The Cruel Mistress

I met her at a drive-in.  I was drawn into her within moments.  I couldn’t look away.  She had this ability to amaze me, excite me and humble me all at the same time.  I was enraptured by her beauty.  Her ability to be both complex and minimal at the same time.  She was exactly what I needed at that time in my life.

We met a few times in downtown Seattle.  The relationship blossomed and grew and then, after over a year, she left.

I had a few mementos. A few trappings of the relationship stored away in a box.  She still inspired me.  She still excited me…but she was gone.

A few years went by and she returned.  I didn’t know what to think at first.  This time the encounter was different.  It was better.  Somehow in the intervening years she had found a depth and purpose that she didn’t have before.  What was once both exhilarating and simple and basic had given away to outstanding complexity.  There was more here than there was before.  Much MUCH more.  After our encounters I was left spent, wondering, reaching.  There were far more questions than answers, but that was okay.  It was as if the longing for more completeness was even better than being complete.  Our relationship had grown up – WE had grown up.  I loved her even more now.  How could I not?

But then she left…again.

Once more I resorted to what was remaining of the relationship.  The excitement that had grown in this second encounter gave way to yes, a more complex relationship, but I had grown up now.  And so had she.  There was no going back to the way it was before.

Until she walked through the door.

This time the anticipation for what was coming next was so great and so magical and so within my grasp – OUR grasp – that I should have known she would let me down.

Alas, this third encounter so many years beyond the second and first, left me feeling hollow inside.  It wasn’t that there wasn’t a spark remaining, there was!  So much of what was there in our first encounter was repeated in this third encounter.  But where was the depth?  The nuance?  The longing questions that had so enhanced our second go-round?  She had cast them aside for easy opportunities.

I wanted so much to love her again, to be with her again, like it was.  But I felt I had grown up and she had regressed.  Maybe that’s just the way of the world, choices are made – some good and some bad – and then you look back on it and see that maybe we weren’t good for each other after all.

Time moves on, people move on, life moves on…and so did I.

Years passed.  I talked about this love, this craving, this excitement.  I talked about how inspired I was by her and what she showed me and taught me.  I talked about how she let me down or maybe I expected too much from her.  Or maybe I expected too much from myself.

The word within the sentence within the paragraph within the chapter within the book was now closed.  Done.

Then she returned again.

Oh how I did not want to return to this, but the memory of so much good would not let me get away.  She had me.  Wrapped around her fingers she had me.  I couldn’t let go.  I had to see her!  I HAD to be with her!  All logic told me to stay away.  All logic said it couldn’t be like it was, it wouldn’t be like it was.  All logic implored me to back slowly away and just live in the past and enjoy what was so long ago.  Rummage through my box of mementos, remembering the good times.

I returned to her.

This time I didn’t know what to make of her.  She had completely changed.  Though there were some moments of excitement and glimmers of what was so long ago, the majority of our encounter was me just shaking my head wondering why I had bought into her again.  This was so little like it was before.  No challenge.  No depth.  No questions longing for answers.  She was just there.

I pushed away, I pulled away.  I was hurt more than anything.  How could this relationship so exciting in the beginning turn into something so cold and calculating and rote?  The passion had turned into complacency.  The love had run out and all that was left was the shell of memories and even those didn’t make sense anymore.

And then she left and returned again.  Every time I would vow to not participate in this relationship, even after the last encounter had left me so wanting and reaching and sad.  But like a bad addictive drug, she and I met again.

And, again, I was let down.  It was even worse now.  These encounters were now just…painful.  And the pain was tearing at the fabric of the good memories.  These new encounters were undercutting everything that had come before.  Not only could these new encounters not stand on their own, they were ripping out the supports from the other lasting encounters. 

Was I really that foolish so long ago?  Was that encounter at the drive-in when she swept me off my feet just nothing now?  NO!  I refused to discount how this relationship started and what she meant to me so long ago – even if now she was just a shell of herself.

When she left this time, I was done.  DONE!  Too much had gone on, too much water under the bridge, it was over.  I was over.

Then she slipped back into town one last time.

I felt like there was some hope…again.  Like a hopeless romantic thinking he’s got one last shot at true love, I met up with her and there was nothing there.  Nothing left.  Still…moments.  Just enough to remind me of what was once but no longer exists.  Just too few and far between for this lover to cling to.  Like a fog that drifts away, she and I did.

Until today.

She’s back. 

Do I take a chance to rekindle what we had?  Do I open my heart up for love and excitement?  Will the passion return or will the hurt?  She’s changed, she says.  She’s different this time around, she says.  It’s all going to be better and wonderful and just like it was the first time I saw her, she says.

I’m sorry.  I just…can’t.  At least, not yet.

“Star Wars” – she can be a cruel mistress.

Angel on the Tree

I don’t know what year we bought her. We got married in August 1986 and I would assume we purchased her that Christmas season but the reddish/orange “Pay-and-Pak” (no longer exists) price tag makes me think we got her on a special half-price post-Christmas sale for the whopping price of $6.99 ($15 in today’s prices). Or, maybe, we got her for half that: $3.99 ($7.50 in today’s prices).

She’s pretty but not what I consider beautiful. As angels go, she’s a bit plain. Porcelain head and hands, her eyes are closed as if in prayer or she’s asleep. She lacks a halo. Her dress is cloth and flimsy, held up only by a plastic insert that used to contain Christmas lights. Christmas lights that blinked. We didn’t want a blinking angel as if signaling a turn at the next ornament. Once we couldn’t figure out how to stop her from blinking, or the lights finally died, we removed the lights.

She is unnamed.

Whether purchased in December 1986 or January 1987, she has been our angel tree-topper for nearly 30 years. Stored away in her original worn cardboard box. I fear – like Jessie from “Toy Story 2” that she panics in her box, surrounded by a myriad of other ornaments, in an even larger green and red Sterlite container. Waiting patiently for that moment when she gets freedom for a month. Freedom which equates to being skewered on the top of a fake tree.

