There's this thing called an election..

So, we've got an election coming up, here in Southern California. March 7th. But you knew that, right? Because you are registered and you read the mail from the County Clerk/Registrar Recorder's office, the Sample Ballot, right? Right????

In our portion of LA county, there are only 2 things on the ballot: Measure H and a School Board election. Which is more important?

If we pass Measure H, there will be a 1/4% sales tax add-on to pay for homeless services, about $335 Million per year. It has to pass by a 2/3 majority. It will affect massively the work of caring for the homeless: services to help with mental issues, drop and alcohol addiction, family shelters etc. There are 47000 homeless families in LA County. 

http://www.latimes.com/…/la-ed-measure-h-20170218-story.html

The reason we have Measure H, is that the supervisors and the mayor have been arguing for years about getting things done for the homeless. Endless discussions about who, why, how, where have gone on for more than a decade. At this point, it has to be forced down everyone's throat by the people. These people are elected officials. Where did they come from?

The first step to major political office is almost always a smaller, more local office, like School Board. Or Deputy Mayor.

If you have any dreams of one day replacing one of the 2 parties with a third (and believe me, I know the math at least as well as you do), then you might want to think about who we elect for School Board. Because there's a really good chance you'll be hearing those names again in the next 10 years. Do you want those names to be tagged (D) or (R)? Or (L) or (G)? Or (P&F)? This is the moment to think about that. These small elections are where building happens.

The biggest failing that every single 3rd party attempt has made is to not spend enough time building a base of electable people, who bring with them voters to a larger election ("I know Nancy and she's part of this, so it must be good.") This is basic civics. If you are even a little bit serious about changing the way this country runs its political business, you have no excuse to not pay attention to these elections. They happen about every 6 months, sometimes as often as every 3. There are a LOT of people in my FaceBook feed who claim to be so enraged by the last election's options/issues that they would rather see 45 in office than Hillary. Fine, dudes. Put your money where your mouth is. Run for office or support someone who is. Vote in off-cycle elections, Canvass. Be a poll worker. Do something proactive. Or admit that you are simply a whiner.

Me, I'm voting Yes on Measure H. But I'm looking really closely at the 2 School Board candidates to see who is going to haul water for us over the next years. Are we going to get more testing? Or more services? More aides? Who is in favor of what?

And the first person who says, 'They're all the same", is going to be given a sheet of 80 grit sandpaper to wipe their butts with, and be told, "Hey, it's paper too!" There is an actual difference.

A letter to another parent

Hi

I didn’t get back to you yesterday, both because I wasn’t feeling well and because frankly I was pretty upset at your yelling at me and demanding that I do something to fix your issue. And make no mistake, it was YOUR issue you were trying to fix: your need to control directly what your child does and doesn’t do, and your anger that they weren't doing what you wanted.

I don’t deserve to be attacked by you in your uncontrolled feelings. I have done nothing wrong towards you or your family, and the only reason I didn’t hang up on you was that we had somewhat of a relationship, however tenuous, and I will always try to salvage that if possible. Further, my child is not your child, and you have zero say in how we are working with them to bring them to full adulthood, much less a place to stand to demand that I tell them to do something. I am always willing to ask, but I don’t demand, just as I don’t demand from any other adult of any age.

Take this away: your child was never in any danger. They were doing something you disagreed with and were angry about and you attacked the person you wanted help from. I think that getting help beyond AlAnon for you would be more helpful to them than almost anything else you could do, because based on yesterday’s events, you have stuff that you need to work on as well, and it is far more often our changes that drive changes in the family dynamic than we get from demanding other people’s changes.

You say that the kids are dependent on us, and therefore we should be in control of their every action? That's kind of disgusting, isn't it? To use the dependency that we created as a lever to force behavior we desire? How infantilizing for a child to be treated as if they were completely incompetent because they wish to make different choices from us! I don’t control my child the way your IOP and many others wish; I am far more interested in forming a life-long relationship than getting momentary compliance or winning a power struggle. I do set boundaries (a task that I do not enjoy and have struggled with for years), and enforce the consequences, but I have learned to be very very clear with myself that they are MY boundaries that I set for MY reasons, and I don’t demand that they approve of them. But I treat them as an adult, with adult consequences: tailored to their age and maturity, to be sure, but as an adult.

(I also don’t try to hide behind a screen of “It’s for your own good”, “You’ll thank me when you’re older” and (my least favorite), “ I rescued you and you should be grateful!” / “I gave birth to you and now this is how you treat me!” It is true that I have all those feelings, but they are mine, not theirs, and I don’t demand that they acknowledge them as valid reasons to do my bidding.)

I have told my child the terms of your child's program, but it is they who needs to ask my child to respect the terms, not me, and for your child to enforce it, not my child or me. If you or I do their work, they learn nothing, and this is maybe the hardest lesson that any of us parents learn. It is their diagnosis and treatment, not ours, and their road to walk with our help, not our road to drag them along. The harsh truth is that your child will do what your child decides to do, and you will have only a limited say in that, and less if you alienate them. You can throw them out (although I doubt that you would actually do this: it sounds more like the program coaching you in "taking control of your family"), but it only serves to put a period on the relationship: "I'm done with YOU, you're not worth trying any more" is what the child hears and responds to. Most parents cannot do this, and threatening and not following through damages what little credibility we have in their eyes. In my experience, in general they won't come back crying pitifully, but decide that now that they're not living with you, they can do whatever they want. 

If I sound harsh, it is because I'm still a bit raw from being raged at, and also because I want to cut off the idea that I am ever going to try to force my child to do something when the situation isn't a dire emergency, the kind where people die. Visiting a friend who is off-limits doesn't qualify and I don't want to support the idea in any way that I agree with why you called, let alone with how you spoke.

I'd love to stay in touch, but please don't call me to dump on me again. I'm happy to help where I can, but I won't be a punching bag. OK?

Solar Woes

As I sit here at my desk, typing away, I keep one eye on a tab in the browser. The tab is the wireless window into the current state of my power system. Right now, I notice that the current state of the batteries is 52.8 volts and the State of Charge is 99%. We're only using 370 watts at the moment: not too many lights and my computer are the only draws. In a few minutes, however, the outside lights will come on and we'll start getting dinner ready. The usage will go up to around 1.3 kW.  We store about 32 usable kW. As we use the battery, the voltage falls, and if the voltage falls below 40 volts, the inverters will shut down to protect themselves. At that point, unless I have an alternate source of power, I won't have any lights or water until the sun comes up. So we are very careful to keep a weather eye on the power and shut off lights as soon as we don't need them, and since the well is the single largest draw, we are also careful wth water. Luckily we have 2 alternate sources, neither perfect but both helpful: a mini-hydro generator that produces about 650 watts at 48 volts and a 20kW backup diesel generator. The mini-hydro is great until either there's no rain for a few days or the jets plug up (which necessitates me slogging down to the generator pit to clear it out, no fun in the rain for sure). The diesel generator is more than capable of charging the batteries, as long as the electronic controller doesn't fail again, or the oil pressure sensor, or unless the starter battery dies. And all of this is dependent on 2 large silver boxes in the power shed: the master and slave inverters, which turn battery power into house power. Complex? Yes, indeed. But that's my system.

