sheriff in town, and I’m going to be kicking some Seattle ass,” said Dr. House.

House then abruptly broke his cane over the head of attending surgeon Derek Shepherd. “How did that feel, doctor?” House asked ominously.

Doctor Shepherd, head of neurosurgery at SGH, replied that it hurt like hell, and that he might just have received a concussion. Dr. House congratulated Shepherd on a successful diagnosis, adding that Shepherd might be able to keep his job if he could manage to quit boinking interns. “Just do your job McYahtzee, or I’ll rattle your dice again,” growled Dr. House.

Visibly alarmed, the rest of the staff squirmed in their chairs as Dr. House erased the scheduled operations from the surgical white board. “This is how we fill out the big board at Princeton-Plainsboro, kiddies. First we list the symptoms, and then we cure the disease.”

Rapidly writing down the names of doctors on one side and interns on the other, the new chief turned to his staff and leeringly suggested that they all play a little game called “Who’s Examining Who?”

“Okay, Dr. Torres. You’re our orthopedic surgeon and you’re married to George O’Malley, who’s currently giving private bone consults to Intern Stevens, right?” Three quick slashes of House’s magic marker laid bare the Torres/O’Malley/Stevens connection.

“O’Malley, wipe that grin off your face and explain yourself!”

George giggled helplessly, leering at both Stevens and Torres. Intern Alex Karev muttered “I didn’t think the little twerp had it in him.”

“I heard that, Karev. We need a separate board just for you, don’t we? Nurses, amnesic patients, doctors, interns-- no one is safe from your affections, are they? And stay out of the morgue, you oversexed pervert.”

“Dr. Torres, they were going to make you Chief of Surgery here even though you recently lived in the basement of this hospital, AND despite the fact that you married that giggling idiot O’Malley? Good God, Calliope, what were they thinking? This hospital may be a circus, but you’re a doctor, not a steamy pipe organ-- despite what O’Malley thinks.

“McFeely, you’re next. You’re all squared away now, aren’t you, Dr. McYahtzee? No more candlelit gynecological exams for Meredith Grey in your love trailer? Good!”

“Dr. Burke, who've you been examining?”

The room was briefly silent.

“Dr. Burke’s gone, Chief.” He packed up his bags and left last night. He was ‘examining’ Christina Yang, and they were going to get married, but our legal department’s currently discussing whether Dr. Burke’s homophobic slurs will merit his dismissal-- so he’s conveniently incommunicado while his fate’s being determined.”

“Who'd he insult?” demanded House.

“Intern O’Malley, sir.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! O’Malley should be head of orthopedics with that magic bone of his! Even though he failed his intern exam he must be doing something right-- Stevens and Torres are all over that little idiot.”

“Dr. Bailey, who are you currently ‘examining’?”

“Just my husband, you New Jersey Jerk.”

“I like you, Dr. Bailey,” said House.

“Dr. Sloan?”

“Here, sir.”

“You look kind of down, Sloan, what’s up?”

“Not much anymore, Chief. I was happily boffing Derek’s wife Addison, and even managed to slip a quick one to Dr. Torres while O’Malley was working his magic on Izzie Stevens-- but Addison moved to California, and now Callie and Izzie are obsessed with O’Malley.”

“Well, at least you can finally concentrate on your work now, Dr. Sloan. Go take a cold shower and 8 Vicodin.”

“Right, Chief.”

“Meredith Grey… Dr. Webber tells me that your self-centered attitude has caused more unhappiness here at Seattle Grace in just a few short years than any other intern previously employed at this hospital. He’s amazed that a scrawny, empty headed little moron like yourself could transfix a prominent neurosurgeon like Dr. McYahtzee. But I'm going to give you one more chance, Grey. I'm putting you in charge of the pharmacy, and as long as you keep it stocked with Vicodin everything will be just fine."

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

On this Mother’s Day instead of a card I thought I’d apologize for some of the stupid things we did as kids. I’m so sorry Steve and I strapped our youngest brother John into a “space capsule” made from two laundry baskets roped together and sent him rocketing down the stairs after convincing him that astronaut re-entry training would be a fun game to play.

