free speech zone

I think I'll go to Denver and exercise my constitutional right as an American, as well as my inalienable right as a human being, to speak my mind in a cordoned-off secret location far from the hustle and bustle of the national political conventions, the news media, or anyone else who would care to listen. The authorities tell me I'm free to speak, as long as no one is listening.

I think I'll do this because that's where they let you do such things, i.e., anywhere except where it might actually be heard or, perish the thought, make a difference to someone. So if you want to make a statement, proceed to your designated local Free Speech Zone, and speak freely but politely to yourself. Or to paraphrase the venerable empiricist Bishop Berkeley, "If a free speaker spoke in a free speech zone, did it make a statement?"

Update from a week later in St. Paul:

In one confrontation downtown, as several dozen demonstrators milled around and danced in the streets, police officers wearing helmets, padded vests and shin guards converged on the group. As the two sides faced off and tensions rose, the police squirted pepper spray into the crowd. (NYTimes)

Zo, you free speech freaks, ve vill haff no milling unt danzing in ze strasse, is that klear?

Just after 5 p.m., Jerah Plucker, 33, a documentary filmmaker from Minneapolis, called a reporter to say that he was among about 300 people surrounded by officers in the park along the banks of the Mississippi facing Harriet Island.
Mr. Plucker, who works for an organization called Freespeak Media, said people had been listening to musicians in the park when officers formed a cordon.
“Over the loudspeaker they are saying, ‘You are being arrested,’ ” he said. “They’re telling us, ‘Sit down, put your hands on your head.’ ” (NYTimes)

No word yet on whether the Desaparecidos were taken to the Metrodome, in lieu of a soccer stadium, with the Victor Jara-figure who dared to sing in a public park. General Pinochet, our leaders owe you a debt of gratitude.

Just another Mercury retrograde day in the life

First, I received, then forwarded, the freelancer's invoice for payment just like I always do, then found out it was rejected because accounts payable closed out the purchase order, despite the previous invoice being substantially under the contract amount. Blah blah blah. The department AA (Administrative Angel) is pursuing other options, otherwise we have to draft a new contract.

Then, I received notice at 9:15 of 9:30 department meeting, arrived at 9:28 and found the meeting already in progress, what it was about I'm not really sure because all I could make out was the Vice President in charge of Mumbling Something Unintelligible handing someone a certificate of blah blah blah nominated for by someone else blah blah blah, applause from the assembled employees.

Then, we find that the last chapter of the teacher edition is four pages over the limit set by the bookmap, and our Intrepid Project Manager (IPM) spent most of the previous day cutting text down to size, and we will see how it all shakes down in second proof. Meanwhile, our friend in marketing went over everyone's head blah blah blah in an editorial matter, thank you very much.

Meanwhile, in real life, IPM's newly adopted sweet but untrained and anemic dog pooped in his cage and spilled his water while she was at work, so she had a lot of cleaning-up to do when she got home.

Then the Visual Coordinator found a tiny mistake in the photo credit on the last proof of the last page of our book, so it's not final after all, but better to fix it now than later, so good catch, VC!

I left my lunch (pita, hummus, raw milk cheddar, yum!) on the kitchen table when I went out the door this morning. My bad. In short, I'm not having a very good day so far.

And I'm not the only one. My supervisor has been running into problems scheduling (and cancelling) meetings in Outlook, so maybe there is malaise in the air. It's been raining on and off all morning, and my rotator cuff if more tender than usual. I'm blaming it all on the planets being out of alignment. Better than blaming it on marketing.

Being for the benefit of Mr. Kite

You know how when you've heard the same record a million times, the end of one song just naturally leads into the beginning of the next one? And yes, Lulu, it's a known fact that everyone of a certain age is either a Beatles person or a Rolling Stones person, so I confess to being the former. And one of the things I love about Sergeant Pepper is the alternating writers' voices of Mr. Lennon and Mr. McCartney, Paul's syrupy crooning followed by John's snarky, slightly grating absurdity, as they continue their running spat through my speakers.

For the benefit of Mr. Kite
There will be a show tonight on trampoline
The Hendersons will all be there
Late of Pablo-Fanques Fair, what a scene
Over men and horses hoops and garters
Lastly through a hogshead of real fire!
In this way Mr. K. will challenge the world!