And it is, indeed, all mine. We are off the grid in central Oregon, more than a mile from the nearest power pole, and on the far side of a set of railroad tracks and a major Bonneville Power Administration transmission line, 660,000 volts of clean, renewable, hydro-electric power, and it might as well be on the moon for all the good it does me. Running power to my house would take over a year for permits and cost at least $100,000. Plus I would have power poles running along side my driveway, which aren't exactly beautiful. But I'm saving up for them anyway. Being completely off the grid is just too damn stressful.

Why? For starters, have you looked at the price of batteries lately? Replacing our batteries (Aquion salt water batteries, non toxic and very long life: 10 or so years) run about $1200 each. I have 20. The panels should be good for 12-15 years and will need replacing at $300 or so each. I have 30. The inverters, charge controllers and central control unit have life spans, and so does the generator and the mini-hydro. The wiring should be good for the life of the house, so that's ok. So I baby the stuff, and check on it to make sure it's running properly or we go dark until I either fix it myself, or call a repair person to come out and fix it. I have maintenance contracts with the generator and solar people, but they are minimum 1 hour away and the contracts don't cover nights, weekends and holidays. I'm responsible for the mini-hydro (no-one fixes that for you.)

So it's time-consuming and expensive: the system cost around $110,000. I could have done it for 2/3 that price by using lead-acid batteries and cheaper controls, but I chose a larger, more robust system so my wife and family don't have to muck about testing batteries and managing power even more than we do now.  My cost per kWh, figuring how much I paid for the installation and maintenance, is around double what people in LA pay for power, and about 3 times the very low priced energy around me. On top of that I have to spend time monitoring and managing the system.

Could we add wind? Sure, but it would have to be a very tall tower (we're in the valley of the N Santiam River), and I would have to monitor that too! (Also, they're noisy, especially in the area we're in, which is really quiet.) I'm going to upgrade the mini-hydro to a 1.1kW until next summer, which will give me more bang for my buck. More solar panels? Sure, but the basic problem is still there. Look, how much time did you spend today or yesterday thinking about your power? Maybe the cost, if you just got your bill, or the source if you want more green energy. But I will guarantee you didn't spend 30 seconds thinking about capacity, usage, etc. which is a constant worry for those of us off the grid. Yesterday, my wife went to use the microwave and the house went dark. So, off I go in my slippers (where's the damn flashlight?) and call the solar guy who was available to walk me though a new type of issue. I typed up my notes this morning and added them to the 20 or so pages of "What to do if..." notes that hang in the power shed.

I love it that most of the time I have green energy (except when we have to use the generator) and I'm not drawing on the (steadily overloading) grid. But I don't know a single person who depends on solar and who is just trying to live their life, who wouldn't trade for grid power in an instant, if it were practical. If I get grid power up to the shed, then at least I can sell some power back to BPA.

52.6 volts, 98% charge. We’re doing fine for now. I’m off to make dinner.

9/11 Thoughts

15 years ago today, my wife and I walked into the oncologist’s office to start her fifth round of chemo.  I was focussed on making sure that everything was as good as it could be, given the circumstances. Anti-nausea meds? Got ‘em. Kids taken care of for the next few days? I thought so. Food that Joy could eat? I hoped that sushi would be OK, that it was low-odor enough for her to stomach. I was thinking that maybe zinc would help with the dis-regulation of her taste buds, something I had read in an old New Yorker article. I was a little wooly-headed from the stress. Joy was deep in her emotional upheaval. 

In the office, everyone was talking about the plane which had hit the World Trade Center. My first thought was, “How the hell did the pilot get that far off course?” We watched the tower smoking through our mental haze. The nurse got Joy settled into the lounger, and started the preliminary drip. So we were watching when the second plane hit, and we understood that it was an intentional act. We watched as the towers fell. We heard about the Pentagon. And we heard about the plane crash in Eastern Pennsylvania.

While my wife was hooked up to the evil red drip, I made some frantic phone calls. Our daughter had left that morning on a school field trip to Washington, D.C., and we figured out that the class would be very close to where the plane hit. I called the school, who had no information. I called my mother to let her know what I had seen and heard on the news (we were in White Plains, 45 minutes outside the city, she was at home on the Upper East Side) and to tell her to stay inside. Then I tried to call our family office on Wall Street, but the phone lines were out. Eventually the school called to let us know that the kids were OK, and were returning to school late that evening. That was good: I didn’t have to leave Joy and drive down to get our girl.

We went home after the session, and pulled the rug up behind us.

The next day we began to find out what had happened. People I knew had died, family and friends of close friends had died, Wall Street was in chaos. Our kids were home, my wife was sick, there was nothing I could do. We hung in there, tried to console each other and the girls, called our friends to commiserate and mourn.

Eventually the chemo and radiation were finished, my wife’s hair began to grow back, NY began to look more like its regular ugly self (despite being born there, lived and worked there, I have no love for the city. Yes, it is interesting. Yes, there are wonderful parts. Yes, yes, yes. I despise it.) Giuliani boasted of his accomplishments, the rubble and debris were mostly gone, there was a big hole in the ground.

It had been my mother’s 69th birthday.

After that, the years when we went to dinner, people gave us the side-eye, or occasionally direct confrontation: Why are you celebrating? Are you terrorists? Don’t you CARE? And we would have a conversation about “going about our lives”. 

America realized something that day: we are mortal, and life is unpredictable in its application of mortality. Predictably, we lashed out at the targets we could see, and equally predictably, politicians pointed us at the targets they though would make them the most news/money/votes. The “news” media had a field day, and ratings were never better! Everyone won.

Except you know, the 30,000 troops who died in the phony “police actions” that followed. Except for the 300,000 people who died under our bombs. Except for all the grieving families.  Except for all the countless soldiers who were ignored when they came home (except at NFL/NHL/NBA games, which, you know, is totally supporting the troops.)

Mortality. The notion that you could die at any moment, unpredictably, unprepared, unaware. Or, maybe worse, you might not die, but a family member, a child, a wife or husband, a parent might die and leave you alone. And it is SO convenient to blame ISIS/ISIL/DAESH for your fears. Why, if it’s them, then all we gotta do is nuke them until they glow, then shoot them in the dark, right? Right? THEN we’ll be safe.

And since we can’t tell who you are, anyone who doesn’t look like me, gets the terrorist treatment. And I’m “colorblind”, which is a great way to say, “You all look alike to me, so you're all suspects.” And since I’m afraid, I’ll scream and get laws passed that criminalize looking like a terrorist. THEN I’ll be safe.

I’ve buried 2 kids. I KNOW what it’s like to live in fear of losing another. I know what it’s like to want to wrap my family in bubble-wrap to protect them. It’s no way to live.

Our country still lives in fear. It’s no way to live.

Something came up...

And that's really why it's been such a challenge to keep up with the blog

So now I have a diagnosis. Wow.