Once Michelle and Nick were old enough, they would take turns putting the angel on the tree. This typically involved me holding them at some sort of awkward angle and leaning into the tree, hoping that we wouldn’t all come crashing down. This also included the cacophony of much laughter, “Don’t drop me!” screams of terror, “Hold still while I get a picture!,” “I’m losing my grip! Hurry up and take the picture!” “Careful of the tree!”…and then, after Angel awkwardly shoved onto a branch or two, a sigh of relief. All this while Bing Crosby happily croons in the background.

After the child is placed safely on the floor near the tree, we would then stare at the last ornament of the evening, tilt our heads back and forth to determine “straightness” and then I would reach up and tweak her position for best Christmas tree Feng shui. Sure, we might move an ornament or two or get one as a gift and place it on the tree. But, for all intents and purposes, the placing of the angel – as with many homes around this nation – signaled that the decorating of the tree was done. Now was the time for cookies, hot cocoa and hot apple cider and reveling at what was now finished.

Nick, not needing a stool or his father's help from 2013.

As the years sped by, the children took turns putting the angel on the tree. Whoever didn’t get to put the angel on the tree got to put baby Jesus in the Fontanini manger. Every year the same question was asked: “Who put the angel on the tree?” At which point scrapbooks would be opened or the photos from the previous Christmas would be found and looked at to determine proper angel placement.

Then, as the children continued to grow, holding the child would become more awkward (but still hilarious). Maybe a step stool would be involved. But as the tradition continued, a photo would be taken, baby Jesus manger person would be determined and the Christmas season would move forward to the next tradition.

Even last year our soon-to-be daughter-in-law Karin got the distinct honor of placing the nearly 30 year old $6.99 Pay-and-Pak sleeping angel on the tree. And I think Michelle’s friend, Michelle, got to put baby Jesus in the manger (I’ll have to check the photos for evidence).

 Karin doing the honors Christmas 2014

Michelle Wang placing baby Jesus - from 2011?

This year, though, the kids are out of the house. They’ve moved on beyond the world of awkward angel tree topping to their own lives. They want to buy their own trees and decorate their own houses and celebrate in their own ways and make their own traditions…and more power to them. That still doesn’t mean I don’t miss nearly throwing my back out shoving a kid at a plastic Martha Stewart pre-lit tree.

Michelle came over this year and placed the angel on the tree (via step stool).

In a world where the pressure is to “buy more memories” and spend the almighty dollar, who knew that something so inexpensive would become so valuable when you add layers of tradition, memories and love upon it?

At some point Miriam and I will leave this mortal coil and my children will have to root through and discard our things. Hopefully the unnamed angel, in all her basic glory, will find a home.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Solid State Transistor Radio

It was called a “Spy Pen Radio” and it was tucked in the back pages of my comic books.  Along with “X-Ray Specs” (invented by a known Neo-Nazi) and other cool things.  Like hovering cars and sea-monkeys and other things that fed the imagination of eight year-old boys.  Items that were either “pranks” or innovative creations that somehow never made it big to the masses and had to be sold to children not old enough yet to drive or have a checking account.

Meh...never worked....

I don’t know how I got my hands on my “Spy Radio Pen” but it must have been a mix of cajoling, begging, saving my birthday or Christmas money or doing “odd jobs” around the house (shining my step-father’s shoes was usually good for a couple bucks).  And saving money wasn’t really my forte.  What with pinball machines at the local bowling alley (no longer exists) reaching out their glowing images of large breasted women and the tantalizing sound of bells and dings and, if you’re lucky, the KNOCK! of a winning game.

Oh....man.  So much cool stuff.

There were many a pull to my purse strings, candy from the “Vita-Del” Market just down the street (don’t know if it still exists), French fries from a place called “Mustards Last Stand” (no longer exists) or catching a matinee at the Bay movie theater (still exists).

So how I got my hands on that “Spy Radio Pen” is still murky in the recesses of my mind.  But got it, I did.

Never bought this.  Should have.

When it arrived it was quite large for a “pen” and I don’t think it had ink it.  So pen as in shape but not pen as in reality.

Pulling out the white (or off-white and soon to be yellowed with ear wax) ear-phone, I shoved it in my ear and tried to tune it to get a radio station.  Alas, the few moments of pulling in the signal didn’t amount to anything of note.  Maybe static, if that.

Actually, had some of these.  Not very trainable.

Reading the instructions I figured out that I needed an antenna.  Just like James Bond might pull an antenna from his watch or eye glasses or cuff-links, this “Spy Radio Pen” needed that extra boost to bring down the bad guys.

A pen.  Kinda.

My “antenna” was a metal wire that dangled from the pen like silver thread.  Silver “save the world from the bad guys” thread.  (Plus, it didn't need batteries.  I mean, if you're saving the world, you can't stop and get batteries, amIright?)

Trying it out on various objects around the house, I finally headed outside and found a faucet spigot attached to the house.  I held the wire to the rusted metal as best as any spy could and turned the tuning knob.  Faintly the sounds of the world came into being and it worked.  Toys, and even Spy Radio Pens, at this point in a child’s life had very little shelf life.  Seemed they would be new and broken within hours.  Or, most likely, they didn’t live up to the hype (I’m looking at YOU “X-Ray Specs!”).  To actually buy a Spy Radio Pen and to actually have it WORK is, trust me, a miracle for anything bought out of a page in a comic book.  Even if, by being a spy, I had to nonchalantly attach a wire to a spigot.

This opened the world of radio-ness.  Soon after the Spy Pen Radio we moved on to the “crystal” radio.  Heck, if you could have a pen be a radio, than what would be better but a CRYSTAL be a radio.  Plus, I guess, it would teach me something about science or something.

Yes, I had this.  Made by "Science Fair" so you know it's gotta be full of science.

