End of the Zero Decade

With a decade that began with a dot.com crash, and suffered through all the horrible crashes and collapses in between, it seems fitting that this final week of the Zero Decade ends with our guard down in Afghanistan amid political jockeying centered on a guy in adult diapers getting past various airport security personnel.

I would be sure that 2010 could not possibly be worse, but with so many people living on the brink any stupid huckster's misplaced feint could cause everything to be much worse. We have too much concentrate of bait in the world bowl. Sip carefully, all.

Right now, with Jackson Browne harmonizing his words through a rich David Lindley arrangement on the Infinity speakers, I am grateful our little Musette kitty made it safely home after three days gone on the coldest nights of the year. Let us try to think for ourselves and put the pundits and their sales pitches of discord behind us this new year. Let us hold those we cherish close and listen to their hearts for comfort.

Happy New Year to you all!

Peace.

The Prisoners

A change floats through the air. The difference in the length of a shadow at the same hour each day, with temperatures cooling a few degrees to match, marks the new setting on life's calendar. Colors on the trees take on a different shade for the occasion and begin to drop.

I see a remake is coming to television this Sunday. What a shock for audiences throughout America to find a relic of the past dusted off and sold as new . The Prisoner remake will premiere this Sunday on AMC. It could be enjoyable, it could be pointless. It certainly is not breaking any new ground. The original series, which starred the late Patrick McGoohan, defined smart and different television for a generation. Campy and ironic in a Cold War fantasy land filled with questions without answers. Number 6 tormented endlessly by his captivity.

The Prisoner remake announcements bring to mind the torment my furry feline friends of more than decade have experienced for six years now. There it is, that coincidental Number 6. "Who is Number 1?" The cats have questioned me daily with that question, but only in the rhetorical sense. Each of the three believe firmly that they are Number 1.

The cats are now out and about exploring the neighborhood, crossing paths with their unfortunate brethren who do not have the luxury of the nice warm beds at night to comfort them when meandering the fence lines becomes tiresome. Vicky and I can't really call the three cats taking up occupancy at this house ours today anymore than we could 7 to 12 years ago, when in a different city near a river these three felines had the complete run of the area.

Life changed.

For six years the cats in our keep were on lock-down due to a housing decision that landed them on a busy street in a neighborhood where many people treated cats as vermin. The reality found life on the inside very boring but far safer than life on the streets as target practice. The new digs offer a break from the boredom of safe walls and a chance to examine surroundings again. To live a life as cat.

The only worry that pops into my brain at this juncture concerns the time between freedom. Has the tick-tock of the seasonal clock robbed them all of the quick reflexes of their youth? Do fences once easily scaled pose bigger challenges for them should something ferocious decide to charge? But, life is a risk for all of us. I enjoy their company, just not enough to make them into Number 6 for perpetuity's sake.

I guess we'll all watch and see how the number six deals with today's realities.

"Clever, Classless and Free"

Our house sale closes this week on John Lennon's birthday. My mind shouts that this date might be a bad omen.

Nervous energy this week keeps me up late and makes me get up early. The escrow countdown does that to my feeble constitution. Four days to go and the sale will be complete. All issues have been resolved so there should be nothing to worry about, but being the stew-kettle I am the pervasive nagging dread drips all over my plate of possible outcomes.

Took in a movie Sunday to try the two hour escape route and ponder different scenarios of someone not trapped in my bubbling cauldron, but even Michael Moore's excellent new endeavor, Capitalism: A Love Story , couldn't get the noodle-of-nagging-doubt off the noggin.

The movie differs a bit from other Moore efforts. I'll say straight out I am a big fan of Michael Moore, and will never understand the vehement vocal histrionics that mercilessly attack a guy who tries to help and educate the common man. If this were one hundred years ago he might have been locked up for sedition like Eugene Debs was by the Wilson Administration. Still, the vitriol from people who disagree with Moore's point of view shocks the sensibilities. And what is truly discouraging is that those who disparage his films rarely have seen them.

There is one small fact found in the nearly two-hour examination of capitalism that hits at the core of our economic crisis. The fact that 1% of the US population has more combined wealth than does 95% of American citizens. The fact that this does not outrage everyone in the 95% feeble bracket of American economics also hits at the core of our financial problems. You cannot change things if people refuse to change.

When did America become a rut nation? Stuck between the muddy sidewalls of lies for several generations now people seem trapped within deep grooves of bitter denial to thwart any effort to try something different.

Talk to anyone about health care and every one will agree the system is failing too many people. The vast majority of citizens believe our system should be changed. Nothing gets done this year, just as nothing has been done since Harry Truman tried to take one of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's 2nd Bill of Rights and make it his own in 1945 with a proposal for universal health care for all Americans.

A few months back when the market was truly in the tank, with the Dow-Jones index hovering in the mid 6000 range, I was hopeful that we would actually get some legislation done that would effect new directions to break the hostile status quo of economic slavery perpetrated by the wealthiest on the most vulnerable. But as stock portfolios have begun to improve the grooves of repetition rise again, and those who have dug in seem to have convinced themselves their grip on the wheel is once again secure, nothing of substance happens to make any difference.

Michael Moore posits a number of ideas on why so many working Americans of every stripe continue to buy into an economic system that only rewards the very few. Is it because so many aspire to a spot where they can become one of the privileged few and live above the peasantry? There are some very shocking bits of news, that never made it to big media pundits or headlines found in Capitalism: A Love Story. A memo from Citigroup puts into plain language what the top financial tier thinks of all those not in the inner sanctum of wealth, and how they should best continue to shake the losing class down.

It is ironic to hear little bits of fear creep into print and other media about the perception that so many liberals hate the rich, and through language are trying to perpetrate class warfare on America. The irony finds so many of the politically conservative actually waging the class war today with the Bush Tax Cuts, the drive to privatize Social Security, the unrelenting war against organized labor and the benefits formerly won but now in peril for American workers, and the outsourcing of manufacturing and jobs to Third World countries (who have failed to see their standard of living rise over this period).

The film was good, but also did nothing to settle my worried mind. I tried putting on some Lennon music but got stuck on "Working Class Hero." We really have been stuck in the same place for a long time. Sure hope the house closes and everyone can move on.

Autumn in Repose

October leaves begin their turn. The south wall sees more sun while moss begins to spring in cool damp areas of the now more shaded front landscape. The eyes of cats roam through the glass and peer onto the screen of new surroundings. Life proceeds on a bumpy elliptical path throughout the yard for those invested in the ground and in the air. Ivy winds its way through chain link and old redwood slats, always on the move and ready to change directions over the futile clips to slow its progress. A pool forms from a leaky sprinkler valve softening a section of lawn.

Coffee hangs in the air helping an occupant stiffen to brace the fall. Familiar refrains of a pop tune swim amid the space. Individuals find their place in front of electronic monitors furtively seeking some connection to the world they are immersed in, but displaced from comprehension of.

Articles painted in black ink folded on a table retell local actions of a past that never stops building to a more confused present. Silence whispers to no avail as the hum of a fan intrudes on quiet. Outside a distant roar from the parade of various cars and trucks push against the envelope of ease and relaxation. A cat utters disgust of containment while trying to lure a door ajar to escape the everyday of boredom.

Yesterday was different. Yesterday news was made. Now is precarious, yesterday finite and fixed.