More than a year later, it’s still a little hard to get my head around it. Aren’t I just moody? I feel normal. I mean, I felt normal before, and I still feel normal now, but it’s different now. (No jokes from the family about how I was never normal, please, or I’ll start writing about you!) How is it different? It’s hard to say, but it’s sort of like being more relaxed. It was getting very obsessive inside my brain, in a way that I didn’t like and felt powerless to stop. Not like, I’m getting ready to jump off a bridge, but sort of, I just don’t know how to deal, what’s the matter with me, why is everything so hard, over and over and over. It must be something I’m doing, so maybe I should just go away, and take my misery with me; that way I wouldn’t be trashing out other people. Or if I happened to fall in to the pool, would that be so bad? But feeling miserable is just indulging isn’t it? I should just accept my feelings and go with them, right? And then what? Is everything supposed to turn out fine just because I don’t fight my feelings (cue REO Speedwagon)? Back and forth, over and over and over.

I was mentally and emotionally exhausted, and terrified by the time I went for help. 

Not having those obsessive, intrusive thoughts is a revelation. Space to think. Room to consider. I had said to the doctor that all I wanted was to be able to take 2 breaths between something happening and feeling a desperate need to respond. Now I have plenty of time. I feel like I >can< take the time I need, even if I often don’t because, hey, I’m moving fast though this moment. But when I want to, I can and I do.

Being able to get up and write. Being able to stay on Weight Watchers. (Sometimes).

But the thing is, it felt like this was just how things are. You’re sad? Ok, then, you’re sad. Depressed, well, I’m not depressed, I’m just grieving and maybe I’ll grieve like this for the rest of my life. That’s just the way it is, right? All throughout this time I never had the sense that I was all that different from how I had been for years. This despite my wife (among others) telling me that I had changed. Well, of COURSE I had changed! Shit happened, wouldn’t that change anyone? Etc, etc. But what I wasn’t getting (and to be fair to me, neither was anyone else, including my therapist), was that the changes were accumulating and getting worse.

And you want to know something funny? People who are depressed can hide it like no-one’s business. From almost anyone, including their therapists. And it’s not like it’s something we work on: it’s just that it’s easier to talk about other stuff than the dreary reality of unhappy obsessive thoughts. So many depressed people are thought to be the life of the party, especially if their temperament is naturally extroverted. And yes, extroverts can be depressed, too. And introverts aren’t especially prone to depression. And your Myers-Briggs has nothing to do with it. And no, it’s not just that you need to get out more. Or just do more fun things. Or just do more exercise. Or any of the other stuff that people who have no idea what it’s like in our heads think would help us. Bless them, they’re trying to help. (Often because it makes them SO uncomfortable that we’re not “right”.) But for most people with any of these forms of mood disorders (depression, bipolar spectrum, borderline personality, and some others), what helps more is medication and therapy. 

(Another part of hiding things is that people, usually our therapists and loved ones, want us to DO things: Get out more, try this or that, read this book, look at this video. And we just can't. Not one more thing. I was running on the edge of collapse for a long time, and adding more to that would only hasten my daily dives. So I didn't (and my people with serious mental issues also don't) talk about how I felt. It's a protection thing that also happens to work against us while simultaneously protecting us.)

Now, there certainly are many people who manage their lives without medication and therapy, and my hat is off to them. I couldn’t. And I worked at it (not knowing what the problem was, to be sure) for many years. I wasn’t unaware of the fact that I wasn’t as happy as I had once been, or more easily triggered into upset, or generally more difficult to deal with. But I figured the best thing I could do was to work harder at the things I thought would help: meditation, therapy, exercise, finding a new hobby (once a month, usually, and yes, that was a symptom that we all missed) etc. For years. But because I kept thinking that the cause of all this chaos in my head was due to outside events (like my wife’s cancer, losing 2 kids and my parents, my daughter’s issues, etc.), I kept looking for answers in doing things. It wasn’t until it got so bad, and then stopped, and then started up again, that I got scared enough to overcome my distrust of psychiatric drugs and seek help. 

And now I am the poster child for medication working the way they hope. No unbearable effects (I’ll write about the pernicious use of the term “side-effect” to cover up all sorts of known issues another time), no physical challenges, and within a couple of weeks things had stared to calm down.

So here I am. Trying to wrap my head around this new way of seeing myself, and how things were in the past. What did I do that looks different in the light of new knowledge? What parts of the difficulties in my past were made more difficult by my then unknown and unresolved mood disorder? I don’t want to assign blame or causation for all the crap in my life to it, because not only is it not true, but it leaves me as a victim to it. And it’s not all of my life by any means: that’s the point!

Now i have some years of repairs to do: I forgot, missed, left out, ignored many things, including this blog. If you know me, you know I always have something to say, so I'm going back to that.

Changing course

So, I'm now done with Hillary/Bernie/Trump conversations. It's time to go downticket and talk about the House, Senate and local races. We have about 3 months to help position candidates for Nov 2 in swing states. They need our money, our time and our words.

Over the next few weeks, I'm going to try to pull together guides to the most important swing state races, as well as for our propositions here in California. I am a political junkie, not a political expert; no-one pays to hear what I have to say and I'll likely be ass-backwards a few times. Please don't hesitate to call me out when I fuck up, when I mansplain, or when I marginalize. I will fix anything I can, and do what I can do to make amends. But I won't sit still during this one moment when we could literally change the course of the next 20-30 years.

One thing that we all can do is get involved in the electoral process. Whether by helping people to register, working the polls on election day (in LA County we need around 2000-2500 people to run the polls: it pays from $75-175 depending on what you do), take people to vote, help them get vote-by-mail ballots, etc. this is a big help to our/your candidates.

It's time, people. It's on us. Do we really want a better world? Do we really want a better country for ALL of us? Are we willing to do what it takes?

crossposted to FaceBook

Dusting off the blog

Now it's been another 18 months since I posted here. A LOT has happened: medical issues, family things, and handling those took precedence. 

But with the election only 3 months away, I've decided to go all out to say what I feel and think, and try to communicate in a way that is helpful. Helpful to me, because it helps me to think things through, and possibly to others who are after me every election to tell them what I think. In general, I have told people to look and think for them selves. But this time, no more Mr. Nice Rabbit. I'm going to PUT IT OUT THERE.

God, that sounds arrogant.

I am arrogant. But not so lost to reason as to think that my little corner of the web has any real influence over people. But I need a place to say what I think and a focus for all that thought, so I don't end up crawling down the tubes to choke some asshole who so clearly deserves it. Or ending up in a psych ward.

Off we go. Hang in there, people. It's going to be a wild ride to November.

Yogi

It's been a while, hasn't it?

About 15 months, to be exact-ish. What's up with that, hey?

Well, besides the usual stuff like family, work, construction, buying a house in Oregon, and generally taking care of stuff, there's also been a bunch of personal things that needed attending to. (Which I will get to later.)