I deeply regret dabbing mayonnaise from the sandwich you made me for the cub scouts’ annual harbor cruise onto my shoulder, and waiting for you to tell me a seagull had crapped on me. Wiping the mayonnaise off with my finger and then tasting it was a rotten trick but the look on your face was truly priceless.

And that time when Steve got sick after we had a contest to see who could keep a beef bullion cube in our mouths the longest- I’m sorry about that one, too.

I know we should have promptly told you that John needed stitches instead of tying strands of his hair together to close the cut on his scalp after his collision with the coffee table, but you and dad were out shopping and John was bleeding and screaming “There’s a hole in my head.” Well, we got the bleeding stopped and even though you didn’t find out until later when you thought that the clotted blood was dirt we really should have confessed sooner.

Remember when Rob got mad because the front end of his train set’s locomotive was dented? Steve and I used to sneak into Rob’s room when he wasn’t there and rearrange his train tracks to launch his locomotive off the end of the table to see how far it would fly. Sorry, mom, and sorry Rob.

Mom, when you and dad put in a pool for us we should have shown our gratitude by swimming responsibly instead of diving in from the patio roof and putting rocks in our pockets while we used dad’s air compressor to breathe underwater-- but kids will be kids.

Nobody remembers paper drives anymore since we all have curbside recycling, but our boy scout troop would have made more money back then if Brett Olin and I hadn’t accidentally ignited the newspapers piled in his backyard while launching our home-made rockets into the tinder-dry canyon behind his house. Sorry about that one, too.

I now realize I shouldn't have suggested that we remove the center leaf from our dining room table and put a 30 gallon trash can under the gap and use paper plates which could easily be shoved directly into the can, saving time and effort previously expended on clearing the table and doing the dishes-- but it sure seemed like a good idea at the time.

Mom, through the years you’ve loved us and laughed with us and we all cherish your quirky way of looking at life. While most mothers gave their kids boring advice like “Always wear clean underwear,” you gave us cryptic proclamations like “We better bring quarters since we might need our jackets.”

Life is not just about clean underwear, mom. It’s about having as much fun as you can without breaking your limbs, getting too sick, bleeding too much, or lighting yourself on fire while shooting off rockets.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Love, Gary

Tonight's The Night!

Seven years after moving from San Diego I’ve acclimated myself to nearly all things Chicago, from City Hall “patronage” to loveable losers like our Cubs. I’ve learned that we drag our hot dogs “through the garden” and we detest the Packers with the same intensity we reserve for people who move here from La-La Land. (I quickly learned it was best to claim I was born in Wisconsin, not California).

I’ve braved icy winters and sweated through blast-furnace summers. I now understand the Aldermanic form of government, which is loosely based on medieval fiefdoms-- except that serfs here are called constituents, not peasants. I’ve learned that the concept of freeways is for socialistic states, since any serf who can afford a car should also be expected to pay a toll.

I’ve learned to love Da Bears, bratwurst and Da Blues Brothers. In short, I’ve rejected my California birthright to study the ways of the Midwesterner. But like Harry Potter, I’ve yet to pass a final test: Magicicada Septendecim.

“You’ve never seen or heard anything like them,” my wife promises. Even now, they’re rising up from their subterranean lairs in a Hemipteran frenzy, their little red eyes mad with lust. They are the Seventeen Year Cicada, one of Earth’s longest living insects, and most sexually deprived.

Let’s face it, if you’re a bug with only one chance to score after seventeen years of sucking on tree roots, you’d make some noise too. Once the three magic temperatures coincide (soil: 63 degrees, air: 68 degrees, Cicada temperature: burning with desire) they will burst from the ground in a strategy known as “predator satiation” to maximize their chance of reproducing successfully without being eaten or stomped on.

Periodical cicadas are a testament to either evolution or creation depending on your personal beliefs. 17 year cicadas and their cousins the 13 year cicadas are geographically distributed in broods which emerge in a mathematically choreographed pattern to avoid interaction between the two species. Since 13 and 17 are both prime numbers the two species surface concurrently just once every 221 years, minimizing the likelihood of bad blood and bar fights. These periodic cycles also help cicada broods survive temperature anomalies like the occasional cool summer. (I haven’t experienced a single cool summer in Chicago yet, but I haven’t lived here for seventeen years, either).