There is no future. Future is fools gold. Future never happens. Future is a concept to help ease the angst of the ever threatening now. Now is the change so many are frightened of. Do we turn off the fan to suppress the hum of annoyance? Has the hum drum become hum dumb?

A crow latches onto the wrought iron fence. The bird seems fixated on the water under a Eucalyptus tree. Choice seems to paralyze the creature. Water on the ground? The old safe routine of flight to a higher perch and more possibilities to ponder?

E minor and a variant off an A major scale beckon the fingers into a different action. Autumn closes in.

A Strand of Wet Spaghetti: Democratic Party Symbol

A month away from blog land here at the Silver Threads network. All those ideas over all those days evaporated in the heat of physical exertion. I am the blank slate now. Eyeballs register the moment, and detects more than a 10 pound loss on the body mass from a month ago. Almost back to turn-around jump shot shape if the knees today did not demand some other hobby.

The national scene remains just as ugly today as it was on August 31, 2009. Health care reform now is in the clutches of various paid-for-by-the-industry officials that have done nothing to curb terrible insurance practices or skyrocketing premiums. The opportunity for necessary changes slips quietly away, like Democrat Party worms slinking back into the ground after a rain. Weren't they everywhere just an hour ago with optimism and feigned courage of convictions?

Too much talk radio and right-wing lunacy to stand up to must be the Democrat signal for retreat. All those ignoramuses at various town hall events with the birth certificate signs, the Hitler comparisons, and the no public option but don't touch my medicare screams drown out facts and reason yet again. Donkeys could be worms, but the suggestion is too yucky for our prepackaged public to swallow.

So, I have a variant suggestion on the theme for a new Democratic Party symbol. It should be a little rolled circle of one loose wet spaghetti strand. It is soft and pliable. On its lonesome it has no taste to speak of. You can never get a drenched strand of spaghetti to stand up for any thing. The wet spaghetti strand serves as the icon for political dysfunction. There remains no cure for the limp will. No pasta Viagra to invigorate blood, and bone an issue where it must be boned.

Wet spaghetti knows its place on the political plate is to be buried under a heavy garish red sauce which hides true taste. Wet spaghetti then gets cut, spooned or twisted until it disappears without a trace.

Moving

The bed feels strangely uncooperative. Sleep comes in starts and fits. I ache in places I did not think a person could ache in. Now I know what a football turf toe injury must feel like. The sucker seems stuck in a perennial pain gear. Water, which usually helps those hamstring muscles relax for an hour or two has no effect on woe-toe. Thank the pharmacological god above for bringing Vicodin to the world. I still can't sleep but I don't care.

The guitar might have to wait weeks before I can furtively muster up the grip necessary to play a glissando or two. Chords might be months away due to swollen and inflexible fingers. My Les Paul Custom mocks me every time I gimp on past knowing my arms and shoulders can't take the weight right now. Even doing necessary private business hurts with these limbs and digits agonies.

Denial is such a strong place to fixate on within a mind. Oh, we can save a few bucks if we cut the cove and trim on the linoleum. Being ignorant, and now having to pay for my sins on several levels, I had no idea the cove trim was where all the work on linoleum floor prep would be. In desperation, as the spasms began to pop on every inch of my body, just scraping the whole damn floor away seemed much easier.

Of course, the old washer had some valve issues. And, who would have thought so much water remains in a machine after the clothes are done? Did I say heavy and extremely messy? I was lucky a good friend, and even more fortunately because he is a plumbing contractor, happened by to see if we needed some help. Total disaster averted, but the growing realization of how pathetic this mind and body have aged into wiped all that denial away.

Yes, and now all those bucks saved must go to the physical therapist and drugs necessary to prop my body up like El Cid before the final charge and move. Mercifully the place has a pool, and my body still floats.

Peer Pressure

Back in the 1980s a Canadian band, Red Rider, had a huge hit. The big tune was Lunatic Fringe. The song remains a rock station staple after 25 years. Yes, it owes a lot to some Pink Floyd sounds from the decade before, but stands alone as that singular identifier of a peculiar type of public personality that has amused and pissed us all off for these many years.

Today we live in a world where any amusement over the lunatic fringe wore off long ago, and we find exasperated contempt for the current lunatic binge howling extremist positions of idiocy fed by dense ignorance, or by unspeakable acts of violence over the smallest perceived slight. How did so many people get caught imbibing on this decade's lunatic binge?

Here is a tough segue way, but needed background. I'm a fan of computers. Once upon a time zone change, I pounded keys on a little Osborne 1 and felt immediately empowered. I loved the little machine, which looked when folded up like a small sewing machine. It had a small 5" screen with two floppy drives, and impressed the hell out of my biz mates. The Osborne 1 cost about $1,800 at the time of purchase. Funny, every new personal computer each time I upgraded usually cost me roughly this $1,800 amount.

I moved from floppy to floppy to CD-ROM to DVD-ROM to UBS ports with memory sticks to the Internet, and finally to the poor house over all the computers I have hammered on over two-plus decades . The last several years, due to a crippled economy, has seen my face a lot less in a public place hanging with like minded art and culture mongers of Main Street. I have been alone in my zone with my current pc board of choice.

I read to try and keep up with today, and glean gobs of economic news from a bunch of sources. I find I have a lot of company staying off the streets these days. This past decade has seen every job created become just another lost job. Men took it in the shorts this decade in a huge way with construction, financial service and manufacturing nose diving into the ground. Since the start of this recession 82% of all workers cashiered have been men.

So, I have a ton of company I never see, hanging in their caves banging on keyboards to some vague unseen audience, who may or may not agree with anything being imprinted on some server and fed to some monitor, which feeds the lunatic-binge-juice of displacement.

The last time I remember so many out-of-it people inhabiting a common area that impinged on my good times was back in the K to 12 years.

When I think of my old school days, I remember crappy-stupid behavior found immediate smack-down by those in control. Teachers were in charge in the classrooms, but teachers could always be ignored, and profs never followed you home to beat on you, or toilet paper your parents house. Tough big kids could be a force on the playground, but the real power was held by groups of students in class, and out in the yard, who were the ultimate committees to approve acceptance or finger rejection. Most kids from third grade through high school lived by the rules of approval from peer social groups. Today those who get the cold shoulder at school or on the job can do really bad things.

It wasn't always fair. Actually, as I remember, the process was never fair but it worked to keep really stupid behavior from becoming pure anarchy on various campuses of hormone driven social misfits. It was life training. When you graduated, or dropped into the job, employees were working peers, always eager to correct a too eager kiss-ass, smart-ass or lame-ass no matter the time of day. Peers were necessary to keep the world real and the business honest. Peers are the ultimate checks and balance of society.

The computer, and by extension the Internet, works without peers. Out here on the web life moves with fans, trolls, stalkers, friends, bots, spam and family but each individual is without a peer. No one really gives good honest ass-truth on the Internet, because peers do not exist. Without clout and no group control over the true misfits lunacy grows. Subscriptions and like minded social groups can lock out the misfit from little circles but the web is a vast ocean all these little circles swim in, and chances are always good the fringe-buoys will pop up frequently if you are a constant swimmer. Another aspect of why peers have disappeared in cyberspace is the fear of the hacker. Offend the wrong party who has just enough malevolence and learning and you and your machine can suffer some heavy consequences.