Crystal radio kits were basic contraptions that took very little putting together and entailed a couple wires, diodes, and the “soon to be yellowed with ear wax” off-white ear phone.  Tuning be damned!  Volume be damned!  This was SCIENCE I’m talking about here.  Good ol’ fashioned “hey, Billy, let’s make something out of small rocks!” science.  In short time I had gone from master spy to master scientist.  If I wasn’t going to save the world with my tethered spy radio pen, I was going to take over the world with my mastery of crystals.  BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Eventually I grew up and learned that with a 9-volt battery and $5 I could buy a radio that actually had a tuner, a volume control and a bunch of stations on something called “AM.”  What AM stood for, I’m sure I knew at some point, but I’m avoiding Wikipedia at this moment to try and appear smart because, seriously, I have no idea what AM meant.  Frequency something?  And then, if you wanted to spend another $5 or so, you could get FM radio (I have no idea what FM means).  $10 more and you could get STEREO but that entailed a bigger radio and two speakers and possibly going from one 9-volt to four AA batteries and that’s going to take quite a bit out of one’s candy/movie/pinball budget.

Basic AM/FM Radio

(My ten year-old fascination with walkie-talkies was short lived and best left to another blog.)

AM Radio in the Seattle market in the 1970’s basically had one station:  KJR.  And I listened to it constantly.  There may have been other stations:  KIRO, KING, ??? but I didn’t know it or didn’t listen to it.  KJR was the thing.  And somewhere I learned that stations EAST of the Mississippi were named with “W”s while stations WEST of the Mississippi were named with “K”s.

Radio and yellow-stained ear phone in hand, many a day was spent dancing and playing and listening to the hits of the day or, on the weekend, “American Top 40!” with Casey Kasem.

Trust me, this was a thing.

Once FM hit, it didn’t entice me.  AM and KJR were still my best buds.  Older kids listened to FM.  I’m sure my brother did.  And then came the rumor that there was a radio with “short wave.”  I didn’t truly knew what that meant, but that sounded decadent.  It’s SHORT and it’s WAVE.  It had to be diabolically cool because, as I soon learned, you could pick up radio stations from AROUND THE WORLD!  Be still my heart!  You mean me, in a suburb of Seattle could pull in the world of Japan, my birthplace?  Or Russia, our dreaded cold war enemy.  Or other?  What about outer space?  I’m certain that, if I had a radio with short wave, I’d hear aliens planning their attack on us.  Just me.  I would hear it and go screaming down Market Street yelling about the coming invasion like the boy who cried wolf.  No one would pay attention to me (“Why should we pay attention to him, he doesn’t even know what AM stands for!”) and then it would be…too…late.

With Short Wave and, be still my heart, TV!  Who doesn't want to listen to the TV on a radio? 

I don’t think I ever had a short wave radio when I was a child.  Best to leave that mix of imagination and technology to someone with less of a paranoid version of aliens attacking at any moment.  Let some other kid freak out.

Beyond the short wave was the HAM radio which, not only let you listen to radio stations from around the world but to actually COMMUNICATE with people from around the world.  That was just too much for this boy to handle in his basement room, his Radio Shack AM radio tuned to KJR.  (Note, I would occasionally turn away from KJR to listen to the Dr. Demento show – but my brother knew where to find him and what station he was on.  Also, my brother liked to listen to 1940’s music.  He was such a square.)

Dr. Demento - Kind of the equivalent of the American Top 40, but it was 10 or 20 songs and they were silly.

After moving away from Ballard and the shifting interest from AM Radio to things like girls and sports and school and girls the importance of radio technology slipped into a realm of forgotteness.  It wasn’t like it WASN’T there.  It’s just that it became commonplace.  KJR was replaced by KZOK or KISW hard rock stations on (GASP!) FM or I was busy joining up with Columbia House to get 12 Tapes for $1 and listening to music via tape or record instead of pre-packaged top 40 hits.

Bottom line, radios weren’t special anymore. Spy Pen, Crystal, Short Wave, Ham or whatever.  Oh, sure, they were THERE – some even in a form called “boom box” and I still listened but the novelty had worn off like ink in a comic book.

Box, thy name is "boom."

As of this writing, I have one radio that would qualify for the above.  It’s a Sony battery powered radio with plug-in AC adapter.  AM and FM.  Quite large, but not stereo.  With an antenna that you pull out of the top and twist around to get the best reception.  (most of my old radios I would break the antenna off by accident within hours of taking it out of the package)

I use this radio when we go camping or when I’m outside and want to listen to a sporting event.  No music.  No KJR, KISW, KZOK.  Listening to radio music is left to the vehicles in the family.

A larger crystal radio set with, presumably, more science.

Recently we had a wind storm that knocked out power for over 24 hours.  I got out the trusty radio to get updates on what was going on with the power recovery and other news.  We soon found out that mother didn’t have a battery powered AM/FM radio.  What?

With my mother’s birthday coming up, Miriam and I decided we’d get her a battery powered AM/FM radio.  She’s 82 and should have SOME access to what is going on in the outside world.

A trip to the local hardware store?  Nope.  Sporting Goods store?  Nope.  Radio Shack?  Nope (it had closed down).  Big Lots?  Nope.  Grocery Outlet?  Nope.  I finally found one at a Rite Aid drug store but it was $40 and way too big for what she needed.

Certainly we could go online to Amazon or order one from a catalog (which we eventually did), but there was something about the lack of finding a cheap AM/FM (heck, I would have been okay with just AM) battery powered radio that just seemed, I don’t know, wrong.  As if part of my childhood had disappeared into a world of portable MP3 players and cellphones and DVRs and blu-ray players and I didn’t notice.  And I find that kind of sad.

Long live small portable battery powered AM radios – even if I still have no idea what AM (or FM for that matter) actually means.

For a moment...contentment.

Once again I’m going to write about death.  If there is a subtext to what I’m actually writing about, it’s contentment, but I have to phrase it around the concept of death.  Or the reality of death.  Still, I don’t know how to write about it and what I want to say without this all sounding like a suicide note – which it’s not.  If I haven’t lost you already, hopefully you’ll continue reading.

Saturday afternoon I was content to die.  What I meant is that, standing in my back yard in mid 80 degree weather, warm breezes, blue tarps drying on the brown dead grass behind me, garden freshly watered and a few more hours of work ahead of me unpacking my camping stuff – I had a clairvoyant moment of contentment.  Looking at the trees in the distance I thought:  “If I died now, I’d be happy with what I’ve accomplished.”

