A non-anniversary Wryku

Life is linear

From one end to the other

Going with the flow

Anniversaries are thought of by some to be the closing of a circle.  I think they're milestones along one journey.  Life is linear.  That's the observation I made to one of my beloved sisters on the first anniversary of our Mom's passing.  Just because some dude named Greg took some other guy Julian's calendar and changed it, doesn't mean that anniversaries are reruns.  They're not. 

But sometimes you have to stop.  You can't just let the days slip by.  Thursday is such a day for me.  The birth of my oldest child.  And 10 years later, the death of one of my dearest friends. 

Jeff, wherever you are, I'm thankful so often to think about you, remember, and wonder...  What the hell did Abe Lincoln and JFK have to say?!?  Do you guys hang out??

Oh, and I almost forgot:  What's the deal with crop circles... and is Morgan Freeman really God?

Call me.

Buzz off Fly-ku

"Don't you think that's a little showy??" 

My silent rebuke to a fly that made its way onto the US Airways Shuttle from Washington DC to LaGuardia.

I'm still waiting for scientists to dig into my theory about birds, and how they act around airports.  (Hint: Showoffs.)  

Not this kindBut what about the fly who flies? 

Yes, yes, he had the good sense and manners to fly coach with the rest of us; perched on the overhead bin.  No, he did not shift during takeoff or landing.  And upon landing, I swear I saw him fly straight out the door.

Clearly this DC fly had plans in the Big Apple for the weekend.  Maybe he took in a show.  Possibly he was the guest host on Saturday Night Live, in time to fly back and tape Meet the Press.  Possibly he hung around the terminal, cruising the Mens Rooms for wide-stanced United States Senators. 

Not this kind, either.Regardless, this little bugger... this FLY... who can FLY... something I can only do in the odd lucid dream... flew... for FREE.

And I think he knew it. 
Yup!

Redundant insect
Nobody likes a show-off
Where's your boarding pass?

Today. Again. (9-11 at 6)

"Today is the anniversary of the day that tore across our history and our hearts.  We come again as New Yorkers and as Americans to share a loss that can't be measured and to remember the names of those who can't be replaced. 

"This year, we have asked those who responded to the tragedy to help us lead the ceremonies, both the men and women in official uniform and the volunteers who said, 'Those are my neighbors.  Let me help.'

"On that day, we felt isolated, but not for long, and not from each other.  New Yorkers rushed to the site, not knowing which place was safe or if there was more danger ahead.  They weren't sure of anytyhing except that they had to be here. 

"Six years have passed, and our place is still by your side.  As the poet William Blake wrote centuries ago, 'Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too?'"

Mayor Michael Bloomberg, September 11, 2007

And so, Wolf, Larry, Brian, Katie, Charlie...  Please.  Don't tell us what it means.  Don't.  Even.  Try.

"... we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground."

Neither can your grinding dirges or all the grainy slow-motion you can throw into your CBSNBCABCMSNBCCNNFOX  "McEpic" Special Reports. 

Don't tell us what it means. 

"... the brave men*, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."  [*and women]

Joe's kids already said it all at his funeral, in the crayon drawing of their Dad playing golf in heaven. 

"... it is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced."

Mike's Dad still says it between the lines of the emails he sends now and again, and it's been in Mike's son's eyes in the last five Christmas cards.  It's also been etched on Lauren's Mom's face ever since her daughter became a young widow.

"... it is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us."

Just let us grieve, find our own meaning, hold on as tightly as we can... and move ahead together.

"... that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain."

H.J.H.

M.P.L.

M.T.O.

In reverent and loving memory. 

May God hold you and your families in the palm of his hand.

[The searing image at the top of this entry was taken September 11, 2006 at Ground Zero by New York Daily News photoghapher David Handschuh, who covered that awful day and was badly injured after the South Tower collapsed.]

As I was saying...