A cat has no peer. But, I believe people need peers to keep chaos at a safe distance. Maybe the web will evolve over time and come up with nonthreatening peer-ship to help steward the race through these troubled waters. In the meantime I am now set on a course of more local interaction in public places. I am hopeful the few peers who tag along with me still have the necessary balls of etiquette to politely point out the misplaced nose hair or help me understand that a hummer is not necessarily the cute little bird flitting in my backyard.

Health Care - "On The Road" to Nowhere-

Time to mount the blog-pony today and allow the muse back in the house, because life still matters every day. What a month since mid-July. Contentious news everywhere with a stalled bottomed economy while health care reform talk fills the airwaves and print mediums. Representatives hold town hall meetings and get shouted down by the angry and unruly.

I am not sure why making fundamental changes to such a broken health system here in the U.S. deserves the pitchforks and torch treatment usually reserved for old Universal monsters. You might think that all these average looking white people do not feel the need to eliminate the very real threat of bankruptcy over a medical problem. Maybe these people protesting public discussions on the health issue think the private insurers will resort to payback and raise their deductibles and premiums for having the audacity to propose a public coverage option. No one could be stupid enough to buy into the idea that this is communism or evil socialism with the state dictating to you your medical reality.

When I hear Republicans state their party wants to insure that a government bureaucrat never gets between you and your doctor you know they mean it. But they will not do one thing to keep that insurance company bureaucrat between you and the doctor, because that insurer has paid a whole lot of money to both Republicans and Democrats over the years to make sure the government is totally ineffective and worthless in addressing this important social issue. Granted, Republicans have gotten a far larger share than the Democrats over a 20 year period, but it just goes to show a shrewd gambler will cover both sides of his bet.

What is interesting today is the talk from the health insurers and their PR firms indicating they too want reform, just not a public option which could threaten or impact their profit taking. Insurers really want a double mandate, which means simply that everyone must buy insurance in America, and all companies selling insurance must sell to everyone. We will get some version of this as our health care reform.

The public option is much like the public vote, it stirs the passions and beguiles the believers of the cause that a change to their way of thinking is possible. America has always been about the money, and finding new and ingenious methods of shaking down commoners to reward the powerfully entrenched wealth holders. Nothing in the ballot boxes ever changes that fact. The evidence that each new generation finds a small group of people with a great concept, and that a few of those innovators are rewarded extraordinarily, does not mean that life in the middle or on the bottom has really changed that much.

This is not to say that breakthroughs like the automobile, the airplane, the radio, the television, the Internet, and the bomb over the last century have not had major impacts on how society works. This is only to say people have always been nomadic, and on the move from the dawn of our period on the planet. We have always used communication to further our nomadic quests, and have availed ourselves of ingenious methods from smoke to birds to broaden a talking point's reach. Some group of people always found the biggest club to wield over the competition.

The uses of patriotism, religion and fear of the unknown are the tried and true methods of maintaining obeisance to those in control. How little we have progressed to see these old canards of the corrupt used so effectively on the public today to foil dreams of rights and raising health standards for so many.

Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs knew we were Beat fifty years ago. The toys of escape have changed, but our real fortunes have not.

The Bird is recommended listening and still a great symbol of defiance in either hand.

A Walter Cronkite Story

My Yahoo! screen shows Walter Cronkite dies after a lengthy illness. I find my Facebook chums churning out the Youtube clips of famous moments from CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. I comment on one that he was the face of news for America when he anchored his nightly desk for the Tiffany Network.

Sad to see another 20th Century icon disappear from the stage. I might be sad because it makes me realize the time we walk on this rock is so fleeting. Walter's death reminds many of us just how long we have been here. We take a little stock of things to see how we measure on days like this. I come up very short next to the likes of Walter. Seeing his face on the Facebook walls I pause and remember one day twenty-five years ago very fondly.

I worked for Tower Records, and on this particular day the boss, San Francisco's regional manager, and I were going to lunch with Larry from Polygram. The chosen restaurant was on the edge of Chinatown at one of Herb Caen's favorite eating haunts. Nobody made huge money working for Tower Records, but the perks were always awesome. Larry was rewarding the Columbus & Bay store for hitting an all-time purchasing high with Polygram. A huge Donna Summer record could have been a big reason for our success, but Donna was a not available for lunch. And who were we to refuse such generosity and praise?

The three of us were waiting for our reserved table, and chatting in the very small foyer of the restaurant when Walter Cronkite with his diminutive wife on his arm walked through the door. At this juncture, in the presence of the most famous living newscaster on the planet at the time, I could not control myself. I moved away from Kenny and Larry and welcomed Walter and his wife to San Francisco, and to this world class establishment with a firm handshake. The maitre' D from the restaurant saw this brief interaction, and hurriedly broke between us and whisked Mr. and Mrs. Cronkite from my clutches to "Mr. Caen's special table."

We were seated not far from the Cronkites, but far enough away with plenty of waiters in between to prevent me from any more audacious maneuvers. My companions chided me and joked a bit about the encounter, but we settled down for some serious wine and food explorations. We talked of wineries in Napa, of Chardonnays and Pinot Noirs. We talked music. We discussed expansion plans and what promise the compact disc showed for the industry. We talked MTV. We ate great food and drank great wine. As we were having another bottle opened and poured for us, who should come to the table? Walter Cronkite tapped my shoulder and thanked me for the heartfelt welcome. He actually winked when he said heartfelt and escorted his wife from the dining area. For one of the few times in my life I was speechless.

We were all a little dumbfounded, but not so dumb as to ignore the glasses in front of us and begin work on a fabulous early 1970s Cabernet. We laughed and spoke about what great times these were to work and live in The City.

When lunch was done I floated back to the store. You could feel the energy around the place. The parking lot was full. The boards on the wall showcased what was cool that month. The marquee had the upcoming in-store details and when the door flew open as a few customers exited I got a big blast of She Works Hard For The Money in my ears.

Another giant passes away today. Thanks for the wonderful memories, Walter. Goodnight.

Blast into the Past

East-West

What a time. Turmoil meets love in a crowded hemp-smoke haze of wake up. The college cats in college towns across Uncle Sam's spaces and places spurn the B-Invasion of pimply-primped pop idols. Black meets white in the Aftermath of watching the House Burning Down in Motown. Hell Night!

Free speech ultimately costs taxpayers and a Chancellor plenty. Girls fill with The pill while other mixtures from the chem lab spawn a frenzy of obsession in a fanciful revolution of libertine passion mixed with mescaline. Mr. Folk, some say, he die when roots electrify on some upper crust resort. Sho' nuff.

Colors, repressed for so long, ring out with a Boldness that tilts the Axis of Love on every street. Ties widen, eyes brighten and bras burn, but album covers get the the censors turn while fat joints simmer amid purple and red bell bottoms. Light My Fire!

Can you cop the mood? Would a smoke and cognac brighten the interlude between Now! and Them? Zen! A late decade moment where Dharma sped past Kharma to some secluded celebrity get away and found virtue unmasked by the currency of greed.

The orbs of 1966 dance underneath the paisley muslin blouses. They invite you to stare at them. The word magnificence does not do them justice as the tips protrude as though defying gravity while the pair sway to a shuffle on their own terms. Form stripped bare among piles of flannel bags and thumbs flagging along the highways. Put on Paul Butterfield's East-West and roll those balls. Time never matters in that true zone, and this song always finds the zone.