Why this sudden moment of death contentment?  Well, part of it is that “Rowdy” Roddy Piper – a larger than life character from my wrestling soap opera had recently died in his sleep of a heart attack.  Isn’t that how we all want to go?  (Hopefully they won’t find tons of cocaine or meth in his system or gigs of child porn on his computer.)  He was only 61 – eleven years older than me.  When I was a kid he seemed so much OLDER so much more of an icon so much more beyond my age and here he was just 11 years older.  That seems so close – percentage-wise – and we all grow closer in age percentage-wise as we continue to grow older.  Case in point:  When my daughter was born I was 24 times her age – now she’s over half my age.  Where did the time go?

"Rowdy" Roddy Piper

The other reason for this moment was that I was on the other side of our family camping trip.  Everyone was there:  Friends and family.  My mother – pushing 82.  My son and his new wife – seven months into their marriage.  My daughter’s boyfriend who, I think, spent more time laughing than breathing.  When he wasn’t reading, he was either feeding animals or laughing.

As camping trips go, this was pretty spot on perfect.  Went swimming every day.  Had some great food.  Hiked.  Relaxed.  Laid in a hammock.  Stared at trees.  Oh, sure, there were the few bumps and bites but having my children there (who weren’t able to come last year) reinforced all the work and struggle it took to get them to the places in life they are now.

Lake Wenatchee

And now, at that moment, 36 hours from going back to work, and four hours after shoving the last pillow in the crevices in the car – I was content.

Sure, before I know it, I’ll be back to the grind.  Back to the work-a-day world, paying bills, dealing with calendars and schedules.  Writing scripts and half-assed blogs.  Figuring out problems, giving the cat her medicine, deciding what we should have for dinner (pizza) and wrestling with a DVR.

But for a moment I was content.  I didn’t need the Oscar for best screenplay.  I didn’t need the millions from a successful screenwriting career.  I didn’t need the fame of being a writer/producer/director.  I didn’t need to be someone I’m not.  I didn’t need to hide behind a façade of stupid jokes and lame comments.  I didn’t need to be a father, husband, co-worker, friend – I was already contentedly those things.  For those fleeting moments I was just me in my purest simplest form and if I would happen to be struck down at that moment?  I could live with that.

I am me.

(me)

I know this may come as a shock to you, but I am not a woman.  I’m also not black.  I’m not a scientist.  I’m not a Nobel Prize winner.  I wasn’t raised in the South.  I’m not a Fundamentalist Christian.  I’m not a millionaire.  I’m not an overweight girl.  I’m not a jock.  I don’t suffer from PTSD, depression, attention deficit disorder, paranoia.  I’m not a gun owner.  I’ve never been abused sexually or physically.  I’m not an A student.  I never graduated from college.  I’ve never broken a bone.  I’ve never jumped out of an airplane.  I’ve never been shot at.  I’m not a soldier.  I’m not a cop.  I’m not homeless.  I’m not gay.  I don’t have AIDS.  I’ve never had cancer.  I’m not unwed and pregnant.  I’m not poor.  I’m not displaced.  I’m not an immigrant.

Now that we’re clear of what I’m not, here’s what I am (as of July 10, 2015):  50 year old white male, slightly overweight, bald, Christian, born in Japan, grew up in Pasadena, Ballard and Mountlake Terrace.  Married 28 years (29 this August).  Father of two adult children.  Knowledgeable about film and screenwriting.  Film maker.  Producer.  Writer.  Teacher.  Have worked in some capacity since I was 12.  Grew up in a single family household until I was seven.  Didn’t get along great with my step-father.  Got kicked out of the house when I was 18.  I’m acquainted with death.  I’ve had amazing joys and deep sadness. I’ve been in love more than once.  I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve been on the stage as a performer.  I’ve made people happy and I’ve made people sad (usually the same people).  I am me.

Now that Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner has figured out who he (she) is, there are going to be a lot of people out there who are going to slice and dice and analyze.  There are going to be a lot of people out there with opinions.  There are going to be “experts” who are going to try and figure it all out.  But no one is Caitlyn Jenner.  No one knows what she’s gone through or going through.  No one truly knows her story but her.  But that’s not going to stop people from making judgments and assumptions and rationalizations.  It’s in our human nature.

Caitlyn Jenner

Just like no one knows what Trayvon Martin was going through the night he was shot.  Or what it’s like to be a cop on a beat figuring out who has a gun or not.  Or the young girl finding out she’s pregnant from a rape and wants to choose an abortion.  Many of us can’t speak from that perspective because we’ve never been in that situation.  We didn’t grow up black in the slums of Baltimore.  Nor did we grow up in the Hamptons never having to worry about a college education or working full time.  Many of us haven’t been treated differently because of our race or sex.  Many of us have.

Though many of us haven’t experienced things like racism or abortion or sexism or hatred or a lack of hope and a lack of future – many of us sure feel like we can speak about it.

A few months ago a friend of mine – a tenured college professor who has written books on race – had an editorial printed on Salon.com about how difficult it is for white people to talk about race and racism.  Scrolling through the comments to the article you get nuggets such as these:

“Congratulations!  You have now analyzed the psychology of why I refuse to admit that I am a racist and prejudiced supremacist bastard.  Wonderful.” – keeblerhrk

“American blacks are the most pampered and pondered culture on earth. Ive lived in several countries and by far the complex inconsistencies of what blacks accept as racism are most baffling. In a nutshell, "racism" is whatever they want it to be, when ever they want it to be.” – Johnny J

“Dr. Diangelo is missing a few things from his discussion. There is a difference between racism and prejudice. Not many people are actively racist but EVERYONE is actively prejudiced.” – Richard Ganton

“I'm tired of being blamed and lectured for every ill in a brown community because the color of my skin happens to be white.  Isn't that racism? To judge me and assume I'm bad because I have white skin? Please, keep your white guilt to yourself.” - gthrock

There are nearly 800 comments.  Feel free to read the article and the comments yourself:

http://www.salon.com/2015/04/10/white_americas_racial_illiteracy_why_our_national_conversation_is_poisoned_from_the_start_partner/

Of course what many of these commentators don’t take into account are the hours and hours of research that Dr. DiAngelo has done.  The many interviews.  The books she’s read and digested.  The conversations she’s had.  The hours upon hours of detailed work to come to the conclusions she’s come to.  They disregard her opinion as, just that, an opinion.  As if she tossed off this article like it was scrawled on a notepad during a bus ride to Hemp Fest.  She’s an EXPERT.  Maybe she has valid points.  Maybe she’s done a bit more research than you.  Maybe she can tell her story based on years of research and you can listen and you could learn something.  Maybe.