Sometime in the next few weeks we’ll struggle to sleep through a cacophony of cicadan revelry-- but I won’t begrudge them their fun. Instead, I’ll remember the guy at the sex study who leapt to his feet and frantically waved his hand when the researcher asked if anyone there had sex less frequently than twice a year. When asked why he was so excited the poor guy shouted, “Because tonight’s THE NIGHT!”

The Final Frontier

Since the days of the Wright brothers we’ve built increasingly complex machines to carry ourselves into the sky. The Marine Corps recently announced the deployment of the MV-22 Osprey, a cross between a helicopter and a fixed wing plane. The Osprey is difficult to fly and dangerous to land, having claimed several lives during its test program. Aircraft and even starships are complicated devices worthy of our respect, and no one knew this better than Montgomery Scott of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

Scotty’s expertise in aeronautical engineering is widely acknowledged, but many don't know that James Doohan served as a pilot during World War II. Originally a captain in the Royal Canadian Artillery, Jimmy was machine-gunned at Normandy on D-Day. Following his convalescence he was assigned to 43 Operational Training Unit, Andover, England, where he earned Air Observation Post Pilot’s wings. Doohan’s intended assignment was to direct artillery fire from the air, but his unit was posted to Holland, where he flew non-combat missions for the 666 AOP squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force. Jimmy had already been shot six times, so nobody complained, least of all Doohan.

Five years earlier, hundreds of Americans knowingly broke the law with the tacit approval of the U.S. government when they crossed into Canada to join the Royal Canadian Air Force. America was officially neutral at the time, but many Americans, including a young man named John Gillespie Magee, Jr. heard about the Battle of Britain and decided to forego a formal invitation to fight the Nazis.

Magee was only 18 years old when he entered flight training, and in less than a year was assigned to 412 Fighter Squadron at Digby England, where he flew the Supermarine Spitfire. He quickly rose to the rank of Pilot Officer while flying missions over France and England. Shortly before Magee was killed in a mid-air collision at the age of 19, he composed this famous poem which came to mind Saturday as I watched a rocket carry the remains of Captain James Doohan into space:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things

you have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung

high in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,

I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace

where never lark, or even eagle flew -

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

the high untresspassed sanctity of space,

put out my hand and touched the face of God.

James and John both risked their lives fighting tyranny, and young men and women still climb into dangerous machines today, slipping the surly bonds of earth to defend liberty. Like Magee, some will not come home alive. I like to think though that for one glorious moment Saturday, John’s soul and the souls of all pilots who’ve given their lives for just causes met their brother James when he soared into the sanctity of space, and that together they all joined hands, and touched the face of God.

American Idol '08

A debate, according to the Miriam Webster dictionary, is a contention by words or arguments, either the formal discussion of a motion before a deliberative body according to the rules of parliamentary procedure, or a regulated discussion of a proposition between two matched sides.

Presidential candidates never really debate anything. Instead, they provide canned answers as they attempt to avoid gaffes while watching for a “Bentsen Moment,” when they can slip their opponent a fatal zinger like “You’re no Jack Kennedy.” (News Flash: neither were you, Lloyd).

There were no profiles in courage Thursday night, since everyone played it safe-- everyone except for Senator Gravel, whose idea of fun must be tap-dancing in minefields.

When Joe Biden said “Look Brian, this is no game show,” (referring to the congressional discourse about Iraq) he inadvertently described exactly what we saw Thursday: an elaborate production consisting of eight contestants and a host. The only thing missing was a new car for the winner and parting gifts for the losers.

More use of the “show of hands” feature could have easily trimmed 30 minutes from the show. For instance: “How many of you think President Bush is a colossal boob, and that we should get out of Iraq by this time next week?” “That’s eight correct answers for 100 points apiece, next question…”

Fair or not, when I see a southerner like Edwards running for president, I immediately compare him to Jimmy Carter. Personally, I think electing Carter president was a big mistake, but no one can deny that Jimmy is a decent man, and a man of means who can easily afford $400 haircuts if he didn’t find the idea morally reprehensible. So you’re running for president and get called out on national TV for fiscally irresponsible haircuts-your response is to reminisce about your father’s shame at not being able to afford a meal for his family in a restaurant? Here is my interpretation of Edwards’ weirdly triumphant conclusion: “I want every American to have the same chance as me-- to make so much money that they too can afford to squander it on vanity.”