Out of Time

Time plays out differently this week. Silence fills the air at points when an apparatus should ring. The favored chairs now empty in the familiar house listen to the answering machine with his voice asking to leave a message he will never receive. Endless syncopation with no riff. It could be Coltrane.

My father left this space and time on a quiet Friday morning this July. What is left of what was is a distant memory now. Ken Thrasher, the complex and complicated individual fell and just faded away after eighty-four years on the planet. At one point he stood six feet and three inches tall with 180 pounds on his angular frame. The last month of his life the doctor measured him at just under six feet while weighing around130 pounds. Time exacts a toll on every person. The beat with no meat who could disappear within a tear. It could be Monk.

All the gifts of youth in the hands and eyes wore away over the years. The last decade found the comfort of the piano, or the pad and pencil lost to unsteady hands. The hands became constant reminders of fleeting youth and how quickly it disappeared into the shakiness of a dissonant pattern called old age. The platter of patter. It could be the Duke.

Sad sentiments have no place now. Spirit shines brightly and echoes reverberate with piano and laughter. Voices chime in on familiar choruses as the keys pound the flights of mental improvisations the player pulls from the air. It could be Bud Powell.

Reunions await in the land of dreams beyond the banal of earth. Youth and wisdom wander in the ether of another dimension. Free from cares and a life of recycling into the endless today of constant now. I remember you. I whistle your tunes and admire your art and the faithful ledgers you crafted. It was a nice visit. I still have Fats and Brubeck on the hi-fi to keep us company after our last conversation.

Goodbye, Dad. Find out what your wife was up to all these years in the cosmos. We'll stay tuned.

Tommy, can you hear me?

Ever feel like a pinball? Just ricochet violently from one post to another, and then get the paddle just as you start to relax? Is this my life life now?

Bed was blessed relief at 10pm Sunday night on June 29, 2009. Stretched out after the dog finished his cozy time on the corner and flew into his own little sleep area, I could just feel the muscles unwind. Ring. Ring. Ring. Uh-oh.

Dad fell getting into bed and could not get up. Ouch, I knew the night would be a long one. Relayed the message to my sweetie while getting the pants on, and the shirt. Grabbed the keys and downed a glass of water for the road. In days gone by it might have been a much stiffer beverage, but experience taught me that for long hauls and endless pacing back and forth in long corridors water was the tonic.

When I entered the familiar parental bedroom I saw the blood on the left arm from the huge slice the wooden bed-runner edge exacted during the fall. I still hear the complaint in the voice that whispered, "I can't get up." The nurse showed up about fifteen minutes later from the hospice organization. I had managed to pull my father onto the bed and swab his wound with some wash cloths. She wrapped the wound and called the ambulance. I pulled out the distilled vinegar to remove the blood stains from the carpet while we waited.

The ambulance arrived, and with great difficulty the paramedics moved my father out through the narrow hallway and into the ambulance. The meet up would take place at the chosen hospital. Nights at the ER are tough on the system. The staff are trained and qualified, and completely overwhelmed. Yes, I remember the waiting room filled to the max. Just like the many other times we had driven into the ER-zone over the past couple of years.

X-rays were painful and strained. With the short staff at 2AM I got to don the lead jacket and assist the radiologist. The verdict was a slight fracture of the hip. Not good news for a frail 84 year-old. Nothing more I could do that morning, so I drove home and supplied the details to my nearest and dearest. Bad break all around.

Monday was a wide array of emotions from my father in the hospital and calls to family members near and far. My sister was in Pennsylvania finishing up a sale of some major personal property to a Kentucky family. She was not sure when she would be able to get out. Might be six days, could be longer. I told her I would keep her updated.

Monday night dad began to feel both the pain medications and grim reality. He was all over the place and barely rational. By Tuesday, his body was under siege with an oxygen mask, catheters and IVs stuck in several locations while medications and plasma transfusions poured into him. He was gasping and struggling all day. He struggled so violently restraints had to be used after he badly tore up both forearms against the hospital bed supports. I was sure this was the end when I left Tuesday night.

Wednesday morning, with no call from the hospital, I went down to see what the condition was. He still had the oxygen mask, but was now calm and bandaged from the previous day's battle. He looked terrible, like some prize fighter had tagged him repeatedly for fifteen rounds, leaving him swollen and bruised and not knowing where he was or who he was talking with. Doctors said he was responding to their efforts and they tentatively scheduled hip surgery for the Thursday, July 2. I was dumbfounded. But, I reminded myself- I am not a medical doctor. We would wait and see how he progressed.

Many visits on Wednesday and not much improvement. Strange to converse with a person who can only register sounds just above a whisper in a hospital. Stranger still to get close, and hear he doesn't know where the hell he is, or who the hell he is talking to. But, surgery was still a distinct possibility for Thursday. I wasn't buying it, but stranger things may have happened somewhere.

Thursday found the patient still disoriented but lucid for moments. My youngest arrived at noon, and we went for a visit. Dad seemed to recognize the youthful face, and thanked him for coming. Tests seemed to indicate that surgery would be delayed until Friday while the surgeon discussed with the anesthetist what anesthesia should be used, and the cardiologist said no general anesthetic should be applied during the operation due to the fragile status of the patient's heart. I tried to inform my father of the events as they were going down, some stuck some did not.

Friday morning arrived after another long night of little sleep, and surgery was definitely going to happen. The team of doctors had determined that a local would be given and a quick surgical procedure would be performed to insert three screws into the fracture to secure the hip. The surgery went smoothly, and my dad seemed to be more cognizant of the events and people surrounding him all of Friday.

The weekend saw discussions of moving to a rehab facility amid fits and starts of temper and discomfort from the now week long hospital stay. The nurses and doctors had lost their appeal. They were now bosses giving directions and demanding effort and movements that caused some pain and distress on the injured party. Rehab departure dates depended on white cell counts getting back to reasonable levels.

Monday's exit was postponed until Tuesday. Tuesday morning saw my youngest son depart back to Sacramento. The patient was gloomy all day, believing he was never leaving the hospital. Tuesday's release was postponed until today. His arms continued to look very bad, and his hands shake uncontrollably most of the time. He needs assistance to feed himself, to shuffle with a walker 20 steps before being completely exhausted and crumpling back into his former prone position. The lucidity seems to come and go, but it may be the case that the end truly is in sight for him and it is overwhelming. The peace that the morphine brought has been replaced by a reality where there are few questions left to answer satisfactorily.

Of course, my dearest and I have lots of questions on our minds regarding what happens next to our immediate lives, which now seem hinged on each medical outcome of my father. The return home could mean moving in with him and having some hospice care resume. This is an option both of us have declared is not viable given our own household circumstance. My sister who will finally arrive Thursday afternoon, July 9, will not be able to fill much of a role as an elder care giver due to her occupational circumstance. If the rehab makes some progress the likelihood of dad living out the time he has in our home becomes a very real probability. There are nursing homes (convalescent hospitals or skilled nursing facilities) that might be a possibility but those are slight options. The relatives have been very supportive over the phone, but have no answers.

We wait and see. We bounce plans off one another here at home during the brief off moments, both acknowledging the hours are dwindling but looking at another paddle tanning our backsides into motion on a journey where we have no end date.

"Tommy, can you hear me?"