I see this more and more with our politicians and climate science.  Here you have a strong learned community that has spent countless hours looking over data and charts and researching patterns.  They’ve read books, written papers, and written books.  Challenged the status quo.  Changed the minds of their students or professors.  Have failed and have succeeded.  Done testing and more research.  Devoted years, nay, decades to their craft only to be dismissed by someone who says:  “I’m not a scientist but I don’t believe in this here ‘global warming.’  Look, I have a snowball in Washington D.C. in February.”

Of course these are the very same politicians who decry the global science community as “fear mongers” who will just as quickly encourage their constituents to get vaccines because, for some reason, that science is more real or more valid or (insert rationalization here).

Then as we see rioters in the street, pundits of all types and stripes who have never been homeless, never struggled with being poor, didn’t grow up black in the inner city quickly call them welfare moochers or thugs or worse.  They don’t know their story – but they’ll be quick to judge them like they know them and have walked a mile in their shoes.  And, most likely, they don’t WANT to know their story:

Here’s the deal:  I know my story – I don’t know YOUR story.  We can approximate things, certainly, but we will never ever ever truly know the person we’re looking at because we haven’t lived their life.  You want to know the opinion of a 50 year-old bald guy who, until age 7, grew up with a single mom and has gone on to teach screenwriting and work in the legal field?  I’m your man.  You want my opinion about inner-city racism and black-on-black crime – whatever opinion I have will be viewed through the prism of my middle class suburban lifestyle and my decidedly white Christian upbringing.  In other words – my opinion ain’t going to be worth much.

But is having an opinion on par with judging?  And what of fighting injustice?

I think that as a Christian, Christ calls us to fight injustice when we see it.  Help the homeless, challenge authority, question the righteous and, most of all, love our neighbor.  But how do we love our neighbor when we don’t get to know our neighbor?

There are 24 hours in a day.  1,440 minutes.  86,400 seconds.  How much of that time am I going to spend worrying about gay people marrying?  How much of my day am I going to think about transgender people using the bathroom?  How many precious seconds am I going to think about Bruce Jenner becoming Caitlyn Jenner?  I’m not.  I don’t care.  She is who she is and she knows what’s going on in her brain – not me.

Seriously...so few minutes in a day.

In the grand scheme of things – I try my best to listen so I can learn.  I try to ask questions that are relevant to what the person is talking about.  I try to table whatever agenda I might have to actively listen to the person in front of me.  There are people I know who are going to make choices I don’t understand.  There are people I know who are going to make choices I don’t agree with.  But they are them and I am me.

The next time you see a story about the next cop killing.  Or hear another argument for or against gay marriage.  When you question abortion.  As the television (or social media) creates villains out of the homeless or the illegal immigrant or the person whose faith is different from yours – maybe take a moment and look at who you are and where you came from and then put yourself in their shoes.  Try to understand who they are and where they came from and why they’re making the decisions that they are.  And then finally understand, no matter how hard you try, that you will never fully comprehend the life that person is going through – so maybe best to not judge and, instead, love.

Debby's Roadhouse - aka - Drift-On Inn

Years ago Miriam and I decided we wanted to go out dancing.

Having recently been to a “Black Angus” restaurant we saw that they had a dance floor and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights.  We got dressed up, we dropped the kids off with my mom and off we went to a world of twenty-somethings and techno crap music that you couldn’t dance to.  It made me feel both old and out-of-step.  We finally asked the DJ to play something by Elvis or Chuck Berry or SOMETHING that, you know, you could dance to.  Props to him, he did, but then went right back to playing techno crap that, I guess, was “Hip.”

Frustrated by our experience, but still wanting to go dancing, we went searching for another place to “shake our groove things.”

After mentioning this desire to a few friends the response came back with:  “You need to go to Debby’s Roadhouse.”  Just a couple miles away this was a club/restaurant/bar with a casino on the bottom floor.  It was also known as the “Drift-On Inn.”

Drift-On Inn aka Debby's Roadhouse

Heading over there on a Friday or Saturday night we found the place to be packed to the gills, smoke filled and somewhat enjoyable.  $3 cover charge, you had to show your ID when you entered, got stamped on the back of your hand and then made your way through the crowds.  Bar on the left side with pull tabs, booths on the right side (usually the first to fill up) and tables just on the fringes of the dance floor.  Typically these would be pushed back to allow more dancing room.

Done in a 50’s kitsch the place packed them in.  Though it was smoky we found it to be enjoyable.  First, the age range was all over the map from the early 20’s to the early 80’s.  Second, the music they played was from the 50’s to the present day and it was all danceable.  No techno crap music.  The dance floor was crowded and the overall experience was memorable.

How memorable?  Well – we soon found regulars.  Poindexter, a guy dressed up with bow tie (kind of like Eddie Deezen from "Grease") and Babyface, a young man who looked just this side of 21.  He could have been 40, but you couldn’t tell.  He was good looking but he always seemed to be nursing one beer.  Poindexter would ask any woman to dance (and most took him up on it) whereas Babyface wouldn’t ask anyone to dance – but we’d watch to see.  There was also the regular bartender and the regular DJ.

Eddie Deezen from "Grease"

Riding on the wave of popularity we’d show up and find bachelorette parties (with penis necklaces) in full swing.  Or they’d do some sort of promotion (best butt contest) and give away some cash.  This place was swingin’ and we were a part of it.

But then life interrupts and you’ve got to do things and you can’t always get a babysitter and life fills with tasks and plans and “got-to-get-to-bed-early” and we ended up not going to Debby’s for a while.