Barack Obama gave us the answer to the question “How many presidential candidates does it take to screw in an energy-saving light bulb?” “Just one, as long as it doesn’t throw too much light on my dealings with slimy real estate developers.”

Bill Richardson admitted that he declined to call for the immediate resignation of Alberto Gonzales because, like Richardson, Alberto is Hispanic. Bill earnestly added “At least I’m honest.” Well, honest racism is better than dishonest racism, I suppose.

Chris Dodd exemplified what is wrong with our electoral process. I told my wife that I found Dodd unexpectedly articulate. We have reached a sorry state indeed when we’re pleasantly surprised to find that our elected officials can walk and chew gum at the same time.

Dennis Kucinich once again showed America that he has the persistence of a fly buzzing around your head while you mow the lawn in the blistering heat of summer. Much like yard work, picking a president is hot sweaty business-- the fewer flies, the better.

That pretty much covers the seven dwarfs, which leads us to Snow Whitehouse. Hillary was asked to respond to polls which currently indicate the majority of the public has an unfavorable view of her, and her response was that she considers this to be a perverse form of flattery. The public detests me? Elect me! $400 haircuts? Money well spent!

Join us next time, when the Republican candidates appear on American Idol ’08.

God help us all.

Our Hearts Are With You

Today our nation is forced to face the carnage at Virginia Tech without our Poet Laureate of Melancholy, Kurt Vonnegut.

In Vonnegut’s novel Slaughterhouse 5, Billy Pilgrim watches a World War II bombing attack in reverse, as planes fly over Germany, sucking the bombs out of the ground and then returning to their bases in England, where the bombs are unloaded and disassembled, their explosive contents separated into harmless minerals which are then carefully hidden in the ground so that no one will be harmed.

Reality of course only runs forward, or fast forward. There is no reverse or pause on the VCR of life, and done bun can’t be undone. Vonnegut was an anachronism, a gentle soul who tilted against the windmills of mayhem down here on Asylum Earth-- but even Kurt knew that once the bombs are truly dropped and the bullets are really fired they can never be taken back.

South Korea’s Foreign Ministry today reports their country “in shock beyond description” after learning that the suspect in the Virginia Tech shootings was a South Korean native. Their ministry official for North American affairs conveyed his condolences on behalf of the South Korean people, expressing hope “that the tragedy would not stir up racial prejudice or confrontation.”

Here is what Vonnegut would have said to that: “What, are you nuts too?”

What happened yesterday had nothing to do with South Koreans. It was simply the act of a mentally unbalanced individual with amazingly unfettered access to guns and ammunition-- an angry young man whose name just happened to be Cho, but could have just as easily been Joe, Bo, or Moe.

So it goes.

This is the world we have made for ourselves. We leave loners alone instead of drawing them close. We consider violence as both a means of entertainment and a reasonable solution to our frustrations. Many of us foolishly assume that the racial or religious identity of a madman defines and condemns their race or their religion.

The Hokies of Virginia Tech know better though:

Techmen, we're Techmen, with spirit true and faithful,
Backing up our teams with hopes undying;
Techmen, Oh, Techmen, we're out to win today,
Showing pep and life with which we're trying;
V.P., old V.P., you know our hearts are with you
In our luck which never seems to die;
Win or lose, we'll greet you with a glad returning,
You're the pride of V.P.I.

Hope endures, and life endures-- even when luck turns bad and tragedy rolls up onto our doorstep. V.P.I. lost something immeasurable yesterday, but today they have reminded us of their faithful spirit and their undying hope for the future. So here’s to glad returning, and the pride of V.P.I.

Fahrenheit -455

With the attention now being given to global warming let’s all stop and consider our planet’s perilous surroundings using science instead of media-driven frenzy-- which we should reserve for determining standards of acceptable public demeanor.

Earth, of course, is surrounded by space, and as Khan contemplates his revenge in Star Trek 2 he reminds Kirk of this inarguable fact of physics: it is very cold in space. Exactly how cold is dependent on several factors, so for the sake of brevity I will include only enough science to leave you entertained and slightly more educated.