Well, it's Groundhog Day, and I'll be damned if it doesn't find me three time zones Westward from Punxtawney, Pennsylvania.  Don't know if the Groundhog saw his shadow, but I sure as hell know that if there are six more weeks of winter... it will mean the last six weeks were the first six weeks--I hear it's finally snowing.

Been away for awhile.  Mostly because most of the writing I've done lately has been all in the manner of "2006 Accomplishments" and "2007 Goals" blah, blah, blah.  After writing, revising, submitting, discussing, and all that jazz, it's just left me totally spent.  For the record, I like this writing better, but can only do it if I've got something to say.  So I've been away from the blog, and just plan away.

I've spent most of January on the road, and will log some air miles every week of February except one.  Seven days in Texas, then five in San Francisco, two in Tampa up next, then three more back in Sacramento.  I'm feeling like Kevin Finnerty again.  I have mixed feelings about the man shaving in the mirror these mornings.  And I sure as hell will be glad to be shaving in a bathroom without a coffee maker and non-dairy creamers on the counter, and not wake up every half hour from 3am to when the wakeup call comes. 

I've ate and drunk like Bacchus, (That's the right tense, right?  Drink, drank, have drunk??)  I've gained five pounds or so, and although I'm getting some kick-ass things done for the job, I miss home and am growing weary of my traveling companion... me. 

Still, I'm seeing the sights of the most beautiful state in the Union, and I'll be out tomorrow with my trusty Nikon.  But, I was in Napa Valley today.  No, not that NAPA.  And here are some clips from my travel notes thus far:

• The housekeeping lady is a very quiet knocker, or I'm going deaf.  Either way, she caught me on the way to the shower this morning, in all my glory.  Because of where the bathroom is, I was walking toward the door as it opened.  I didn't flinch.  Just said good morning.  It was over in a second, but... she laughed.   She laughed.  Then closed the door. 
• I've only ever seen Fox and Friends hung over.  In fact, it's the only way I can bear to watch it, as I rehydrate and the headache wanes.
• Not that it's bothering me or anything, but Dude.  She laughed.  What the heck is that all about??
• There's free wine/beer hour at my hotel, and a woman who'll read my Tarot cards.  The first two cards are for free, then it's $20 bucks.  Since my only experience with Tarot is from watching Jane Seymour on Live and Let Die, I'll pass.   

40 = (15+25) = 40 [Again]

Close your eyes, have no fear.
The monster's gone, he's on the run, and your Daddy's here.

He was 40. 

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

I was 15. 

Before you go to sleep, say a little prayer.
Every day, in every way, it's getting better and better.

It was my first "I remember where I was when I heard the news..." 

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

It snowed the next day in Connecticut.  My family went out to pick out our Christmas tree.  I stayed home watching the Dakota vigil on TV.

Out on the ocean, sailing away.
I can hardly wait to see you come of late.
But I guess we'll both just have to be patient.

Listening to this song.

'Cause it's a long way to go; a hard row to hoe.
Yes, it's a long way to go, but in the meantime.

That he wrote to his child.

Before you cross the street, take my hand.
Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.

I didn't feel what it meant...

Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful,
Beautiful boy.

Until I sang it to mine. 

Darling, darling,
Darling,
Darling Sean.

Now I'm 40.

Goodnight Sean.

Watching the wheels go round.

See you in the morning.

Fade to black.

All those years ago...

Update on Thursday, December 7, 2006 at 07:01PM by Wryter

Let me take you down...

Friday is December 8th. 

So this entry, which I posted last year, moves up to the front for one more sad, sad run. 

And I'm going to Strawberry Fields.

Who the hell is Kevin Finnerty?

I've been traveling this week.  Today, it's the latest in a series of nondescript rooms at the Sherriott-Hiltowne Plaza hotel in St. Baltimemphicago, where at any time I'm a Preferred Star-Award Ambassadorian, earning fractions of points that rack up in my monthly statements like a pinball machine... and for which I can redeem for valuable gifts and prizes.  At the current level of 1,500,000,000, I'm within reach of one of those plastic whizzers that sound like a siren when you blow into them.  [I love those.]  If I hold onto my points, I can get discount in-room non-dairy creamer next time I stay in Toledo.