After the voters voted out cigarette smoking in doors we figured it was time to go hit the dance floor again.  At the very least we wouldn’t smell like cigarette smoke when we got home.  When we arrived it was, pretty much, the same – except for two things:  1. the crowd was decidedly smaller and 2. it was predominantly lesbians.  So, okay, Debby’s Roadhouse was now a lesbian bar.  Fine.

Then the ownership decided to build a new casino/restaurant/club right next door entitled “Club Hollywood” and it was going to be big and hip and new and fancy.

"Club Hollywood" - the bigger younger brother 

Still, Debby’s (aka Drift-On Inn) plugged along and life continued to interrupt and things continued to happen and it was another couple years before we decided to go out dancing again.  This time we found a casino 25 minutes away and enjoyed going dancing there except that because those casinos are part of the Native American Nation – they allow cigarette smoking.  Back again we were faced with a nice night out dancing and smelling like we woke up in an ash tray or hanging out in a lesbian bar.

When that casino club closed down for renovation we were stuck with going back to Debby’s Roadhouse or Club Hollywood.  What would we fine?

At Club Hollywood we found a high school reunion well underway so that wasn’t an option…and back over to Debby’s.  Here it was – an active Friday night and Debby’s had all of 6 people.  Our longtime bartender was there and the DJ and then a smattering of people sitting around the bar area.  No one was dancing (though the music was playing), no cover charge, no bouncer.  No one to check our ID and stamp our hands.  No Poindexter.  No Babyface.  But, hell, that wasn’t going to stop us.  Out on the dance floor we went and, due to the lack of people, we could request whatever songs we wanted.

As we danced two gentlemen (and I use that term loosely) came up from the downstairs casino.  One was drunk and obnoxious while the other seemed to be the designated driver.  The drunk wanted to dance with Miriam and I which meant him REALLY crowding us until his friend pulled him away.  But, within moments, his drunk buddy would sidle up to us again and then the bartender got involved and, eventually, he kicked them out.

Since that time we went back up to the far away casino to dance (as their renovation finally completed) but we still missed Debby’s and our historic past there.

This past Friday (May 29^th) Miriam realized that she didn’t work on Saturday and popped the idea that we go out dancing.  Do we go up to the casino, driving an hour round-trip, and reek of cigarette smoke?  Or do we hit Debby’s Roadhouse or, possibly, Club Hollywood?

Knowing that they have a regular group of bands that play at Club Hollywood, I checked their line-up to see who was playing.  Some band called “The Final Finals” and a quick Google search to see what type of music they played came up with nothing.  But, more importantly, the words “permanently closed” were on the Google link to Drift-On Inn.  Could it be permanently closed?  I mean, yeah, the last time we were there – there was only about 8 people in the entire bar.  But, but, but - PERMANENT?  I called the phone number and was told that the number had "been disconnected or no longer in service."  SIGH.

SEE!  Permanently closed (according to Google).

Miriam asked what I wanted to do and I suggested we go down to Club Hollywood.  I wanted to see how “permanent” the closure of Debby’s/Drift-On was.  Maybe pay our last respects at the hole in the ground.  At the very least we’d see “The Final Finals” and maybe they would be good.

When we arrived Debby’s still looked open and I grabbed a parking spot directly in front (unheard of back in the day).  We went in to watch the band play at Club Hollywood and, though, good – they were a hard rock band that specialized in two things: 1. volume and 2. feedback.  Nothing really remotely danceable and we couldn’t hear each other.  By 11 p.m. they were packing up their stuff and the Club had turned on the lights to indicate that the show was over.

That’s it?  No dancing.  Very little drinking.  Fish-and-Chips were excellent, though.

Miriam and I wandered over to the car and we decided to pop in to Debby’s to see how “permanently closed” they were…they weren’t.  The regular bartender was there (DJ was different) but the place was open.  Dance floor was empty.  About 10 people were at the bar.  Miriam and I decided to go ahead and have a few dances on the dance floor.

One old guy in shorts and missing a hand entertained people by the bar.  A large black man missing his legs and sitting in a wheelchair swayed to the music.  A couple sat on one end of the bar doing pull tabs.

When I went to get Miriam a drink I told the bartender that Google said they were permanently closed.

“What?  We’ve never closed!”

I pulled it up on my phone and showed him.

“Those f**kers!”  He mumbled something about previous owners or something and was pissed.

Miriam and I continued to dance until a handful of people from Club Hollywood made it into Drift-On and danced with us (even “She-Bop” by Cyndi Lauper – via Miriam’s request).  The old guy with one hand drunkenly complemented us on our dancing and even the large legless guy in the wheelchair came out to dance a line dance.

Debby’s/Drift-On wasn’t closed after all.  They have Karaoke on Thursday and I wonder how many people they get for that.  And, still, Friday and Saturday night starting at 10 p.m. they have dancing.  If you’re looking for something to do, give the Drift-On Inn a try.

My Daughter and Her New Job

My daughter, Michelle, called me yesterday.  Typically when she calls she has an issue with something.  Either the internet is down, or she can’t find “Teen Mom” on-line or, and this has happened more than a few times, she’s struck something with her car.  Calls aren’t usually to “chat.”

We’ve known for a while now that Michelle had applied for a job at the place where she is interning.   And we’ve known for a while that it was looking really good she’d get the job.  As with most places of employment they probably have to do a few steps to make it look like they’ve thrown the job posting out to the masses before they give the job to the person that they want.

The past weekend, while helping a friend of Michelle’s move, Michelle talked about her interview process for the job and how it was sort of impromptu and kind of official but that they didn’t give her the job and she was worried and who knows when she’ll find out, etc.

It’s times like this, as a father, where my typical response is:  “Huh.  Interesting.”  Not really “Father Knows Best” type of stuff where I wax poetically about striving for your dream and doing what it takes to accomplish it.  Typically the less syllables the better in my book.

When she called to tell me she got the job I was excited for her but kept down playing it a bit.  To the point where she said:  “You’re acting like I haven’t been working…”  Which she has been for a very long time.  Again, the syllables thing.  Still, I congratulated her and told her I was proud of her and she was very excited.  An actual job in her field of study.  One that could lead to an amazing career path.