My office is in boxes, as is a large part of the house. Why, you ask? Because we don't love the smell of smoke, of course! Most of the wiring goes back to 1924, when the house was built, except for the parts which were grafted on in 1946, 1971 and 1986, not to mention what we did when we bought the place in 2006. So it was a mess, and a lot of it was old knob-and-tube, cloth covered wiring, which had started failing in odd and exciting ways, like behind the walls. Where you can't see it. But you can smell it! Oh, joy!

To fix this little problem, we've abandoned the old wiring, and run new so that we can sleep soundly, or as soundly as you can sleep with a teenager who's almost 17 and feeling her oats. (More about her later.) But then there are all these holes in the walls and ceilings. Did I mention that the house is lath and plaster? It's not like sheetrock: it's kind of like thin concrete, only messier. Takes multiple coats, sanding between each coat. Which creates lots of dust. 

But we didn't really think that this was enough mess and uproar, so we decided to replace the failing upstairs windows at the same time. Old casement windows, they didn't meet in the middle any more, giving up excellent air conditioning in the winter and superb heat in the summer. Which we paid extra for! And since we're tearing open the walls, why not take out the windows at the same time, and save on plastering costs? Makes sense to me! 

And, of course, after all that, you have to paint, right? Why not do the whole house at the same time? Save on costs, take care of  the whole shebang at one time, and be done! A smart idea! At least I thought so until I came home and found my long-suffering wife huddled under the staircase muttering to herself about killing the plasterers and burying them with the painters.

I waved a bottle of wine at her until she came out, and wrapped her in a blanket (dust free!) and comforted her with the thought that it would only be another month and they would be all done. After prying her hands off my throat, I gave her some more wine and suggested a new prescription for valium. That was not well received, I can tell you. So tomorrow we'll meet with the painting contractor and find out exactly how much longer it will be. And then take a deep breath and hang on until they're done. With lots of wine.

Now, about that child. She's our youngest, and a dear soul. With her share of problems and issues, like all of us, compounded by losing her brother and sister and grandparents etc., one after another. She's a bit anxious, is what I'm saying. And she expresses this anxiety by occasionally (often) (sometimes), doing things of which her parents aren't exactly fond. Or are hysterical about, depending. Which adds to the general uproar that I was talking about up there. and of course, her parents aren't exactly completely stable either, given all the stuff that's gone on. 

So, now we come to that other part, which is me. I've had an increasingly difficult time since my daughter died 5 years ago. The technical term is "complicated grief", and I had seen a grief counselor, but that didn't really address my issue, which was that I was getting sadder and sadder as time went on. And more irritated, and less fun to be around. And my moods were darker and more unhappy than they had ever been. I've always been what is known as "labile" in my emotions (which basically means I change frequently and easily, so I was always called "moody"), but for most of my life this hadn't interfered with my day to day activities. Occasionally, I have had nasty spells, but then again, who hasn't? Don't most of us have ups and downs? It's not me, it's the circumstances, right? I mean, I lost my daughter, I lost my parents, how can you expect me to feel good all the time, hey? If everyone would just back off and give me some space, I'd be fine, I know it. But I must be a schmuck, how can my wife still love someone who's always sad, who doesn't listen well, who didn't stop their daughter from dying....

All day, and most of the night. I'd have good times, but they became fewer and farther between. And it got to  the point where I started to question whether I should just move out and let my family move on. And that was the point where I sought serious help, and got it. Thank whatever gods there are for a Dr. who listens and suggests, rather than just prescribes and prescribes, if you know what I mean. And so as of June 1, I am officially diagnosed with a mental illness (and if THAT doesn't seem odd to type, I'm not sure what will), and prescribed some useful meds and am much better. And can now DO the therapy that I was working on. Which is great, if difficult.

OK, that's enough for now. I'll be back, I promise.

Feeding the hungry

Over at Tux's place, he makes a great point: Jesus didn't ask who was qualified to be served. He just fed them. (And before you ask, yes, I do believe that there was an itinerant priest about that time, who saw deeply into matters of the human condition, and using the tropes of his time, spoke of them. There are a few posts waiting to be written about how I see that time. No, I don't believe that he was the "only human-born son of GOD" As far as I'm concerned, we are all children of god, whatever you conceive that to mean. Even John Boehner, Michelle Bachman etc.)

Neem Karoli Baba (Maharaj-ji) was asked: how to serve god? He answered, "Feed people." Abraham Maslow talked about the necessity of taking care of our basic human needs before we are able to think about more esoteric things.

Here in LA, Union Station Homeless Services feeds people. The Sally, as we called it when I was working with the homeless, feeds more. Churches and food banks try their best. None of these are enough to care for the entire, dreadful weight of homeless people in our country, let alone the entire world. This Thanksgiving, serve people: go volunteer at the shelter or work at a food bank, or help out at a church supper and take a friend or a child along with you.

Flash Memory: Om nom nom

So, I'm over at Slate, reading one of the page-whoring "You're Doing It Wrong" articles (a guilty pleasure of mine). This one's about pork tenderloin, and in one of the responses to a comment about "How can you eat cut-up animal carcasses?" is the response, "I tried to eat one that wasn't cut up, and it wasn't easy." And that sprung a memory out of the depths:

I was 15, and had talked my mother into lied shamelessly to my parents to get them to let me go to Greece with a friend. From Rome, where we were living in the early '70s, this was approximately like going to Nashville from NYC in terms of distance and difficulty. But I didn't want to just go to Greece, oh no. I wanted to go to Mykonos, where my sister had taken my brother and me the year before. But this time I wanted to go by myself, no 12-year-old brother in tow, and hang out doing what I wanted to do. Which I had no idea what that was, but it wasn't being on the most crowded beach, watching my sister and her boyfriend argue, go get high/drunk, come back and argue some more, lather, rinse, repeat. So I bitched and moaned and made a complete ass out of myself a good argument about why I should be allowed.... Eventually they gave in, and off I went.

The whole story would basically frighten the crap out of any reasonable person, let alone a parent, and for the most part I kept my worst stupidities from my parents (like sleeping under a bench in the port of Piraeus so that I wouldn't miss the boat in the morning, with no-one keeping watch), but eventually I arrived in Mykonos, quickly made friends with a dozen Berkeley grads on break, and settled into one of the best times of my life. (I did make SOME attempt to keep my folks informed of where I was and that I was OK; I wasn't a complete jerk, just 15 and incredibly self-centered.)

Anyway, after about a week on the main beaches, we decided to move to a more remote area, mostly to get away from the incredible tourist crowds that plague the islands. And so we found a beach around the side of the island, and hung out together, singing at night to the same 15-20 songs, which were all we knew on the guitar, cooking and swimming and just, you'll have to excuse the expression but it really does capture it for me, grooving.

Eventually, we got hungry for something more substantial than the vegetables we were buying from the local farmers, and headed into town for dinner and retsina. None of us had much money, so we looked around until we found a taverna with reasonable prices, and the 12 of us settled down with a couple of bottles of resin wine and some appetizers, and considered the menu. To our side, a spit turned, the lamb on it roasting gently and the smell of the dripping fat and the herbs just captivated us (we had been vegetarians by necessity, not commitment.) As we started to order, it became clear that we were all going to order lamb, and finally the proprietor asked us it we just wanted the whole thing? He'd make us a deal. Oh, yes, please kind sir, you don't have to offer twice...