Scientists measure the temperature of space with a standard we dimly recall from high school physics: Kelvin. The temperature is dependent on several factors including how “empty” space is, since regions with planets and stars like our sun have a different temperature than other areas of the universe, which don’t have much in the way of celestial stuff except for maybe a stray comet or two.

Generally, the accepted average temperature of space is approximately 2.725 Kelvin, which translates to a very brisk -270 degrees Celsius (not including the wind chill factor). For those of us who stubbornly cling to the old fashioned ways of measuring things, the average temperature of space is an incredible -455 Fahrenheit, which brings us to the point of this brief discourse.

Our sun has a finite supply of fuel. It may well burn for thousands of years, or it could go out before Sanjaya on American Idol. And if it does my friends, global warming will suddenly become an excellent idea, so we should all lay in a large supply of firewood, and keep our planet nice and toasty-- just in case.

Farewell Kilgore, Godspeed Kurt

Planet HD 209458b, as photographed by

NASA's Hubble Space Telescope- a giant

gaseous planet with a hot and bloated

atmosphere that currently is evaporating into space.

Scientists at Caltech recently released studies which theorize that plants on other worlds may not be green since the color of a planet’s photosynthetic organisms depends on the type of star the planet orbits and the makeup of its atmosphere.

Scientists of course have the imagination of a houseplant. Green is a human term given to our earthbound perception of a wavelength of light which happens to fall on our own puny planet.

Any decent science fiction writer can imagine incredible worlds where plants are sentient beings that change their colors like earth’s chameleons or cosmic mood rings. How do we know for certain there are not intelligent plants on Mars right now, which wisely choose to remain invisible, knowing humanity’s penchant for eating every living thing on our own planet?

Caltech should have consulted the late great Kilgore Trout, the noted science fiction author who penned numerous stories about the fictitious planet Trafalmadore. Trout theorized that the planet’s inhabitants communicated by farting and tap dancing. Now that’s using your imagination!

Farewell Kilgore Trout, Billy Pilgrim and Eliot Rosewater… and goodbye to you too, Mr. Vonnegut. All I can add is this: “Tap tap tappity-tap BLATTTT,” which, of course, is Trafalmadorian for “Thank you Kurt, from the bottom of our colons.”

Groundhog in the Morning

They say we're young and we don't know
We won't find out until we grow
Well I don't know if all that's true
'Cause you got me, and baby I got you

In the 1993 movie Groundhog Day, weatherman Phil Connors woke up every morning to the iconic Sonny and Cher song playing on his alarm clock. Connors was forced to live the same day over and over again, until he eventually redeemed himself by abandoning his selfishness, choosing instead to treat those around him with respect instead of contempt. As each day of Phil’s life repeated itself, Bill Murray’s portrayal of the cynical weatherman Connors showed us someone who learned from his previous mistakes and grew as an individual until he finally realized we all are defined by how we treat those we meet every day from the very moment we awaken.

Today’s news is full of righteous indignation and abject apologies. Donald Imus is the latest public figure to say something outrageous and now he awaits his fate as America’s collective cultural jury debates his crime and determines his ultimate punishment. While Imus has done many good things in his life I am disinclined to weigh them against his faults since I screw up on a regular basis myself. Judgment is not mine, and those famous words ought to be on the minds of all folks weighing in on this argument, particularly members of the clergy.

What do you think Imus might have said if the Rutgers team was in his studio that morning? My guess is he would have seen them as individuals and not the nebulous entity “Rutgers Women’s Basketball.” He would have treated them with respect because how can you look a young woman in the face and call her a whore unless you are a pimp, or worse?

One of my professional colleagues is an African-American who I respect immensely. I never trade ethnic jokes with Ray because getting to know him over the years has helped me understand what he’s comfortable with in terms of humor. I’m also lucky to have two very close friends who are Jewish, each with an incredibly liberal sense of humor-- but every time I banter with them I carefully consider my jokes in light of what seems reasonable based on our friendships. The real trick is to see others as individuals and not as a faceless race or religion before you open your big mouth and say something stupid and hurtful.