Summer and it is all about the water

I guess summer really is here. California finds itself in the third year of drought. We had our first little range fire of about 700 acres near the Ikea distribution facility at the foot of the Grapevine, the streets of Iran are on fire over election fraud and repression from their ruling theocracy, and the powerful California Farm Bureau is waging an all out attack on the Delta Smelt. It brought to mind that old Kingston Trio song, The Merry Minuet, where the song ends with these still pertinent lines "They're rioting in Africa. There's strife in Iran. What nature does not do to us will be done by our fellow man."

With summer here, and thinking about water, I found myself browsing a column the other day describing the little endangered fish, the Delta Smelt, as the ultimate enemy of all life here in California. The opinion piece appeared in The Bakersfield Californian in the Saturday edition.

The views are from one of our local conservative talk-radio personalities (is there any other kind these days?), Inga Barks. Inga, cites a 1993 report presented by a former Kern County Supervisor, which warned 16 years ago of dire consequences for the Central Valley if environmental protection was not balanced with "our very livelihood." She argues "we're on a collision course between fish and mankind -- and mankind is losing." She goes on with even greater intensity, "Read this part aloud: Farms are dying, our economy is failing and jobs are disappearing -- all because someone thinks it makes sense to put the needs of a fish too dumb to stay alive above the needs and jobs of humans."

I don't think smelt can be blamed for all those no-money-down adjustable-rate-mortgages and the quick-sell games AIG, Countrywide, Ameriquest, Lehman Brothers, Bear Stearns and so many others played in bringing the economy to the porcelain bowl on wobbly and bent knees. The little finger length fish had no part in that Wall Street party and hangover. I doubt Mr. and Mrs. Smelt have anything to do with our Middle East war policy, or California's failed state budget.

But, farming interests really do hate the Delta Smelt during dry years (and there are always plenty of dry years in California) for curtailing contracted water shipments under the Central Valley Project. This project came into law during the last Great Depression and saw its most significant update in 1992. In an act of supreme irony a Republican President, George H. W. Bush ushered in with his signature the Reclamation Projects Authorization and Adjustment Act of 1992 (Public Law 102-575) that included Title XXIV, the Central Valley Project Improvement Act (CVPIA).

CVPIA´s general purposes are to:

1. Protect, restore, and enhance fish, wildlife, and associated habitats in California´s Central Valley and Trinity river basins
2. Address the Central Valley Project´s impacts on fish, wildlife, and associated habitat
3. Improve the Central Valley Project´s operational flexibility
4. Increase water-related benefits provided through expanded use of voluntary water transfers and improved water conservation
5. Contribute to the State of California´s interim and long-term efforts to protect the San Francisco Bay/Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta Estuary
6. Achieve a reasonable balance among competing demands for project water, including requirements for fish and wildlife, agriculture, municipal and industrial and power contractors.

These purposes respond to a need to modify the project´s existing water operations and physical facilities.

With all that environmental protection language in the law you can only imagine how angry big California industrial and agribusiness interests were with George H. W. Bush. They certainly did not help his re-election efforts against W. J. Clinton.

When the original Central Valley Project was enacted in the 1930s there was a 160 acre feet limit on the amount of water any farm concern could use. By the early 1980s 80% of all the farmland being used in California was on farms of 1,000 acres or larger. 75% of all agricultural output came from only 10% of the farms.(source CVP link). The current limit of 960 acre feet of project water came with the Reclamation and Reform Act of 1982, which also ended the residency requirement in the original law on the farms receiving the Central Valley Project water. This why so many LLCs and corporations in Nevada and Delaware now own most of California's farmland. And people wonder why California is so far in debt.

California is a peculiar place when it comes to how water rights work. There are two watersheds in California's Central Valley Basin: the Sacramento River and its tributaries, and the San Joaquin River and its tributaries. Reasonable use, public benefit and he who got there first gets first claim to the water are the general rules of water in the state. The really big farms are covered, because most of them are senior water rights holders. The northern part of the state is covered because of key protections built into the Project law over the years.

These key protections have been built over a long period of time to govern and persuade people using water in California. The County of Origin Law is one of those legislative protections. The Watershed of Origin Protection Act is another. These both came into law during the 1930s, and both protect the areas and counties where the water originates. These counties and areas have first claims to the water, which supersedes what the state or federal government can do with these watersheds. This is why NorCal gets water and SoCal gets water, but most of small to mid size agricultural concerns in Central Cal get squat. Seniority and home field advantage always trumps hopes and dreams of small outfits.

Most of California agriculture could, and should, do a lot more for water conservation. The Pacific Institute put out a blistering report on current water practices by the California agriculture industry. They argue with technology and science applied to farms total usage could be cut by 20% within twenty years time. Dry years would not be an impediment and our economy would not be damaged. This could hold down some major costs on infrastructure projects, like a new peripheral canal.

I am surprised how little energy statewide there is for a new peripheral canal, which really is something all Californians should bite the bullet on. The Delta is at the stage where it is unsustainable. Our levees and entire water supply are one major earthquake away from catastrophe, with the distinct prospect of no water for more than twenty million people in the state who rely on the old Central Valley Project if a big one should occur.

The Delta Smelt is one of the very few species able to navigate between fresh water and salt water in one of those precious and little understood filtration systems, which millions of years of evolution perfected to keep nature healthy. The Los Angeles Times ran a story a couple of years back, during the beginning of our current drought explaining why the Delta Smelt is so important. In thirty years time this little fish is one of the seventeen remaining fish species from a population of 29 fish species that called the Delta home in the 1970s.

Frontline recently did a great show examining how our urban and suburban industrial development has undone much of our environment. Poisoned Waters, explores our very endangered waterways with the focus on the Chesapeake Bay and Puget Sound. The best thing about Frontline documentaries is that they are balanced. There are possible solutions in the offing from stakeholders on both sides of the issue. The growing dead hole in the Chesapeake Bay and rising pollution of Puget Sound should be huge alarm bells going off around the nation, but it is still all quiet on the American western front when it comes to protecting our increasingly fragile ecosystem, particularly the western front in California.

Cool, clear, water. The drought is real, and so is this problem. Blaming the Delta Smelt and the other important species of our largest estuary serves no one, even those who rail against the little fish. Small things matter. Use a car wash that recycles water, instead of hosing your car at home. Water your lawn less this year, and think about replacing grass with plants that use little water. Buy low flow toilets with high action air pumps to save water and remove waste efficiently. Call your dorky legislator to move the canal process along and understand that a small charge on all of us can make big things that are necessary happen. You get the picture. We live in a starfish world where small things can make big improvements.

No rationing at the end, but then it's Medicare

I'm glad this week is nearly done. We squared away the hospice situation for my father, which I thought might help his frame of mind, but it became just another turn on the dimmer switch darkening an already heavy shadowed mood. Nothing ever seems to be good enough. It is always too many on hand or not enough. Porridge too hot, porridge too cold. But, nearing the end of days what does anyone expect?

My dad has an adage regarding his late stage in life, "These are not the golden years, these are the rust years." I know my dad could not name one Neil Young song, but he certainly summed one up brilliantly. Now it becomes a finite waiting game. I will say his current care is probably the best he has experienced in a long, long while. Lots of attention with a variety of people to interact with from Chaplains to nurses to social workers to doctors, all very pleasant and understanding. If only the health care situation for those who don't have a set end-date were so thoughtfully constructed.