Besides, I really wanted to move on from that last post. No sooner had I googled this odd gem that wouldn't stop coursing through my mind than who should call but the unpredictable Jessi Golly, out of the blue, with news no less. He has decided to do cranberries again this fall, and he's planning a visit to Ohio sometime in September. Glad to hear from him, glad his plans are made, glad he'll be rolling in. His sister has mentioned a possible trip to New York this fall, too, so they will have to coordinate their travel plans. The seasonal migration is about to begin.

The celebrated Mr. K.
Performs his feat on Saturday at Bishopsgate
The Hendersons will dance and sing
As Mr. Kite flies through the ring don't be late
Messrs. K and H. assure the public
Their production will be second to none
And of course Henry The Horse dances the waltz!

The cranberry gig was up in the air, but when his friend Gabriel and the rest of the crew decided to go, I think that helped Jessi make up his mind. So they will all migrate from New York to Buzzard's Bay on Cape Cod for about two months of intensive harvesting, cleaning, processing, packaging, and shipping before coming home for Thanksgiving. Isn't that the best way ever invented to end a sentence? "...before coming home for Thanksgiving."

The band begins at ten to six
When Mr. K. performs his tricks without a sound
And Mr. H. will demonstrate
Ten somersets he'll undertake on solid ground
'ving been some days in preparation
A splendid time is guaranteed for all
And tonight Mr. Kite is topping the bill.

Now that that's settled, I'll have to come up with another existential crisis to get me through the week. How about file release date for the student edition? How about Dr. Bear's final manuscript submission? How about the Columbus International Film Inquisition? No problem!

She's leaving home, bye bye

A month shy of the fifth anniversary of closing on our house, our baby girl moved out to her own apartment. We moved her bed and several smaller items - kitchenware, clothes, bathroom stuff, linens - to her half of a double in the heart of Clintonville. Her housemate Zannah were there, the third housemate David will be coming in from Chicago in a week, and their mutual friend Bernard and his dog Duncan were there to help. Did I say that our baby girl is 24 and an adult with a degree and a job? Just checking.

The indestructible plywood bed frame, bought in Atlanta before Zelda was born, still comes apart with a tap of the hammer and fits back together by hand. The original futon is long gone, and the mattress we bought in Grandview is about ready to be replaced. Zelda was born on this bed, as in delivered unto my very hands. Gven and Zelda made the bed with new sheets while I enjoyed a cool Oberon Ale. Can't you just hear the melancholy oozing from the cello?

Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins
Silently closing her bedroom door
Leaving the note that she hoped would say more
She goes downstairs to the kitchen clutching her handkerchief
Quietly turning the backdoor key
Stepping outside she is free.

She (We gave her most of our lives)
is leaving (Sacrificed most of our lives)
home (We gave her everything money could buy)
She's leaving home after living alone
For so many years. Bye, bye

Once the bed was assembled and her dresser was stationed beside it, Zelda and I drove a few blocks to her co-worker Ricky's house, just as his party was getting started, to pick up a set of shelves he was giving away, and while Tom Waits wailed we met another co-worker on her way in, and she gave Zelda a ripe plum, which seemed poignant. We stopped in an alley on the way back to examine by headlight and streetlight a couch another friend had left for her to pick up if she wanted it. There were holes in the fabric of the cushions and leaves stuck to the underside, but it seemed structurally sound, and the fold-out bed might come in handy for visiting friends, so we hoisted it into the truck and squeezed it through the back door and into the dining room.

Why the dining room? There are some feng-shui issues that remain to be resolved, such as whether the DR would make a better living room than the LR, since the LR has a coat closet, front door, stairway, fireplace (decorative), a nice mantle, and no wall space to speak of, whereas the DR has almost as much area and might make a better place for a couch, a couple chairs, a loveseat and a TV, despite being adjacent to the kitchen. Or because of being adjacent to the kitchen.

Father snores as his wife gets into her dressing gown
Picks up the letter that's lying there
Standing alone at the top of the stairs
She breaks down and cries to her husband Daddy our baby's gone
Why would she treat us so thoughtlessly
How could she do this to me.

She (We never thought of ourselves)
is leaving (Never a thought for ourselves)
home (We struggled hard all our lives to get by)
She's leaving home after living alone
For so many years. Bye, bye

One Oberon's worth of interior design discourse was enough for me, and we went home, leaving Zelda and Zannah to their own negotiations. We stopped for gas but said nothing. I ate a chicken burrito or three and read a couple of week's worth of the Sunday Business and Style sections, and took two preemptive ibuprofen.