He covered the table with butcher's paper, and he and a helper lifted the lamb from the fire, and slid the entire carcass off the spit, onto the table. A sound of orgasmic moaning came from 12 throats, and 24 hands began to slice small pieces off the edges of the meat, a process that rapidly became 24 hands tearing chunks of cooked flesh from a rapidly decreasing carcass. I have no idea what we looked like (starving wolves?), but we didn't care. The owner kept our glasses full of wine and water, and handed out paper towels and we ate, and ate, and ate.

Eventually the frenzy died down, and after some final picking at what was by now the skeleton of a lamb, we paid up and staggered off into the night.

Out of the Mouths of Putatively-Grown Adults

No, not about Glenn Beck or Rush. Sorry :-)

Anyway, along about July 1980, I was on my back to India for a second, hopefully longer visit. (Yes, I know I haven't told you about the first visit. Patience, young padawans.) I met my dad in Rome, where he was living at the time, and he took me around to meet some of his friends, one of whom had a rather fetching young daughter, S. We hit it off and spent the next few days touring Rome (where I had grown up in the late 60's, but it had changed in many ways, so guiding was important) and meeting her friends and extended family, culminating in a big family Sunday lunch out in the country. If you ever saw "My Big, Fat Greek Wedding", you know what sort of gathering I'm talking about: 40+ people, a table from here to there packed with food and drink and the whole thing happening at top volume and high speed.

My Italian is pretty good, and I was able, for the most part, to keep up my end of the conversations, asking vocab questions as needed, letting the older folks correct my grammar when it wandered into slang and generally relaxing and enjoying the wine and food. Especially the wine. I knew enough not to drink the homemade brews casually (they are often closer to 20% than 12%), but I was still feeling a bit light-headed as the chaos diminished along with the food. Finally, we were all at that point where you are looking at a particularly lovely piece of dessert or fruit and thinking it might just be too much trouble to raise your arm to put it in your mouth, when one of the Nonni (Grandparents) asked me what I did in America?

Well, the last real job I had held before my initial Indian excursion that I was willing to talk about (I had no idea how to say "Aircraft fueller" or "Drywall carrier" in Italian, so they were out), was working at Harrah's Casino in Lake Tahoe, CA. So, that's what I said, in Italian, "I worked in a casino."

There was a moment of shocked silence, and then stiffled laughter and sideways glances from the men, and blushes and giggles from the women. I had no clue what I had just said, and trying to fill the silence, I added, "I quit because working all night was too hard."

More choking and sputtering. I turned to S., who was trying her damnest not to burst, and said, "What did I say?"

S took a few deep breaths, and then said, still in Italian, "A gambling hall is a cah-see-NO. The way you pronounced casino (cah-SEEN-oh) means bordello." She had to stop again, as I contemplated how I could maybe disappear under the table. And then, getting hold of herself, "And then you said the night work was too hard!" and at that, all decorum was lost, and the nonnis and the bapus and the mothers and the kids were shrieking with laughter and making jokes and it all went to hell and we had a great time.

So when my little one asks about Brazilian Blow-Jobs instead of Blow-Outs, or for a bathing suit instead of a suitcase, or for me to pass her a condom instead of a condiment, I smile and think that she is certainly my child, all the way.

Building GlennBeckistan, CH. 1A

So, one detail that the sharp-eyed readers have noticed is that each house could be completely self-contained for electricity (solar/wind), waste (septic/compost) and water (well). True, but this makes the space each house needs much greater, and severely restricts where you can put 3000+ people! A three-bedroom house (septic is calculated from the number of bedrooms, not baths) needs approximately 1/4 acre of drainage, more if the soil doesn't drain well, and even more if it freezes. Septic zoning in upstate NY (say, Lake Placid) is minimum 1/2 acre leech field per 3 bedrooms, for example. And you need an oversize septic tank for when the ground is solid, which has to be pumped regularly. Meaning roads have to accommodate septic trucks (low grade and maintained) and, of course, this septic waste has to go somewhere. Who is going to take it? The problem is magnified for common buildings like meeting halls and for restaurants and businesses.

Solar is great, if somewhat spendy to set up, IF you get enough sun. Wind, ditto. And your well needs to be deep enough not to become contaminated by the septic system. (I've worked on a well-drilling rig, and I would like the contract for GBstan if he gets that far. Cash only, paid up front, per 1000 feet.) You will also need water storage for fire fighting, usually a pond or lake. (We're going to meet this again in governance.) And the thought of all the Tea Party wives trying to convince their husbands to sort, recycle and compost makes me smile. It's like they are re-creating the hippy communes of the '70s - anyone remember the Farm in Tennessee?

Anyway, you still need roads. Can't get away from that.

More soon.

Building GlennBeckistan, chapter 1

Well, I was going to tell you all a funny story about something that happened on the way to India in the '80s, but today's news that Glenn Beck is going to build a city in the wilderness for him and all his followers happens to touch on some things I actually know quite a bit about, that being what it takes to build a city in the wilderness. You see, my friends, I did that once, from 1982-1985, on about 100,000 acres of land in central Oregon. We called it Rajneeshpuram.

(When you Google it, you'll get all sorts of interesting things, especially if you use the Oregonian for a source. You should know that my experience of being there and in the middle of the whole thing didn't match what they report in many, many significant ways, and they got most of the details wrong, too. Such is life.)

Anyway, without going into the rights and wrongs of what we did there, let me just say having built a city, I know that it is not an easy nor a simple task. It took hundreds to thousands of dedicated people years to build the infrastructure and systems, and it will be no different for GB, if and when he does something other than create a Ponzi scheme. Let's take a look at what's ahead for ol' Glenn and for the Citadel, too, while we're at it.

First, building a city boils down to 2 main areas: infrastructure (the easy part) and governance (the hard part). Let's take a look at the easy one first, since that only takes shit-loads of money. The physical plant is basically six things: Electricity, sewage and garbage disposal, roads, fire department and water. For 3500-5000 people, you can manage well with a volunteer FD if someone buys the trucks and gear, but the rest is actually quite extensive. Let's take them in order:

Electrical: You need a good size substation for this place, and the power company will not bring one in for free. Nor will it run the lines to power the substation without a contract specifying just what you are going to need (plans, distribution network etc.) So you need someone to negotiate who has the power to make contracts and lawyers to make sure you aren't signing something you shouldn't (whoops, we're into governance already. Well, we'll get back to it.) A medium-sized substation in the 80's cost around $300,000 in direct costs (the actual transformers, etc, a subsidized amount based on the power we were contracting to buy from them), but the contract we signed was for $5.5 million over 10 years, for them to bring the juice in 2.5 miles from the nearest accessible hook-in point. Then another $150,000 to set up the substation and more when we were ready to have them hook it up to our own poles. We had to run good-size power lines to every significant location, so that was about 200 poles; a crew was still working on that when we shut down, 4 years later. And we had a minimum monthly bill, etc.