My dad's health care in the past has been like many in this country. A problem that made a journey to the doctor necessary, which was met with a brief visit and exam with the ubiquitous prescription to mask the pain or control a problem which would remain. For most of my dad's ailments, whether it was the irregular heartbeat (arrhythmia), or the limited blood flow and oxygen intake (Chronic Obstruction Pulmonary Disease and Cardiovascular Disease). The short and sweet version is defined as getting up in years with too much smoke on the lungs, which hurts the heart. Take some more drugs, which slow you to a crawl, and when you cannot crawl any longer meet your new attendants.

All hospices accept Medicare that I checked out. I'm not sure what the future of hospice will be for all those who didn't put away the million dollar retirement package. Given our current battle to provide universal health care coverage, and the blow-back from the entrenched conglomerate interests who not only control the insured in this country but the government as well, I am becoming more and more resigned that not much change will happen for health care in these United Stupids of America.

There is news out this week that there will be no votes from Republicans to put a government single-payer option program into play as part of health care reform. There are Democrats who do not want this option????? A health care plan gets unveiled soon, but the whole process may be in jeopardy due to our failed economy, and the onslaught of conservative pundit rhetoric that the sky is filled with socialists and they are all falling on you with plans to ration your health care.

I don't know about you, but rationing by rescission, by ever increasing premiums with higher out of pocket expenditures and having insurance bureaucrats dictate what treatments you should receive, and when, seems to be the norm in this country already.

But rest assured for those nearing the end of the trail, hospice is still there. Given the head splitting loud anti-tax drum it probably will not be a social service provided through a government program in the not too distant future. You will be looking ahead to real premiums from real insurers to cover your real end of days, which will leave you and yours with what you came into the world with.

A Conversation on Values

I found myself listening in on a conversation a table away from me and my dining companion at one of the local coffee shops the other day. I had an ear open because the both of us at our table didn't have a lot of new things to say to one another, and we were each busy working over our respective egg choices.

The conversation between the two sixty-something guys seated at the other table involved a class on values and the responses it elicited. I only heard bits and pieces of the dialog. There was an interesting observation as to how deeply held values when challenged could create physical symptoms of illness or distress. There was also a statement from the white bearded philosopher who did most of the talking, that people holding extreme personal or cultural values from both sides of the sociological and political spectrum invariably left the class before completion. I guessed that resolution or compromise was not part of the extremist academic agenda. If the speaker offered his interpretation, I missed it.

Values are serious business for people. This week some ancient guy named James W. von Brunn shot and killed a security guard at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. His personal values of white supremacy were being threatened, and he decided the time was right for a violent confrontation at a place that represented people and values who most threatened his. We saw this played out just two weeks ago when another values driven man, whose pro-life values were threatened, killed Dr. George Tiller, who was one of the very few doctors in this country performing the still legal late term medical procedure for women who believed abortion was their only option.

You hear a lot of comments and questions in the waking day regarding values. As a nation of people, what do we truly value in this country? Do we value military might above all else? If not, why do we spend more than half a trillion dollars every year on the military industrial complex? You hear plenty about the value of life from nearly every quarter, and yet we have millions of kids going hungry while living in poverty, incarcerate more people than any other nation and won't cover nearly 50 million Americans who live without health care. So maybe the value of life in this land has more to do with being not dead than it has to do with the quality of life provided for its citizens.

Values of a nation are tough to pin down, because a country's values are really just a collection of individual values. However, values are not permanent. Values shift. What many Americans valued fifty years ago might not hold any value today. Smoking was deemed socially cool in the 1950s, with cigarettes and their accessories holding a high cultural value. Today cigarettes and smokers are held in contempt, social outcasts.

As individuals, our values seem in perpetual conflict. We have more pet dogs (74 million) and cats (88 million) in America than any other nation by far. The numbers are from American Pet Products Manufacturers Association (APPMA). We obviously value pet companionship. However, American Humane estimates that approximately 9.6 million pets are euthanized each year. Yes we love pets, but we kill so many healthy and neglected ones every year.

I thought about a few of the values I have held over the years. I collected music, film, books, art and ball cards for years. I put a high value on my personal collection. But values can change over time, and my attachment to my personal collection of these popular culture fixtures is not as strong today as it was five years ago. My values on this formerly big part of my life have shifted.

There are stories all over America this week, as a result of the two examples of violence I mentioned earlier, that extremism is wrecking havoc throughout the nation. The clash of values on how we live takes place everyday all over the country from barbershops to blogs to living rooms to barrooms. One hundred and forty-four years after the Civil War we appear more divided than ever before, and face the real possibility of another very uncivil war amongst ourselves if we do not find a way to respect differing values.

We need a values check. We need to take a serious look inside each of us and determine what is most important to our individual selves. I believe we need to acknowledge people live in communities where space, time and resources are shared with very divergent people who have their own values, which might be very different from values you or I hold.

I always try to remember that values are not axioms, or self evident truths. Values are constructs of the brain which get applied to people and things we come into contact with. People change, and so do values. You cannot assume your values hold any sway over anyone but yourself. No sense in going nuclear over value differences, or allowing a few very loud shouters to make you defensive. You earned your values the old fashioned way, you made them up as you went along the path you chose.

The Hook Up

NPR ran a story very recently on today's variation of the mating game. It's called a Hookup these days. My idea of a hookup today is getting speared by my cat. Accidentally, of course. (Really, I believe that!) The headline for the piece boldly pronounces: Sex Without Intimacy: No Dating, No Relationships. A lot of people in my Facebook world made comments that this article was not news. I think it is, and I think the dynamic between men and women continues to shift in amazing ways.

More and more people don't date, they hookup. Hookup is not a new term, and the acts of casual encounters are not new. With the 40th anniversary of Woodstock coming this August, and being a veteran of those fuzzy and furry moments of the 1960s and 1970s sexual revolutionary times, I can verify hookup is not new. What appears new is the growing detachment found now between men and women in social settings.

On an intuitive level this seems a natural progression of more women in the workplace, women outnumbering men in colleges, the growing numbers of the single parent and the decline of organized religion in our society. Given those social drivers and trends, women today can experiment with relationships on a level historically only reserved for men. Women can do so without the baggage of harassment that has typically come from the dual moralistic standards applied antagonistically by institutions aiming at keeping a rigid male dominated status quo.

This new hookup of casual encounters of the libido-driven-kind signals new social relationship patterns in a highly competitive world of commerce. Many post Woodstock single men and women looked to each other as potential economic partners fighting to gain a foothold in the business jungle of American life. Two incomes were needed to survive in increasingly expensive cities where jobs were located. As incomes increased for couples from the 1980s until 2000 these work-family couples were able to meet inflation demands of rising costs for goods and services and maintain a lifestyle of physical comfort.

This decade has undone financially much of what many of those post-Woodstock couples achieved. Wages have stagnated. Benefits have been lost, or have become too expensive to maintain at former accepted levels. Personal and real property values have fallen so low they have left many couples upside down and near total bankruptcy.

All this might be making an impression on young people today. You can catch a National Center for Health Statistics snapshot of the marriage and corresponding divorce rates for America at the provided link (NCHS). Fewer people are getting married these days. The graph in the cited NPR feature at the top of this blog shows that those who do get hitched are waiting a lot longer to do the deed.