Actually, I like to travel, so long as it's during the week.  Go to meeting; powernap and shower; go to dinner; find an interesting bar to have a nightcap or two.  Then fall asleep in an overstuffed bed with the TV on. 

Going to bed alone on the road can be very centering and self-affirming; just you and your thoughts.  The day has ended and you've ticked off the items on your checklist.

Waking up in bed alone on the road can be very unsettling; just you and your thoughts.  The day has not yet begun, your'e a little fuzzy headed, and the checklist has regenerated itself.  You're not due downstairs til 8:30; it's 5:00 now; you can't sleep.  You left the curtains open so the sunlight would help roust you.  But it's as dark as night, and there's a beacon on the horizon.   

What should I be doing right now?  What're the other guys doing?  Sleeping?  No.  They're downstairs in the lobby... all of them... meeting together.  They could start the meeting if you'd only get your sorry ass out of bed and get in gear.  It's 5:03.  You've already fallen behind.  They all know where they're going; how long they're going to stay in their jobs; exactly when they're going to retire; their houses are already paid for; they've already saved for the college education of their toddlers; your oldest is already 10 and you've got $3.75 in your pocket.

Who am I?  The wallet in the briefcase says my name is Kevin Finnerty.  Who the hell is Kevin Finnerty? 

Am I me, or am I him?  It's 5:05. 

What's with that beacon out there?  Is it calling me? 

I don't know.

[With apologies to Tony Soprano.]

Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?

I don't know who had the notion of emblazoning that phrase from Lamentations (1:12) on the front of their building on the outskirts of the Bronx, in full view of a busy street and along the railway, but I saw it as I passed by on Amtrak yesterday... and it struck me like a thunderbolt.

Train travel on the Northeast corridor is a sight to behold. It takes you on a majestic approach to Manhattan that cuts through the most exclusive Greenwich yacht clubs on one side, and through the most squalid "No-mans Lands" literally on the "other side of the tracks."  

I'm sure in the city and town halls, there are propety maps that show who owns these fringes along the railbed. Years ago in the age of steam, I imagine they were scattered with the ashes from the locomotives.  Now these areas.. not quite neighborhoods, not quite yards... not quite woods... are scattered with the ashes of people's lives.

Shopping carts.  Windblown grocery bags snagged in trees.  Empty cases of beer.  And on the last time through, a ragged man taking his morning shit in the cover of low undergrowth--down and away from the street above him, but ass-frontward to the passing train.  I thought it as splendid a "How-do-you-do" as was ever given.

Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?

In raw form, I typed out everything I saw from Stamford to Penn Station.  Here, unedited and unburnished, is what I marveled and wondered at as I passed by.

Mamaroneck Station at 30 mph

A stop at New Rochelle:

A gorgeous woman facing the sunshine, eyes closed, savoring a draw on her cigarette as if it were the source of all goodness.  And at the same time…

A middle age man in glasses and a blue Member's Only jacket facing her from the side, eyes open, staring full on at her, uh, sweater.  If she only turned slightly, he’d be so nailed. I mean LOOK at him!  He’s consumed with those things.  From where I’m sitting, behind tinted windows at about navel level to her, he’s got reason to be.

Ditmars Boulevard Subway Station

Robert Moses’ red-bricked monstrosities. 

TMG Trucking dumptruck at a job site.  Empty.  Waiting. 

FEDEX Ground trucks.  Two of 'em.

Cars.  Trucks.  Panel vans.  Minivans.

Where are you going?

• To work?
• To the airport?
• To school?
• To meet your lover?
• To the vet?
• To the grocery store?
• To bring your Mom her sweaters and cold weather clothing and switch out her summer clothes?

Lamentations.

Go in peace. 