Sewer: we built our own sewage treatment lagoons, up to spec for the times; they are much pickier now and so more expensive. You need to plan ahead for this, as you don't want to either have to dig up the sewage lines nor expand the treatment plant until you absolutely have to. Every house will eventually need to be connected, so you need a master plan (governance again!) You'll need a landfill  and trucks to collect garbage, and your neighbors aren't going to accept your unsorted trash unless you want to pay them to sort it (free market, yes?) You need trash cans and compactors and lift stations for the sewage (there's always a low point in the system, and it can't be your lagoons or they will fill with rain water. So you need to pump the sludge UP to the treatment plant. Who wants to volunteer to clean the lift station every three months or so? And let all the women know that flushing tampons is a no-no. Ooops, a rule. Or, free market, make all tampons registered, so you will now who flushed it. I'd rather register my guns, thank you. I had to clean that thing a couple of times.) Anyway, this stuff costs real money, and your neighbors aren't taking your sewage either.

Next, roads: where they go (governance), and what they are made of (money). Try not to need blasting, as it is expensive to get good people and more expensive to fix the damage from the ignorant (not speaking from experience or anything,  nuh-uh not me.) Anyway, you need lots of roads and you need to keep them repaired. Graders, bulldozers, excavators, concrete for curbs and sidewalks (do you have sidewalks? Governance!), pavers, oil truck, diesel fuel trucks, more repair people, etc.

Last, but certainly not least, water:  A source of clean water, a treatment plant, and miles of big pipes, just to get to the street where you live. Do you need a water tower?

So by this time, I think I've made my point: it takes a lot of time and money to actually just build the infrastructure. And that, if you haven't noticed, is only to have it exists, not to bring it to your house, but just to have the basics in place so that you could hook up if you wanted to. How you get the services to your house/bungalow/apartment building is another thing entirely, as is the question of what you can build.

But the bigger questions are: Who pays for all this infrastructure, who owns it and how do they get repaid for their outlay? Who decides when the services are at capacity? Who decides how much sewerage you need for a 2 bedroom? We'll get to that next.

Grief

(This was written in June, around the Alysia's birthday. Don't know why I didn't publish it then.)

I was reading about John Travolta and his wife Kelly,and how they lost their son to a seizure, and John described the feeling as being covered by a wet blanket. I know how that is. For most of the first year after Alysia's death, I oscillated between numbness and exquisite pain, pain that was actually physical as well as emotional. I described it as, "feeling like my skin was going to split open and peel off." It is a common theme among parents that the absence of their child is felt throughout their body as well as in their hearts. And the pendulum swing to numbness isn't actually any better, though it is less painful: being absent from those you love and who would reach out to you brings feelings of guilt and despair. You would like to be comforted, but all the attempts do is highlight what you have lost. The natural result is to push away the out-reaching hand, which then leads to more loneliness and guilt. It is a death-spiral of emotions.

A commenter on a friend's blog mentioned a friend who had lost a child and that 5 years later, he was still in the fog. That fog is the result of emotional overload, combined with a complete loss of life direction. When you lose a child, all the things you had planned, consciously and not, are blown up. And it is not clear at first, and maybe not for a long time, just how deeply committed you were to the direction you thought your life was going. I re-wrote some of the lines from "American Pie" in the months following Alysia's death:

"And the three things we had hoped to see,

College, a marriage and a grand-baby

We realized were not to be,

the day Alysia died."

Not Grammy material, I grant you, but an indicator of the direction we had planned. Would we have been willing for her to change? Of course. But that doesn't change the reality that we HAD the plans, and our lives were thrown into turmoil and we felt ungrounded, adrift. That feeling is a big part of the fog, because you suddenly don't know what to count on. Never mind that it was all made up in the first place, it was a plan. And we do have plans for our kids, don't we? Even if we are enlightened enough as parents to say to them, "Find your passion", we still think we know what's best or at least what will work well for them. And by extension, that means for ourselves as well. Their lives help define ours, and when they leave, we are left rudderless for a time, longer or shorter. Recently, I was looking at our granny unit, (we call it the cottage) which is where Alysia and Sean had stayed when they came home. We redid it last year, took it down to the studs and rebuilt it, and it is beautiful. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that the kids would never stay there, and the grief burst over me: who was I doing this for, now? Why should I bother? And it took quite a while before I could think that maybe I could do it for myself. That's how deep it runs.

When parents don't speak about this, when they don't acknowledge with each other the degree to which they feel that they have lost their purpose, they drift apart. It seems to me to be why so many marriages break up following the loss of a child: the parents don't realize that they need to reaffirm their commitment to each other and to the family direction, and so they head off in different directions. This is exacerbated by the differing grieving styles that men and women often have: men moving outside, and women going within. As usual, Frost was there first, in the poem "Home Burial", where the wife berates the husband for cleaning the shovel he has just used to bury their child, and he in turn chides her for not facing life going forward. He thinks he's just doing his duty and then going on, and she understands that the ship has hit an iceberg and needs the captains to direct the action. But he just sees it as more talking, because it hits deeply into his view of himself as the leader, the patriarch, for his family to be directionless.

Most of the books we read about dealing with the loss of a child focus on the distinct style difference in grieving between men and women. But from a spiritual perspective, men and women are the same, and the soul cries the same way regardless of the body it is attached to. Focusing on our spiritual selves, meant that we could leave the notion of "What are we going to DO?" out of the conversation, as the answer for us is something to the effect that we are not directed to a single end point, we are here to work on ourselves in whatever way presents itself. And if that way is to learn about grief, then so be it. It is true that 5 minutes later, we wept again and were bereft and distraught and caught up in the crap, but those few minutes gave us common ground to work with, and so we never were seriously in danger of splitting the family. There were, however, some windows and a camera that bore the brunt of our grief, and still now, more than 2 years later, I can be caught by an upwelling of emotion that can really flare into anger and lashing out at the physical world.

Another thing that our practice has given us is ownership of our own feelings. When one of us was really in the pits, the other doesn't try to jolly them out, or make them wrong, or any of the other ways of not dealing with our own pain that we know. When we are sad, we're sad. Happy, happy. No explanation needed nor asked for, and so no defensiveness and no separation. But it took vast amounts of energy to make this work, energy that we had precious little of. I now know why that during the first weeks, while other members of my family and friends tried to comfort us, we could not accept their help. Never mind that it was in fact a way for them to ask us to help them as well, we could neither accept help nor give anything to them, and I know we hurt some people tremendously. People do not know how to deal with their own deep emotions, let alone anyone else's, unless they have examined their own issues around death and dying, and we were no different except that we knew we could not spend any energy helping other folks to deal with their issues around my daughter's death, having gone through it with our older son not 3 years before. My sister asked my why we couldn't get together to commiserate, and I pointed out that the word means "to be miserable together", which I couldn't do. Her misery, coming from both her love for my daughter and for me and my family, as well as her guilt around Alysia, was too much for me to deal with. There were other friends and family that Joy and I also had to push them away, as their expectation was that we would all grieve together and that we would help them heal. But Joy and I couldn't spare the few clear moments for anyone but our younger daughter and our son, and ourselves. It was very selfish, and, I believe, totally appropriate.