The lesson that can be taken from the Groundhog gospel of Bill Murray is this: Wake up! Get to know those you meet every day, and treat them as you would like to be treated yourself. Each new day affords us the opportunity for self-improvement, unless we choose instead to see our shadows and crawl back into our holes for more winter and less sunshine.

Hot Dog? No, Bratwurst!

Every dedicated dog owner is convinced they’ve been blessed (or cursed) with the world’s cutest or smartest or smelliest dog. There’s just something about pooches that invites canine enthusiasts to wax eloquent over their clever collies or their stinky spaniels, and since we have the world’s smartest dog I just can’t help but lord it over the rest of you.

Tailspin is our Border Collie Labrador mix. It’s also possible he’s got some Bernese Mountain Dog in him, but he’s not telling. (Frankly I’m scared to ask him; since he might answer). He may not be able to actually tell time but he understands there’s something about the clock on the mantle that determines when he’s to be let outside at night-- so it’s slightly unsettling when he sits downs and stares at the clock promptly at 10:00 p.m.

Unfortunately his cleverness coupled with his lab-fueled appetite has landed him in trouble more than a few times. Most recently, the case of the missing Italian beef was solved when the guilty party defecated on our neighbor’s lawn. (Hint: it wasn’t me). In years past, he has eaten; several sticks of butter, bratwurst stolen from the barbeque, and a torpid squirrel. I once called him “Zorba the Greek” for days after he ate an entire package of feta cheese. Usually his digestive system can handle even the toughest squirrel, but occasionally he gets an upset stomach. We know this because he paws the cabinet where we keep the antacid when he needs a Tums.

His eclectic eating habits eventually led to a case of gingivitis, ably treated by our vet. While sedating the dog, Doctor K. asked me what he’d been eating. “Oh, the usual,” I replied,” Buttered bratwursts and feta cheese.” After his treatment, Zorba tottered groggily to the jeep, where I juggled doggy toothpaste and cotton swabs with my car keys while opening the door. Throwing everything onto the back seat, I helped Tailspin in and closed the door-- right before he lay down on my car keys triggering the locks. Thank God he didn’t hit the alarm button too, since he immediately went to sleep and the horn would have disturbed him while I waited for the locksmith to arrive.

The thing about Border Collies is that they want to herd things-- like the people they live with. Tailspin is smart, but he doesn’t understand the concept of sleeping late on Saturday morning. If we’re not up early enough to suit him, he paces and whines until we relent and get out of bed. Well, last week I made the mistake of attempting to be funny and told him to leave us alone, go pour himself a bowl of cereal, and watch some cartoons. Later that morning, I walked back to my office which is directly behind the kitchen pantry. On the floor was a half-eaten box of Puffins cereal. Once the dog realizes that the remote control can be found under the couch cushions maybe we’ll finally be able to get some sleep. “Honey, I just had the strangest dream about Scooby-Doo…”

Surely You Jest

Duluth, Minn.-
The Edgewater volcano, which had been dormant for over a year, erupted last week in a fiery show of flames and smoke. Startled tourists were evacuated to nearby facilities by local authorities. Molten material was clearly visible on the left flank of the volcano following the eruption, which resulted in no reported casualties.

While everything you read above is true, certain facts were omitted to turn an otherwise mundane story into a mini-hoax. The ersatz volcano was constructed over a year ago during a $20 million dollar remodeling project at the Edgewater Hotel and Waterpark. A malfunctioning speaker within “Mt. Edgewater” burst into flames, which quickly spread to the frame of the structure.

Ideally, an April Fool’s hoax should contain a kernel of truth to lure the trusting rube into a web of deception. Once the victim is ensnared, his natural curiosity, passions, fears, or greed can then be used to maximum advantage.

Porky Bickar of Sitka, Alaska used the fear of death by volcanic eruption when in 1974 he successfully convinced his neighbors that the long dormant Mount Edgecumbe was about to blow. Having too much time on his hands and unlimited access to used tires, Porky clandestinely hauled several hundred to the nearby volcano’s crater, where he lit them on fire, resulting in a roiling plume of dense black smoke clearly visible to the residents of Sitka below. Porky could have made a fortune in real estate that day-- but he wisely hid until after the smoke cleared.