Vaya con Dios.

This never happened to Popeye

I like Craisns.

Really.  I do. 

About a year or so ago, they made their entry into the pantry.  

Tonight.  I'm counting on them.

S'okay... anyway, tonight was open house at my fourth grade son's school.  Met the teacher, who it turns out looks NOTHING like fourth-grade teachers used to look.  Not even close.  If they had, they'd have had to drag me to fifth kicking and screaming. 

But I digress.  Back to Craisins. 

You know, they say the mighty cranberry is mightily overlooked as a marvel of nature.  All sorts of health implications have been heaped upon it lately.  And while citrus fruit long ago cornered the scurvy market; and I learned long ago that cranberries go grrrrrrrrrreat with vodka and ice, the Cranberry Marketing Committee says that they also reduce the risk of gum disease, ulcers, heart disease, cancer and urinary tract infections. 

Tonight I'm hoping that they do something more.  You see, here is the timeline of my last hour:

7:43 pm [Eastern Daylight Time]: See my old Phys Ed teacher on my way out of my son's open house.  He's now teaching my son, and we chatted for a bit.  Great guy.

8:00 pm Arrive home from open house.

8:11 pm:  Informed by son that he got in trouble in Gym class this week, and that he was mortified that the teacher would tell me before he got the chance to.  Kid was practically sh*tting his pants.  [Hold that thought for a bit later in the timeline.]  He has to "write" for gym class next week, which means while everybody else plays, he has to sit and write.  I was the benevolent but firm Dad.  Hell, the embarassment alone should be enough.  

8:37 pm:  There's some leftover salad on the table.  With CRAISINS!!!!!  Dump remaining contents of salad bowl onto plate; add some leftover grilled chicken from the fridge; sprinkle with some dressing.  Voila!  The Perfect Salad!

8:45 pm:  Turn on news before we watch our DVD from Season 5 of The Sopranos.  [We've been watching the whole series since June.  I think I'm going to be Paulie Walnuts for Halloween.]

8:46 pm:  Hear the following bulletin:  
An outbreak of E. coli in eight states has left at least one person dead and 50 others sick, federal health officials said Thursday in warning consumers not to eat bagged fresh spinach.

8:46:14 pm:  Stop chewing The Perfect Salad.  Look at graphic on TV highlighting the 8 states.  One of them is mine.  Connecticut.

8:46:15 pm:  Gaze down at The Perfect Salad and the green leafy things that are surrounding my Craisins.  Baggged.  Fresh.  Spinach.

8:47 pm:  Read more on Yahoo News.  Look at graphic of e coli.  Did you know that e coli looks remarkably like Plankton.  [Oh yeah, one more thing.  Some guy in Wisconsin DIED from this sh*t.  Oh, I almost forgot:  the sh*t.  Apparently, there's lots of it on the way.  Maybe.]  

8:48 pm:  Locate the Cranberry Marketing Committee and start researching the curative powers of the little red buggers.

8:53 pm:  Begin what may be my last post.

Come on, cranberries!

DEVELOPING...

Update on Friday, September 15, 2006 at 01:35AM by Wryter

1:35 am:  All's quiet.  Too quiet.  Really, though.  This story led the 11:00 news.  Did I happen to mention... a guy died!!

Update on Friday, September 15, 2006 at 08:24PM by Wryter

24 Hours from "S" Hour.  All clear.  Oh... I'm still gonna be Paulie Walnuts for Halloween.

Name your children well

Today's assignment, boys and girls... especially those of you with soon-to-arrive bundles of joy... forget about the color of the nursery, whether Classic Pooh is still "in," or even how to keep falling prey to The Wiggles.  (Those of you with kids in the 2-9 range, you know what I mean.) 

Ditch the "Baby Names" book, get out a newspaper or an encyclopedia, and pick yourself a middle name.

Middle names, for most of us, have become to our identity what the appendix long ago became to our digestive tract -- They're there, but we just don't know what they do anymore.  But when they flare up, it's usually the sign of something bad... very, very bad.  And painful.  