But, as I am fond of saying, we have freedom of choice, not freedom from consequences. And so we find ourselves without some of the friends we used to be close to, a collateral damage that none of us could have foreseen. And that is another layer of sadness. I hope that we can recover together, though I know that there is no stepping twice into the same river.

Happy Belated Birthday, Sean

(I first met Sean when he was 17. It was not an auspicious meeting: he was in Juvenile Hall, where he had been for a large part of the previous 4 years, and I was newly involved with his mother. I had worked with homeless kids at one point, and arrogantly felt that I would be able to relate to him right from the get-go. When we met, I believed I had met a younger version of myself, and it was many years before I understood that this was his version of Steve Jobs' "Reality Distortion Field": an ability to make people think he and you connected and that therefore he was receptive to your advice. In reality, that didn't happen until much, much later in our relationship. He would have been 43 in May. Alysia, my daughter, was his oldest daughter, whom we adopted.
(I put this in drafts back in May and didn't publish it for some reason, but yesterday was the 5th anniversary of his death, and I want him to know how I felt.)

 Hey Sean, it's Yogi. Man, I hope you're doing OK, wherever you are and what ever you're doing. We got some bad news today: Jamie Rodriquez passed yesterday or today. Sucks big time, I know. You and he were so close and he really never got over your death, even though a lot of people tried to help. Kind of like Alysia, but more out front, I think. She really took it hard that you two didn't reconcile: she kept waiting for you to reach out to her, and I couldn't help her see that you really couldn't do it, but that if she would, you would meet her. But your sense of manhood wouldn't let that happen and that's too bad too. Anyway, the better news is that the family is doing pretty well. We miss you, of course, especially your Mom and Michael. He's growing up to be a good man, even though he's still got some ways to go to get out of the holes he's dug for himself. But mostly he's just getting by, he's got a girlfriend and we're helping when we can and when it's appropriate. Mom is still pretty broken up about your and Alysia's deaths. So close together just whacked her hard, and it still creeps up on her pretty often. We wonder what would have happened if you were still here, and of course she has her "If only"s and "Why did I?"s, like you'd expect, and just like I do. I don't think we know the real story of your death, and I doubt we ever will. I don't entirely believe the trial testimony: there are holes in the narrative, and some explanations missing. But that's done now, and we have now to deal with, right? You always did live for the moment, and for the people around you, even if it did piss off your parents, the courts and anyone else. You were always your own person. Alysia saw that in you, and tried to emulate it sometimes. You both has such big hearts. And such little care for consequences! I try not to be too angry with the two of you, but sometimes it just guts me that you both could risk everything without any qualms, or considerations of what might result. And boy, did we all pay for that.
Anyway, your girls are fine, I believe. We talked to the oldest, H, a few times in the last year. She wants to go to private culinary school and then open a B&B, at 18. We're trying to work with her, but she wants what she wants, and won't hear that there might be another way. Sound familiar? Your ex is still just as she has always been, so we don't speak. Maybe one day she'll figure things out, apologize and try to make amends, but I won't hold my breath. We are going to help H with college, and the others as well when they get older. We're up in Sacramento, tomorrow we're going to pick up a new puppy for Aliana and then drive home. We had dinner with K and a friend of hers and another friend of Mom's, and now we're back at the hotel, getting ready to hit the sack. But I wanted to wish you a happy birthday before I went to bed, so here it is. I love you, son. I hope you've always known that. Your other step-dad, Yogi

Out of the Mouths of Children, part 3

"Mom, would it be weird if I described myself as "kinky"?"
"Umm, yeah, a little bit. (hack cough choke) Why, honey?"
"Well, one of the teachers asked me what the problem was with my leg, and I said nothing much, but that I was a little kinky. And she got this really funny look on her face!"
"Uh, did you mean you had a kink in your leg?"
"Uh, huh. Isn't that what I said?"

Too much fun.

Thanks

I've been thinking about what I wrote the other day, the birthday letter to Alysia and the Unfinished Story. I spoke from my heart in both of those pieces, but they are only one side of my life. I feel, and have felt for many years, that I am among the most blessed of men, fathers and husbands. I did nothing exceptional that I know of to deserve this bounty, both material and not, but it follows me like an interested puppy.

Even after losing the kids, both my Love and I feel that we are luckier than we have any right to be. Financially stable, relationshiply stable, 2 loving kids, grandkids, family and friends, we are unbelievably grateful for the life we have. A lot goes on, weirdnesses abound, people are people even (and maybe especially) when you're related to them, but we sail on. I can work up some serious complaints from time to time, but they are really just mostly noise, with a good helping of butthurt.

So I want to take this father's day to thank my kids, my wife, my parents, my family and my friends. I have the life I have in part because of each of you. I learn and grow because of you. (Yes, even you, you lurker. Call me, we'll have coffee.) Yes, I get arrogant. Yes, I can be unbearable. But even at my worst, I do remember that I love you, and sometimes even like you, and that keeps me from becoming SO totally insufferable that you never speak to me again. (Which would be a shame: I have so much to tell you! :-))

So, to my kids, I thank you for trusting me to advise you and sometimes even guide you. More to the left, dammit! The other left!

To my beloved, thank you for putting up with my noise and nonsense, and for believing even more than I do that on this funny path we tread, it is better together.

To my parents, all 3 of you, thank you for demonstrating how not to. Seriously, parenting wasn't any of your strong suits. But your love always came through and now I know how difficult a difficult child can be, and I have lost my illusions that I was anything but a really tough kid to raise. I like to think I was worth it though, and since you're all gone, I get to keep my illusions opinions.

Brothers and sisters, thank you for being endlessly entertaining especially when that wasn't your intention. Thank you for reaching out to us when we were drowning. You have no idea how important you were and still are to us both.

Friends, both online and in person, thank you for being there. Sometimes I feel like I need to reach out to someone I'm not completely involved with, just because it is so much less drama. And the comments and letters mean a lot. Santa Monica girls, you are the awesome sauce of my life.

A special thank you from the bottom of my heart to my Other Daughter. Alysia's love shines through you to us, and I cannot think of what it would have been like to live these last 2 years without you and your strength. You lost your whole future in that moment, and have recovered while reaching out to help us. I cannot thank you enough. Know that I love you dearly.

What's next? We're heading off to NY, to the Adirondacks for few weeks. I have some thoughts about grief and grieving and about relationships I'd like to get down. We'll see what I can get to, between waterskiing, fishing, cooking, boating, jigsaw puzzles, Mexican Train, and assorted lazing around. (Quit bragging, Yogi.)

 

 

An Unfinished Story

Once there was a man, a child, born into a nice family, with nice people who, like people in many nice families, didn't always behave nicely. But things were pretty good until the young man's father died. All his mother would say was, "He was sick."