I slept fitfully, got up, made coffee, and went for a longish bike ride with a couple of people from the Old North Church. Now all I can see is the unfinished work on this neglected house: the cleaning, the maintenance, the repairs and replacements; the floors, the bathrooms, the paint, the gutters, and the forgotten garden. Instead of doing something about it, I ate fried egg sandwiches and baked in the sun, picking my way through a few paragraphs before taking a break to escape the downward spiral in my head.

Friday morning at nine o'clock she is far away
Waiting to keep the appointment she made
Meeting a man from the motor trade.

She (What did we do that was wrong)
is having (We didn't know it was wrong)
fun (Fun is the one thing that money can't buy)
Something inside that was always denied
For so many years. Bye, bye
She's leaving home. Bye, bye

Gven came home with groceries. The floor and the patio were swept. It's amazing how therapeutic that can be. Do the compost and recycling, water the potted plants and hope the ones in the ground can find their own water. This drought will stress everything, but they'll live. Or not.

We ate bow-tie pasta with marinara and an Australian pinot noir and half a watermelon, and it was all good. It is all good. Gven's friend Kate dropped off her dog Sadie for us to house-sit while they're in Wisconsin to take their son to his second college in two years. Our dog Dali is delighted to have the company. I'm still working the maudlin black humors out of my system, waiting for the liberation to hit me that's supposed to accompany loss.

Offensive

From Slate.com:

The W[ashington]P[ost] fronts news that the Bush administration yesterday announced its plans to implement a regulation that allows federal health officials to yank funding from any health-care providers that don't allow employees to refuse services offensive to their personal beliefs.

Give 'em hell, Georgie! It's high time medical professionals had the latitude to decide who deserves their services and who doesn't. It was just another sign of creeping socialism to expect doctors, nurses, physicians' assistants, pharmacists, orderlies, and hospital janitors to meet the health care needs of just anyone for just any reason. You call that freedom? Now they can pick and choose whose appendix is inoffensive enough to remove, whose broken leg doesn't gross them out, and with whose prescription they are philosophically in agreement.

If only this groundbreaking policy were the model for other important matters of conscience in our free enterprise system. Police officers and firefighters shouldn't have to have to answer calls for their help if they find the caller or the reason for the call personally disagreeable. Sanitation workers and recyclers shouldn't have to collect the contents of the bins on my curb if they are offended by the stuff I throw out. My kid's math teacher should just skip the unit on right triangles if he finds the Pythagorean Theorem personally repugnant.

Pull weeds, paint windows

It's a Zen thing. Before enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. After enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. Path to enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. What did I do on my summer vacation? Pull weeds, paint windows.

Gven Golly and I spent some time with a couple of advanced souls at their mountain hermitage this weekend, and one of them celebrated another spin around the solar system. I think we learned a thing or two, though not necessarily the kind of wisdom you can easily restate in an imperative sentence, a la Poor Richard's Almanac or Confucius' Analects. But still, you go to Fairfield Glade for a couple of days and come back thinking differently.

It was Dad's birthday, and Mom cooked a great meal on Friday: barbecue ribs, mashed potatoes, green beans from the garden, and German chocolate cake, all preceded by a fuzzy navel (vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice). We watched a little TV, talked about stuff, and called it a day.

Saturday morning we had French toast for breakfast and got some chores done (two guesses). I hung out with Charlie most of the time, while Gven and Helen did their thing, kind of a generation/gender tag-team match.

Dad and I wandered around the yard, checked out which flowers are still going strong and which ones are about done for the year. I swear I have never seen a bigger tomato vine than the monster that planted itself, like a true Tennessee volunteer, beside the dahlias and dianthus in the flower bed beside the driveway. The potted tomatoes on the deck are almost as big. Clearly they all have been getting lots of tender loving care.

So I pulled weeds, mostly crabgrass, while Dad mowed the lawn. Then we quit to check the new dehumidifier in the basement. I asked him what he wanted to do next. He set me up with a bucket of beige paint, a wide brush, and a shiny new stepladder, and I painted the panels above and below the windows on the front of the house. So now everything matches, and there is peace in the kingdom.