As I rode the bus home last night, I thought about this some more.  It was only a few years ago that she was on her path to becoming a dancer.  Well, she WAS a dancer.  No denying that for a short time she was a professional dancer (she got paid!) and was in MAJOR Ballet productions for Pacific Northwest Ballet.  There was also no denying that it was hard work.  Hours upon hours of rehearsals, practices, classes.  Six days a week all for her to follow a dream.

At one point during the ballet school year, you meet with the director of the school (or a main instructor) and they have a “come to Jesus” moment with you.  Basically what the person said to us was that Michelle could “Make a living being a dancer.”  But…she wasn’t a PNB “type” of dancer.  She is relatively short and is not very flexible.  But what she makes up for in flexibility she has in strength.  She could still take classes, she could still perform in small roles, but she wasn’t going to go much beyond that scope.  Where Miriam, my wife, heard “defeat,” I heard “make a living being a dancer.”  That, somehow, even if it wasn’t ballet – there would be opportunities for her elsewhere.  And, at this point in her life (still in high school), there was a future laid out for her:

What schools would offer her a dance scholarship?

Where should we go to investigate possible dance opportunities?

What steps should we now take to help her accomplish her dream?

What can we do, as parents, to ease this process and encourage her?

Part of the next steps was for Michelle to take part in a Summer Dance Lab in Walla Walla, WA.  Summer Dance Labs are intense programs opening up dancers to other types of dance and other types of teaching/instruction.  Heck, she even won a scholarship – so one summer she went for 2 or 3 weeks, the following summer she could go for the full 5 weeks.  For those weeks she was truly in her element (and far away from her annoying parents).

Then her hip started to hurt.  General soreness turned to pain.  Pain turned to lack of movement.  Lack of movement turned to lack of being able to dance.  Unable to dance to Michelle at the time was like being unable to breathe or eat or watch “Teen Mom.”  She needed this to survive.

After talking to a doctor and x-rays – it was determined that she would need hip surgery as she had a torn labrum.  After the first surgery (emphasis on the word FIRST) the doctor told us that she could continue to dance.  After the second surgery, it was obvious that she could not continue to dance.

What do you tell your child who has spent the past 10+ years of her life (and is barely even college age), that what she’s been working towards, fighting towards, given blood sweat and tears for is now out of her grasp?  Granted, she knew that she’d never be a Prima Ballerina but where do you from:  “She can make a living being a dancer.” to “She can continue to dance.” to “Ow, ow, ow!  It hurts when I do that...?”

How would she handle this new reality?  Going from six classes a week and hours of dancing to now just counting fuetes (sic?) from the audience?  Spilling gallons of sweat and breaking pointe shoes to watching her ballet friends on Facebook move on to college or jobs at other ballet companies?

Would she become clinically depressed?  Would she hide in her room?  Take a razor blade to her “Dance Dance Revolution” Dance Mats?  I’m sure she cried, but I didn’t see it (clueless is as clueless does).  I’m sure she yelled at God (I know I would).  I’m sure she thought she could work through it, suck it up, deal with the pain, start over, try again, pull herself up by the ballet straps, deny the doctors, deny the instructors and muscle through.

As a father who barely can stay awake through a ballet program (and by barely, that means I usually fall asleep), what could I do?  What could I say?  What lack of syllables could I provide to her?

She regrouped.  She focused.  She went to Community College.  She transferred to Western Washington as a Jr.  She lived the dorm life and enjoyed it.  She got her degree and then applied to grad school.  Where dance had been her world…now community counseling was her world (with probably less crazy people than the ballet world).  Working nearly full time already, she took on a course load that would choke a horse.

As part of her third year at school, she had to intern somewhere…while still doing her other job(s).  Where she interned liked her and when an opening became available she was offered a job.

She moved out.  She graduates with her masters in a few months.  She turns 26 in June.  She pays her bills.  She’s in love.  She has successfully reinvented herself.  She has moved forward – bad hip and all.

Will the job be perfect?  Will she be happy in it?  Will it turn into a career as opposed to a “bill paying job?”  We will see.

It’s not so much that I’m proud of her getting a job.  I’m proud of her overcoming the adversity placed in her way.  Good job, Michelle!  (note:  four syllables)

Abby Lee Miller (Dance Moms) and the Abuse of Dance

Please Note:  I was going to insert a lot of interest and cool photos with snarky comments underneath each one but, for some reason, it will not load photos.  Sorry, you're just stuck with...words....

There was an episode of “Mythbusters” where they strapped a large iron “cow-catcher” on the front of an enforced semi-truck and plowed it through two lines of cars at full speed. This amazing moment was caught on multiple cameras and shown in super high speed slow motion – over and over and over again.  It was great to see because from every angle you could see the complete destruction of these vehicles.  Like a hot truck knife through cars of butter.  Heck, they could have just shown it for 40 minutes straight and I would still be fascinated.  And that’s how car crashes work.

 

Welcome to the new season of “Dance Moms” – one of those reality shows I barely watch as I wander through the living room or hear in the background while I try to beat Michelle’s high score on “Bejeweled”  (not ever going to happen – but I’ll try).  This reality show, like the others that Miriam and Michelle watch are, pretty much, in one ear-right out the other with me.  I know most of the players and understand the basic plotting and storylines but committed to watching this car wreck?  No, I’ve got better things to do:  like play “Bejeweled.”

 

Last night, though, I was playing on my phone when Miriam watched the season premiere of “Dance Moms.”  Now, if you don’t know the basic plot of reality show “DM” here’s the breakdown.  Abusive, screaming, non-compromising, win-at-all-costs, Abby Lee Miller (of the Abby Lee Dance Studio) buts heads repeatedly with the four or five (I can’t remember) moms and their daughters as she tries to groom these girls to be top dancers.  As the seasons have worn on a couple of the prominent mothers and their daughters have dropped out due to Abby’s abusive (both verbally and mentally) coaching of the girls.  ALL the mothers at some point or another have yelled at ALM and she has yelled right back.  ALL of the mothers have threatened to pull their child out of the studio at some point or another.  One mother even did a couple seasons ago, only to come back – tail between her legs – and now one her daughter is one of the best dancers.