The man, being then as now a romantic to the core, decided that he would be the "man of the family" and although he was only 7, he set out to do this. But the other members of the family weren't so sure about having a little boy (as they called him, not unfairly) run the show. So they made fun of him, not un-nicely, and ignored him when he tried to run things. This made him mad, especially when he could see that he was right and they were wrong.

The mother, who was pretty as well as well-off, found herself wanting to get away from the confines of her home in the country-side and moved the family to the big city, where her head was turned by many suitors, but none so much as the young Italian man who looked at her as if she was the moon, sun and stars, and talked wildly of Art, and Passion, and Love. They were married, and the young man, who very much liked his new "father", sang at their wedding.

Alas, the Grand Love of the Mother and new Father burnt brightly but short and in only a few years, the young man's family was once again broken. The parents fought and made up, over and again for many years, until eventually they became great friends. The not-so-young man was grateful for this, as he loved them both, even as he thought them completely insane.

The not-so-young man grew into a man, and found Love for himself. Interestingly, his Love came with two children, both teens. And the man felt his love grow to encompass the two young men, as well as a grandchild that he and his Love adopted as their own, and eventually another adopted child. And through all the trials and tribulations of raising a family, he read a singular book to the children, younger and older alike. To his first adopted daughter, he would say, "I love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living my baby you'll be." And then he would say, "No matter what. Period. End of story." And she would hug him and then do the most annoying things a child or a young girl could possibly do.

Now, sometimes the man wasn't nice, but mostly he was, and he would always tell her and himself, "I'll love you forever..." even when the words stuck in his craw after some particularly egregious behavior. Because he was and is a romantic to the bone, and he wanted his daughter to be able to boast that HER dad loved her in spite of her behavior. Which he did and so did she.

So, the man read the story to all his children, and promised them to love them forever. And he did, even when the oldest boy was sent to jail, even when his heart felt torn between wanting to hug the children or beat them, even when the eldest daughter said unspeakable things and wreaked havoc on the family. Eventually things got better, and wounds healed and the father and the daughter and the son and the Parents all were very happy and nice and sometimes thoughtful and sometimes crazy but things were better for a year.

One freaking year. If you'll excuse the plagiarism, 525,600 minutes, more or less, maybe 16 months total. And on New Year's Eve, the man and his Love got the phone call no parent ever wants to hear. And they buried the older son, and the Love's light dimmed, like a sun behind a cloud. And the man tried to understand and be a loving father and partner and care for the rest of the family, in particular the eldest daughter who was the child of the oldest son, who he and his Love had adopted, who had wanted to reconcile with her biological father, but hadn't quite. And after two years, his Love's light began to brighten once more and he basked again in the warmth.

As his Love's light shone again, his relationships with his surviving children did too. His son, eldest daughter and younger daughter all loved and cared for each other, and help each other through more trials, but few tribulations. And the eldest daughter found a deep love and the son adopted a half-brother of the eldest daughter (are you keeping track? There will be a quiz soon) and the man and his Love were very happy. And the Parents were there for some birthdays, and sent cards for others and in general all was good.

As the eldest daughter's partner was graduating, a party was held and the daughter and her partner went to the party and beautiful pictures were taken and sent and the man saw his daughter's picture from 5 minutes before the party, and the daughter promised to call when it was over. But many drinks were had, too many, and harsh words were exchanged and feelings were hurt, and eventually eldest daughter was tucked back into her bed by friends of the partner.

But the hurt had struck the eldest daughter deep, and she feared losing her beloved partner, and so she found her car and drove to find her partner and she lost control and the man and his wife were woken at 3 AM by the sheriff's deputy and the nightmare began again.

And this time the man understood deep in his bones what he had not understood before: that the loss of a child who you have nurtured is like tearing the skin from your heart.

And at the memorial, he said to his daughter, "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." And he wept.

And the Parents saw the man's anguish and came to his side and tried to comfort him and generally acted better than they ever had, and the man found comfort in his deeper relationships with the Parents. And some wounds were healed and fences mended and the Parents and the man and his Love and their son and daughter pressed on, though more trials  and tribulations lay ahead.

And even when the Parents died and more family, and things were just the shits, the man and his Love said to their children (and to each other), "I'll love you forever..." even though sometimes they couldn't say the words aloud.

And the story ends (or doesn't, really) here. But when my Love or my children read this, they will know:

"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living, my babies you'll be."

Because I"m still the romantic who said, when he was just seven years old, "I'll take care of you. Don't worry." And I still mean it.

Happy 23rd Birthday, Alysia

I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always, as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.

Happy Birthday, Alysia

On the occasion of Alysia's 2nd Memorial Lunch

Gabrielle Bouliane:

"When you hear that I have died, think of this.

"Think of cool nights breezes while you walk to meet your friends for a beer on a Thursday. Think of waking up in flannel sheets on a snowy morning and kissing someone you love. Think of hung-over diner breakfasts and the best cup of coffee in the world. Think of the sound of tires on seamed highways while you travel, think of French kissing and leather jackets and push-up bras and bourbon, think of the joy of hard work with friends. Then think of me.

"Not sad, not the melancholy solitude of empty skies, but the full days and crowded bars and signed contracts, a smile too big for my face, remember I said I stay busy enough to fit three lives into one. When you hear that I have died, know that I want laughter, and dancing, real dancing, to music that makes you move with out thinking, you’re wearing boots and jeans and a great t-shirt and wondering if the girl at the edge thinks you’re cute. And you motherfuckers had best DANCE, none of this bull­shit rock-nod hands-in-the-pockets shoegazer nonsense. No, make an ass out of yourself, feel your hips, kick off the high heels and sway on the shoulder of a stranger. When I die, you’d better be laughing your ass off on sidewalks, eating deliciously unhealthy food, drinking shots and tipping your bartender well no matter how much money you make.

"When you hear that I have died, the best thing you can do is to get laid that night with a comfortable stranger, use my story to get their sympathy, and when you kiss them for the first time, think of me then.

"When you hear that I have died, and you will, remember your best revenge is to live well, take risks, save up money and chase your perfect happiness. Beat the system and learn to make your art really support you, craft into something your audience can’t live without. Then make the world an even slightly better place ― stop throwing your cigarettes on the ground, vote in the next election, graffiti your life on the eyes of the hungry.

"Then just do me one last favor. Please. Love some thing. Anything. Start with your self, but find passion in everything, from an apple pie to a novel, make a family, get a degree, walk what ever path is yours with your chin up and feet planted firmly. Have the best stories to tell in the old folk’s home, about life long friendships and epic love affairs, about the time you lost every thing and yet found yourself happier than when you began.. and remember that time we got in SO much trouble...

"Poets, remember: This is the story that never ends. When one of us leaves, another walks through the door. The pages turn, the sun keeps rising. All you can do in the meanwhile...is to speak for yourself. Raise your voice high, tell your story, join hands against the dark and sing our souls to the sky. Know the best in me comes from the best in you, that as you tell your story, you will be telling mine, and our lives will be linked together for ever, and every one who hears you will become a part of the change we make.

"So when you hear that I have died...
just …live."