Now I remember some of the weekend conversation. In no particular order, Charlie and Helen talked about the Winona State homecoming weekend coming up in October, how much the campus has changed, and some of the buildings, friends, and basketball teammates they remember; the grandchild who is a high school senior this year, his lack of definite plans, his supportive family, how fast kids grow up; the phenomenal coincidence that Chas Golly's neurosurgeon in Cookeville, Tennessee, grew up in the house across the street from the cemetary in Stewartville, Minnesota, where my grandfather Charles L. Golly and his father Charles A. Golly are buried; the upcoming family reunion in October celebrating Mom and Dad's sixty-fifth anniversary; some of the family history of Helen's mother, Delia Jeska, her immigrant parents' early deaths, her brothers and sisters, Helen's Aunt Marie who practically raised Grandma Delia, Aunt Ollie who saw the world, nieces and nephews, some of whom I actually remember.

Saturday night we grilled hamburgers and enjoyed Helen's famous potato salad, preceded by a fuzzy navel and followed by a little TV, some talk about beach volleyball and the value of a good setter.

Sunday morning we went out to breakfast at the Fat Chef, nice little place on Peavine Road. We had a great breakfast, talked about this and that, and we were on the road on schedule.

I hadn't touched the manuscript I brought along with the intention of editing a chapter for Dr. Bear's book on Confucian practice, yet the whole weekend had been a lab practicum in filial piety. I hadn't touched the stack of DVDs I packed with the thought of watching one or two before returning them to Dr. Jack Thunder. But the point of going to the hermitage was to be there, and that's what we did.

Ask me if I'm bad

There's been a load of compromisin' on the road to my horizon.
- Glen Campbell

Back when I was a runner, I would go for a longish run with my running partner (see MacKenzie's Laws somewhere in the archives) every Sunday. The state of that run, whether we found a rhythm, felt good, and kicked butt on the bike trail, often set the tone for the day. After an exceptionally good run, just ask me if I'm bad.

Gven: "Were you bad?"
Sven: "Was I bad?! I was so bad, the baddest guy didn't even have a chance. Whadya mean was I bad?!"

Weekends are not exactly like that anymore. I'm out of school now. I have a job. I'm not a young buck of 40 anymore.

Saturday

Got up, worked for a couple of hours, took a long, productive, work-related phone call, did some chores, worked a little more, went to the State Fair and parked (free!) where we always park, on Dora St., right by the railroad tracks.

A few minutes inside the gate we ran into some old friends from Grandview, Byron and Rosemary, we hadn't seen in 16 years. Our kids and their kids played soccer together, went to first grade together, we moved away, they didn't. The first-graders are now 24, but we all look exactly the same. Right?

We wandered into the Colisseum just in time to watch a high school rodeo - after some interminable patriotic anthems and displays of the colors on horseback reminding us how very free and proud we are. Then for some reason they have to play bad country music during the calf ropin' and steer rasslin' and bronco ridin'. The cowboys and cowgirls were all named Cody Blackburn and Amanda Goodwell. The barrel racing was the best part - lots of skill required by horse and rider. On the way out, we checked out the competitors waiting their turn in back of the coliseum: big girls with long hair on their fine-looking (I'm guessing) quarterhorses.

As we walked to the next venue, we talked about high school cliques, identity crises, comfort-levels, and clothing styles, then and now, in rural Ohio and rural Georgia, suburban Ohio and suburban Michigan, circa 1968 and 2008. The designer labels are different, but the social dynamics look pretty much the same (just what a middle-class-suburban-jock-who's-been-to-college would say).

It was time for ice cream at the dairy building, so we paid our respects to the butter cow and Ohio's eight butter presidents.

While I slurped my chocolate shake, we looked at lots of cool chickens, ducks, and geese, who looked fairly calm in their open-air cages in the shade. Some breeds had really unusual colors and patterns in their feathers. We looked at the rabbits, same deal, some really pretty animals that look like they would make cuddly little cat-like pets.

We took a quick walk through the fine art exhibit, but there wasn't much of interest, except one mixed-media piece called "Rock Paper Scissors." We got some pretty good corn on the cob, looked at Aunt Irene's blue-ribbon quilts, and went back to the car on Dora St. It was a good way to kill four hours, and it left us time to go see a play in the park.

So we got a portobello mushroom sandwich at the Old Mohawk and got to Schiller Park just in time to set up our chairs and settle into the back row of a very good crowd for "Cyrano." But for some minor sound problems, it was a fine performance, kind of a wordy play, a bit long and repetitious, which is good because if you doze off after your bello sandwich and miss something, they'll just say it again. The evening cooled off quickly, and we made good use of the wool poncho and afghan in Gven's trunk.