 

As the formatting of the show goes, each episode focuses on a dance recital, they get the “pyramid” treatment (to show who did the best and who did the worst), given their assignments in regards to their respective dances (solos, group dances), rehearse, go to the competition and, most likely, win.  And, I guess, that makes the week long yelling and screaming worth it in the end…or does it?

 

Abby Lee Miller has parlayed the success of this show into two other shows, one a dance competition and another a “help me fix your studio” show. Both, you can be rest assured, show Abby in her typical yelling light.  If it’s not “in your face” than what’s the point?  If it’s not a car wreck?  Then why watch?

 

Ahh, but there’s a twist to this season.  They’re playing up the fact that ALM is getting sued by a former parent.  Papers are being filed and ALM is upset.  WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN?!  Much like the modified semi-truck barreling 60 mph towards two rows of unsuspecting cars – what’s going to happen?!

 

It isn’t so much the plotting that I found interesting.  And I’ll admit that they’re shoving a week’s worth of footage into 42 minutes (and 10 of that is mostly performances) so there’s always the question of editing – what they’re choosing to show besides what they’re NOT choosing to show – but I digress.  What plotting I found interesting was the response of the mothers in last night’s show to the law suit against ALM.  The response was basically:  “This is an attack on our daughters and we have to fight.”  Really?  Is it an attack on your daughters?  Or is it an attack on ALM?

 

ALM is now a brand.  A brand she’s put out on three different shows and multiple appearances on other TV shows.  She’s rolling in the money and it doesn’t surprise me that there is a lawsuit against her – but I don’t even know what the lawsuit is about (nor do I think the other mothers know either - see the end of this blog for more info about the lawsuit(s)).  But there was a quick move by one of the mothers (the most intelligent of the bunch in my opinion by the way) to just say that this is an attack against them.

 

I harken back to a couple years ago when assistant college football coach Jerry Sandusky was found guilty of sexually molesting boys.  A lawsuit was filed against the school and Jerry and people were incensed.  Not so much that this guy was a habitual child molester and left a wake of victims in his hellish path – but how it affect the school?  The football program?  The other students?  This wasn’t an attack on Sandusky – this was an attack on the SCHOOL!  These people were, in my opinion, taking the same opinion that the mother is taking in this lawsuit against ALM.

 

Now, I know, comparing ALM’s coaching methods to a pathetic human being like Jerry Sandusky might be a bit of a stretch but what I’ve seen in terms of ALM’s handling of children (and some of them very young) is abuse.  Mental and psychological abuse.  It may not be sexual abuse or physical abuse but it certainly pushes the many envelopes of mental and psychological abuse.  Maybe this lawsuit is really about that?

 

Certainly, though, ALM has the best interests of the girl’s at heart…right?  She just wants to make them better dancers (and win more competitions) and she’s just “preparing them for the hard road of professional dance.”  Sorry, I call bullsh*t on that.  THESE ARE KIDS.  And there are certainly ways to get your point across than yelling, screaming, insulting, pitting one against the other, etc.  Like, I don’t know, making one of the dancers bark during a performance…really?  Or having the kids rehearse and rehearse and rehearse and then just not do the performance after all – while, of course, chastising another dance instructor when she pulled a dance at the last moment.

 

My overall problem with this thinking is that I do not see the roots of ALM’s success.  Oh, sure we HEAR about how she’s coached a number of Broadway dancers but have we seen any of them come and talk about how they survived the same years of mental and verbal abuse and how that prepared them for the big time (maybe they did an episode or two about this and I just missed it as I was reading my paper and not paying attention).  My point is that there’s no track record to justify this type of behavior towards kids!  (Note:  one dancer now has her own show but is that because of ALM or in spite of ALM?)

 

Look at another reality TV star and his multiple shows:  Gordon Ramsey.  He’s like the Benedict Cumberbatch of Fox Reality TV.  On his show “Hell’s Kitchen” he berates and verbally and mentally abuses the contestants but there are some subtle differences.  The biggest one is that these are adults.  In his show “Masterchef Junior” – he deals with kids in a constructive thoughtful way to push them to give their best.  Yes, one moment in the last season you could see him holding back from his normal gruff persona but he was still under control when it came to kids.  Another difference is that you can’t deny his success – multiple restaurants all around the world.  Michellin awards.  He is tops in his field.  And, finally, the people he propels and pushes go on to run his restaurants – or work in his organization.  There’s an actual pot of gold at the end of this obscenity filled rainbow.  ALM can’t guarantee an iota of that to her young charges.


Oh, and one other "cringe inducing moment" was at the end of the competition where Abby Lee Dance Studio won yet again, the MC came up and talked about how wonderful Abby Lee is and brought her up on stage to show her all the love.  Imagine if someone did that with Jerry Sandusky after his years of abuse.

 

I’ve been a “Dance Dad” and was on the board of a local dance company for a number of years.  Though I know some of the moms had issues with the director of the company – those concerns where left in the board room.  And, trust me, if that director verbally and mentally abused my child like ALM does to these girls?  I may have sued, too.

Oh, and here are the details of the lawsuits: 

A lot of last season and last night’s show were under a legal cloud. Former Dance Mom Kelly Hyland and her daughters Paige and Brooke first filed a $5 million complaint against Miller and the show’s producers Collins Avenue Entertainment in mid-February last year. That nine-claim complaint, which included an assault claim, came out of a November 22, 2013, faceoff between Miller and the elder Hyland over the “bullying and insulting” way the former was treating the daughters on the show. With the younger Hylands looking on, the two women screamed at each other, with Miller lunging forward and Hyland then slapping her. In typical reality TV style, the incident was shown on the series last year.
Paige Hyland filed her assault charge against Miller in October. On November 17, LA Superior Court Judge Ruth Kwan threw out the defamation and emotional distress claims. The breach-of-contract claims against Collins Avenue can still move ahead.