Maybe another major factor in this new more casual hookup model of today, which bypasses many of the old dating rules, is that there are so many more kids who never left, or returned after a brief stay away from the nest. Could be the Peter Pan Effect, where kids never want to grow up and assume the responsibilities of being adults. In America there has not been a whole lot of specific data on boomerang kids, or never-left-the-nest kids, but the Baltimore Sun reported that multigenerational families in the US has grown 60% since 1990. There are numbers in Canada and Australia that indicate this is not just a US phenomena.

Economics also plays a big part in this return to the early 20th Century living realities where kids never leave, and three or four generations all reside in the same home. Money probably plays a huge part, as well, in the hookup. Who can afford numbers of dates that ultimately get nowhere? Being in a crowded nest might make also make getting too close too real for a lot of young people. Singles are much more likely to return to the nest over married couples, but even married couples in times like these have come back home to mommy and daddy.

When I was young the thought never crossed my mind to live as an adult with my parents. Horizontal boppin' is an amazingly difficult option with the parent(s) in the next bedroom. Who needs that? I also hated the hit and miss of going weeks without, after spending too many all-nighters in pursuit of getting into the Fruit-of-the-Looms. Ever had the flashlightus-interuptus in a rocking vehicle? Talk about deflation!

Of course, if video gamer action is what really turns a person on, then who knows how long this new hookup culture in a four generation house may last. Hookup might signal really big families of singles for this Boomer meets Gen-X and Gen-Y world.

Interesting possibilities. I guess we'll see how all this plays out. It really is what makes life interesting. You never know how things like this will turn out, much like a date.

The Future Is a Millisecond Away: Ask Lou

Consumer confidence seems on the rise. Foreclosures hit an all time high this month. The US government now owns 60% of General Motors. My neighbor, Dustin, now calls the company Government Motors, and not in a nice way. What to make of it all?

No one knows what lies ahead. I now realize health is the most important part of every day. When you do not have it, life becomes a walk through mounds of fire ants. Being without health insurance could change that walk into a crawl through those same carnivores. Living here in the reddest California county I see the vast majority of people oppose a universal single-payer system. A lot of people here, although not big on Darwin's theory of evolution, ironically subscribe to the survival of the fittest thinking, which means the fittest (those with the most means) get cool benefits, and those not quite fit enough (fill in your own means quotient) get squat.

Arguments, which show our current health care market forces those with the means to pay substantially more in premiums to cover those who have no coverage, have no sway on the rugged individualist when they are immersed in a discussion on why universal coverage would be a societal and economic tonic. Forget bringing up GDP numbers that show us idiots here in the states paying almost twice the price for less results than every other advanced industrial nation. Here in Bakersfield those types of facts are met with, "Boring!" some of the time. Or, "Socialism is evil!" some other amount of time. There are many who believe every ill visited on the US is due to illegal immigration. Schools, health care, jobs, roads, food and sex all would be perfect in that Prairie Home Companion/Lake Woebegone way if only all those illegals were washed away from our shores.

The only thing that might convince a few of these people is if they, or a significant member of their immediate families, suffer a big enough health crisis and go broke. Maybe the 30% out of pocket expense, as part of the affordable coverage, really hurts the pocketbook. Maybe this expense occurs as the result of a major hernia, which happened from the lap dance administered when the wife was out of town at the local relaxation lounge that cannot be explained. This expense causes some critical thinking to take place that the insurance you do have currently is really bogus right now when I need it most.

When I hear the conservatives rail at socialized medicine, and that medical choices will be determined by a government bureaucrat I always ask what difference does that make to anyone on a typical HMO or PPO plan today. The fact is a bureaucrat working for an insurance company makes the call on what treatment you get and what medicines you can take, or at least what the insurance company will pay a portion of as part of your coverage. And if you have too many, or too expensive, claims from an insurance company they simply cut you loose.

As the bigger companies continue to ship jobs and work to the least expensive nations of the world, and more small business start ups spring onto the US economic Monopoly board by displaced former employees of big companies, the cost these new small businesses can bear are not that much if they have any hope for survival. This simply means businesses can no longer be the place that subsidizes health care costs.

A quote from an MSNBC article "If we don't get it done this year, we're not going to get it done," Obama told supporters by phone as he flew home on Air Force One from a West Coast fundraising trip. -

This above quote is motivation for me. I hope it is motivation for you. No advanced nation on the planet allows an accident or illness to financially ruin a family. This can only happen in the USA.

On this date, June 2, 1941, Lou Gehrig " the luckiest man on the face of the earth" succumbed to
amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), now called Lou Gehrig's Disease. A few short years before he was the Iron Horse who never missed a game as a perennial all-star.

Your future is a millisecond away. Can you cover the small change a significant medical problem might require?

400 Years of the Telescope, finally

June 1, 2009 finds cause for celebration. I just received a special DVD from PBS this past week. I could not put the program on because of a mind boggling busy schedule I got myself into the last ten days. 400 Years of the Telescope had to wait.

I already described my trip to Northern California on my last post. When I left for my first trip out of town in two years, I did not anticipate such a tremendous amount of drama from my father over the few days I was out of town. I won't bore you with the details, but he and my wife had several conversations over the weekend of my absence. I am not sure when, exactly, older people suddenly find their mind set to be very much the same as young children, but the change is not all that pleasant. Old people do not look like young kids.

The wait for the adult to come into the body of your aged parent reminds me of Godot. While I wait for the adult, I take the child to the ER over a small bout of gastritis. Death surely sits on the doorstep this time. A battery of tests and blood panels reveal the patient will live. This marks the third ER experience over a very minor bodily inconvenience in the last couple of years. It took me awhile to get over the all night stay at the emergency room for the small bloody nose, which culminated in an MRI for the afflicted parent. Tests negative, of course. And so it goes.

I probably could have watched the DVD, if Pops was the only thing making up my week, but on a journey out to water my starving summer lawn I happened to notice a blister in the paint on the porch support beam. Using my trusty pistol popping index finger to explore the bubble on the beam I discovered the wood was shot full of termite tunnels and subterranean dirt residue. Well, that will cost some money and suck up some more good thoughts on the state of my economy. It did, but the peace of mind knowing the ultimate chew-masters of civilization would be eradicated for a decent amount of time put me in a tolerable space. Also, my cross-country truck-driving sis would be in town on the days the work would be done.

Today I've checked out this wonderful PBS documentary fully, and can truthfully say the opening two-minute sequence my youngest son, Winston, put together with his team of student artists is really quality stuff. At the end of the program he has a credit line all to himself, in bold type. Oh sure, the astrophysicists, astronomers and the cinematography are all excellent, but wow! that opening sequence.

Dads and Grads

What a terrific weekend this Memorial Day weekend was. I caught up with my best friend and his family in Berkeley for a couple of days before heading north to California State University, Chico to see my son, Winston, take the walk and grab his diploma for a Computer Science Graphic Arts degree. Or, something close to that in any event.

In Berkeley, it was summer days and nights I remember fondly from my college days past. The temps were low 60s in the day with a pleasant overcast, and a breezy chilled low 50s at night. Heaven. Got over to San Francisco for a nice walk to North Beach and a cup of espresso at Cafe Trieste. Walked past a lot of old haunts through the various districts we covered. The City, UC Berkeley and my friends always make me feel young. Thanks.