Sunday

Got up, worked for a while, went downtown to the Buddhist Center and meditated for an hour, listened to the announcements about their other upcoming classes and retreats, came home, worked a little, went to the Methodistville Golf Center to give blood, came home, and worked a little more. Whoever gets my blood can expect a caffeine rush.

Made two batches of bread, swept the patio - always a satisfying task, I highly recommend it - and did some laundry. The yard wasn't cleaning itself up, so I began breaking down a small portion of the tree-branch mess leftover from last weekend, and it felt good to get my hands on a) future firewood, b) future kindling, and c) present compost, as my brain sorted pieces of pear tree into different piles and my arms tore things apart limb from limb.

With bread out of the oven and sun setting rapidly, I went for a short but intense bike ride uphill against the wind, the only way to go out, according to MacKenzie's First Law, then just sailed home with a good tailwind. All in a day's work or was it play. Ask me if I'm bad.

8/8/8

Oh wow. Like look at all those infinity signs turned sideways. Something weird is gonna happen today.

How's this for starters: Osama bin Laden's driver was sentenced by a military tribunal to five and a half years in prison for supporting terrorism. He has already served about five years at Guantanamo, so he should feel good, right? If he is really an enemy combatant-chauffeur, he could be "detained" indefinitely. I wonder how many years Osama's chef will get. His drycleaner? The cable guy from El Jazeera? You know his plumber is in deep shit.

I guess that means Cheney's cardiologist is a war criminal, too. What does that make Karl Rove's proctologist?

Something unusual, impossible, unthinkable could happen today - like an isolated, secretive, capital-C Communist red-menace yellow-peril Marxist-Leninist-Maoist dictatorship hosting the running-dog imperialist capitalist international community in the peace, love, and brotherhood/sisterhood festival of faster, higher, stronger, farther, bigger, richer, flashier than thou - all beamed to your screen through the big-hearted benevolence and Olympian idealism of General Electric/NBC.

So prepare for hour after hour of flag-waving, official teeth-whitening, warm and fuzzy feel-good stories that have nothing to do with actual sport but sure do sell the product that is the Telelympic Games.

All in a day's weirdness.

Recap of a short conversation on the way to the office this morning.

(I'm on my bike stopped at a red light, and another biker, about my age, pulls up.)
"How ya doin'?"
"Great, how are you doin'?"
"Nice day."
"You putting on some serious miles?"
"No, I'm just riding up to Panera to meet some people for coffee and bagels."
"That sounds good."
"How about you."
"I'm going to work."
"Oh, I don't do that anymore."
"That sounds good, too."

dog days

Are we officially into Canis Major in the macrocosmic orbit? Are you waiting with bated breath for the opening ceremonies in Beijing? Are you all excited about the anticlimactic political conventions in St. Paul and Denver? Have you been to the State Fair yet? At what point does this dry spell become a drought?

Closer to home, what did I do this weekend when I was supposed to be working?

I forgot all about promising to help Zelda move a couch a friend had given her. I'm one brewski into unwinding after work on Friday, my phone rings and she's waiting for me halfway across town at Lane Ave. My bad. Luckily she had a backup plan that worked out fine. But still.

I took a nice, longish, against-the-wind bike ride to get my ya-yas out, and on the way back saw a car with license plates YAH YAH.

I watched a couple of sad movies. Or I sadly watched a couple of movies. Or I watched a couple of movies sadly. Or, sadly, I watched... Whatever the syntax, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and Antisemitism make for sobering viewing.

I made two batches of bread and a pot of lentil soup.

I talked to Jessi on the phone and got an update on hot town, summer in the city. His garden is producing lots of cucumbers, and with a salt brine, some garlic and dill, he's been making pickles. They also have collards, beans, and tomatoes. He painted his room orange and built shelves for a stereo. His band had a show a while ago, but they're having trouble finding space and time to practice.

I took a break from the text and cut down one-third of a pear tree that was already damaged by a storm. It came down harmlessly except for clipping a branch of an apple tree and half of a rope swing. Something sad (that word again) about seeing a swing hanging all lopsided from one rope. I'm also feeling the effects of chainsaw use in my left shoulder - my old friend Rotator Cuff Tendonitis - which I'm dealing with day to day. I think I'll write a Lou Reed-type song and call it "Ibuprofen."