Porky's classic prank was listed at #14 of the top one hundred hoaxes of all time, at the Museum of Hoaxes: http://www.museumofhoaxes.com/hoax/aprilfool/index A few more examples which illustrate that the natural traits of the gullible are their own Achilles heel:

Most of us would happily witness the landing of the space shuttle except that Edwards Air Force Base is located in a California desert, and not nearly convenient as say, a small regional airport like Montgomery Field in San Diego. When local deejay Dave Rickards announced in 1993 that the shuttle had been diverted for an emergency landing at Montgomery, thousands of curious rubes immediately headed for the field, forgetting there wasn’t even a shuttle in orbit at the time. (Since my dad kept his plane at Montgomery for many years, I can report to you that runway 10L/28R is 4,577 feet long, far too short for shuttle landings). Rickards’ employer was billed by police for traffic control expenses, and thousands went home dejected but wiser.

Greed featured prominently in the 1998 Baltimore Gold Rush. Radio station WQSR announced that the decking of the historic ship Constellation had long concealed a box of gold coins which had recently been found. In a truly magnanimous gesture, the Constellation Restoration Committee voted to use only a portion of the treasure to pay for repairs and decided that the rest of the coins would be given away first come, first served to Maryland residents presenting a valid driver’s license. Hundreds showed up brandishing their licenses, unaware that the Constellation Restoration Committee had been disbanded in the 1970’s.

Nothing stirs passion like politics, so when the electorate was informed by National Public Radio that Richard Nixon (tanned, rested, and ready) was seeking re-election in 1992, thousands of listeners jammed the NPR switchboard with calls of outrage. Later in the show it was admitted that the audio clip of Nixon’s new campaign slogan "I didn't do anything wrong, and I won't do it again" was delivered by comedian-impressionist Rich Little.

So, on this April Fool’s Day, remember that not every erupting volcano is real, be aware of the shuttle’s location at all times, realize that no committee which votes to give away gold can possibly exist, and most importantly, never trust anything you hear from politicians running for president.

Chocolate Jesus

An anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus dubbed “My Sweet Lord” by artist Cosimo Cavallaro was recently unveiled at the Lab Gallery inside Manhattan’s Roger Smith Hotel. Many people have been needlessly infuriated by this portrayal of divinity in a world already roiling with infuriation and hatred. Although rendering Jesus in chocolate may not rival Michelangelo’s marble Pieta, artists should be granted certain latitude, and we really should be slow to anger in all things.

Personally, I like to think that since we are made in God’s image, and since humor is a human trait, the idea of a chocolate Jesus is, well, pretty funny. And I also think that there is a lot of religion in our world today that takes itself way too seriously. For instance, no fatwas will be issued against Cosimo for his chocolate Jesus sculpture.

I just watched the movie Cool Hand Luke for about the fiftieth time. (You think nobody can watch a movie fifty times? Try eating fifty eggs). When Luke receives word that his mother has died, he grabs a banjo and sings a song which seems apropos to the concept of a sweet lord. Of course, the lyrics needed some updating:

Well, I don't care if it rains or freezes,
long as I’ve got my chocolate Jesus
waitin’ in my basket Easter morn
comes in flavors, sweet and pleasant,
nougat centers, are all fragrant
take Him with you when you are careworn.

Get yourself a sweet Madonna
her virtue’s pure, she’s sittin' on a
pedestal of crunchy candy shell
artists’ statements, they ain't scary
'cause we've got the Virgin Mary,
assurin' us that we won't go to Hell.

Get yourself a sense of humor
God loves fools, well that’s the rumor
sent His son to save us all from sin
a chocolate statue of the savior
won’t make my faith grow any weaker
I have to laugh, and Jesus may just grin.

Here is what the Dalai Lama once said about spiritual needs:

“Human beings naturally possess different interests. So, it is not surprising that we have many different religious traditions with different ways of thinking and behaving. But this variety is a way for everyone to be happy. If we have a great variety of food, we will be able to satisfy different tastes and needs. When we only have bread, the people who eat rice are left out. And the reason those people eat rice is that rice is what grows best where they live.”

For some of us, chocolate grows best where we live. And if chocolate should actually be our salvation, God is merciful indeed.