To wit:  

• John Booth:  (Could be your neighbor, your local Northwestern Mutual Life sales representative.)
• John Wilkes Booth:  (Goodbye Quiet Company, hello presidential assassin.)
• John Gacy:  (The church organist.  Quiet guy.  Nice.  Has two cats.)
• John Wayne Gacy:  (Woah, Nellie!  Serial killer from the 1970s.)

And the list goes on...  Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Rey, Mark David Chapman, John Mark Karr... 

And so, parents to be, some broad-brush rules:

Steer clear of Wayne.  News of the Weird says that there's a disproportionante number of baddies with that middle name.

Brevity.  The Trumans didn't mince words... or use them... when their son Harry was born.  "Harry S. Truman."  The "S" doesn't stand for anything, which is cool.  And does anybody doubt that this quiet man from Independence, Missouri kicked alot of A. S. S. in his day??

Brevity Part 2:  Unless you're George Herbert Walker Bush, J.R.R. Tolkein*, or Charles Philip Arthur George, you probably don't need more than one middle name.  Remember Princess Di getting the middle names backwards??  (Come on, who doesn't remember the Royal wedding??) 
* Extra points for coolness if they're all used as initials.  It washes the dorkiness away.

X Marks the Spot.  If the first name is Francis, "No more calls, please.  We have a winner."  It has to be Xavier.

Safe Harbor: 'J' Names.  In general, you shouldn't try to force a kid's nickname.  They more or less evolve from IMBs (Incidents of Moronic Behaviour).  But if you want a build-it-yourself nickname kit, there are more than enough TJs and PJs to demonstrate that James or John are safe territory for the ready-made initial nicknames.  (Painful Autobiographical Caveat:  If your kid's name begins with "B" then expect the "J" to trigger towel-snapping play when kids realize what "BJ" means in certain circles.  And it just may happen that the other kids will learn what it stands for before your son does, leading to the double humiliation of his not being able to fend off the verbal towel-snapping with an equally appropriate comeback to Vincent David Divergilio, Brian Brendan Wilson, or smooth Kevin Young Gellison.  Not that that happened or anything...) 

Be careful of last names as middle names.  No wait... wrong rule.  You're supposed to watch out for people with last names as first names.  They're just about always a--holes.  A warning for another day.  As is the Corky Sherwood-Forrest theorem of picking a mate suitable for hyphenated married names.)

The QED:  If you're lucky, the middle name will be nothing more than a joy to the relative it honors, the child who bears it, and the parents who will hear it called out during Commencement exercises.  Yes, God willing, it will remain as generally useful as the appendix.  But if inflamed by Junior High School smart-alecs, or perhaps a rap sheet and a mug shot, there's no denying it. 

Update on Thursday, August 31, 2006 at 05:07PM by Wryter

Updated with correct spelling and historical era, with thanks to Jim McKee.

A list I started in the car this morning...

Things I get:

1. Keane's first CD (Hopes and Fears)
2. New York drivers
3. VW making the Passat:  Why pay more for the Audi A4, which is essentially the same car.
4. Chevy, Ford, Toyota, and Nissan making SUVs
5. The House
6. Peanut butter
7. Brian Wilson
8. Brooklyn
9. Nestle Crunch
10. Peter Paul Mounds
11. Captain Kangaroo

Things I don't get:

1. Keane's second CD (Under the Iron Sea)
2. Massachusetts drivers
3. VW making the Phaeton:  Why NOT pay the same for an Audi A8, which is essentially the same car.
4. Cadillac, Lincoln, Lexus, and Infiniti (Infiniti?!?!) making SUVs
5. The Senate
6. Peanut brittle
7. Bruce Johnston or the short blonde-haired guy.
8. Queens
9. Hershey's Krackle
10. Peter Paul and Mary
11. Major Dad

Feel free to add on.  I intend to!