I drove in the very wee hours from the Bay to Chico taking Interstate 80 east to Vacaville, and headed north on the 505, which ultimately merges into Interstate 5. Had no idea Genentech's corporate office and campus was situated off that highway just north of Vacaville. No one was on the road. I felt like a kid again on the open highway. In my morning fuzz brain it could have been 1973 on the open road with the tunes ratcheted up and no one to bug you. The only thing missing from those days was the herbal inhaler treatment I remember enjoying.

I made Chico in a little over two hours time. I was about three hours from the ceremony opening. I scraped some bugs off the windshield, added some gasoline into the Beamer and smoked a few cigarettes while downing some highway-stop coffee and a bottled water. Those rice paddies up around Williams and Orland pack a lot morning bugs onto a passing car at dawn.

I hooked up with Winston at his communal living quarters promptly at 7AM. Knocking on the old door did not do the trick, but the reliable cellular phone call from the porch got the job done. We chatted with his room-mates for a bit before heading off to the school stadium for the event.

I had gone to Patrick's graduation three years ago in Sacramento, at the California State University there. It was a nice event but did not prepare me for the Chico State gathering. By 8:30AM all the stands were packed. The field, and the track circling it, were also heavily crowded with the mad mixtures of family members at all age levels taking in the ceremony. The music was early Twentieth Century classical fare, the last blast from the final giants of the form from England and America- Copeland, Holst, Elgar and Williams. Very pastoral to fit the campus surroundings, but not enough of that big back-beat for most of the people ready to celebrate and party under the trees and in them.

I had a lot of misgivings about Winston going to Chico State. Party school was the deserved reputation. In my former life of employ, Tower Records had two stores in the small college town. Tower knew where to put stores where people partied for many years. At the end of day, Chico was the perfect place for my youngest to explore life and courses. He got a really good education at an affordable cost and goes into the world of commerce armed with great life experiences. Congratulations, young man. Thanks, California State University, Chico.

Yikes! Election Day

Out front, checking the planters and sprinkler distribution, what do my wandering eyes detect? A little bubble formation on the wood beam, which helps support the small portion of roofing over the front door and windows. A quick finger exam confirms that those wood chewing insects from hell have descended on the grounds with a ferocious appetite.

There goes another love song.

The exterminators will arrive on Thursday to give the great news on what all of this will cost. I'm sure the tent will be on the way, which means packing up pets and some valuables for a few nights away from the gas and insect carnage. I can hardly wait to hear what the repair bill will by to my little world of infrastructure needs. Who can I hit up to defray my misfortune? The sad fact of bug infestation happens to be one of those karmic delights where friends and loved ones look at you with a gee-how-bad-for-you, so-glad-it's-not-me bemusement, and offer no relief.

This is all so California these days. Less revenue, unexpected disasters, no money in the bank and no one who wants to help own a piece of dry rot.

Tomorrow is election day. When every measure loses look for the state go on sale. I'm not sure how much a state can fetch when every year is drought year, and beetles the size of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger's ego finish chewing off the timber in what is left of our forests.

Dude Work in a Player Piano World

Another day means some more lawn mower action, laundry, vacuuming, pet maintenance and meal prep. I don't need to shop, or get down to my dad's to run the necessary errands for him, or chore up at his place on some overdue project his failing lungs prohibit him from getting done. Busy with the busy work these days, just like my manly neighbors Rich, Gino, Joe and Dustin. I watch them out watering, gardening and generally puttzing around their houses while their wives are off at work.

Sometimes the reward for doing the job for its own sake, and the gratitude it engenders, is enough. Sometimes getting cut out of the workforce with precious little chance of re-entry takes a terrible toll on the psyche. Easy answers or understandable explanations are in extremely rare supply for today's job situation.

I found an article discussing how valuable my services are in this day and age. The article was one of those feel good Mother's Day pieces targeted for .... moms who stay at home. The column's basic premise, aside from lifting a stay-at-home mom's spirit, was that she should be making roughly $135,000 a year for all she does. Not having a uterus, or kids at home, I deducted a big chunk from this total and came up for launderer, bartender, gardener, cook, merry maid, pet sitter and psychologist at a figure just under a hundred grand. I almost felt better until I realized, maybe not as quickly as I might have a decade ago, that the column had no employers at the end of the piece looking to reward my peculiar services at the estimated rate of pay. Never was, and never will be a market to reward people looking after and picking up their own shit. The job is worthless, even in this global economy.

I know I've got a ton of extended male company these days. More men have been shown the door during this recession than ever before in the history of this nation. Intellectuals and think tankers have already described our nation's "little" downturn as the Great Recession. And that is no mean feat given the crashes of the stock market in 1973 and 1987. Today is different in that the job losses since this financial collapse began in December of 2007 has seen men receive close to 80% of all the pink slips handed out by the contracting industrialists.

There are reasons why the disproportionate share of current job loss has gone to men. Two of the hardest hit sectors of the declining labor force are in construction and manufacturing. Health and education where women enjoy far superior numbers in the work force have not been hit as hard. Another factor is that the higher paid employees are men. A man still makes significantly more than a woman doing the same job. The latest figures I found from 2007 government data showed women earning 77.8 percent of what their male counterpart earns for the same position.
If a company is determined to maximize saved dollars with a job loss then men are the way to go.

Another major reason for men being more expendable in today's world is found in the growing disparity of college enrollment numbers for men and women. These numbers stagger the brain. Women make up 57% of all college attendees, and graduate at each upper education level significantly higher percentages of students than men. These numbers are the reverse of what they were only forty years ago, and the trend is to see an even wider gender disparity in the various colleges going forward. Men dropped out of school and now are being dropped from the job market.

I'm glad I have a degree, but it has not gotten me very far these past four years. However, the degree certainly helped during the twenty years of peak earnings in the bygone business era I was part of. I'm heading to see my youngest son graduate in about two weeks, but his prospects, and those of his older brother, look a sight grim. The second highest rate of unemployment in the typical age demographics is to be found in the bracket my youngest finds himself in. From the above link to Business Week, you can see all age groups for men are at, or close to historic levels of unemployment.

Very shortly the axe is going to fall on a lot of car dealerships for Chrysler and General Motors, which will only darken the really depressing unemployment picture. I am not sure what investors or the remaining large corporations want any more, but it does not appear to be in job creation.

Let me give you an example of American conglomerates taking job loss to the bank. I have been following developments of the tiered pricing schemes Comcast and Warner Cable are in various stages of trying to develop. Warner scrapped its plans after all the commotion grass roots geeks raised in opposition to the plan. The interesting point of the the cable companies desire to raise prices on heavier users is that without the rate increases the companies saw great revenues recently. Revenue increases were up over 5%, along with a growing subscription base, all the while both Warner and Comcast were cutting capital spending by close to 20%. It is always the short term strategy of quick profits with unnecessary price increases that get fed while costs for infrastructure to the greater benefit of the consumer and the job world get strangled.

At the time the US was engaged in the Korean War, Kurt Vonnegut had his first novel, Player Piano, published. I read it many years ago, and though it was never on my fave Vonnegut story list, the damn story stayed with me. It took fifty-seven years, but much of what Vonnegut talked about in the book has come to pass. The few owners of everything don't need men to work the machine.

I get out the wire hair brush to work out the mats in my dog's fur before plugging in the guitar to jam with my programmed Casio keyboard. My hat's on the floor, drying after a hard round with the yard. It's 11AM, and a young boy rolls down the sidewalk alone on his skateboard.