JUNE 26, 2015 NO UNION MORE PROFOUND

“No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than they once were.” –Justice Anthony Kennedy

“It is one thing for separate concurring or dissenting opinions to contain extravagances, even silly extravagances, of thought and expression; it is something else for the official opinion of the court to do so.” –Justice Antonin Scalia

Lia and I have been married for nearly sixteen years. We exercised a right and have reaped the benefits, both legally and spiritually. I believe each of us has always striven for our union to embody “the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family,” yet individually and collectively we have often fallen woefully short. I bet we are not alone in this regard.

Given my personal circumstances, Justice Kennedy’s final paragraph moved me to a flood of tears, as my wife and I struggle to sort out how the ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family work in a somewhat asymmetrical adult relationship. His words both inspire and comfort me. They also scare me.

I think of a friend of mine recently divorced from an abusive husband. In their union, did two people become something greater than they once were? Did their union embody the ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family? No, it is those very ideals which inspired my friend to stay in the marriage far longer than was safe, and now those “ideals” are codified by the highest court. They have absolutely nothing to do with the right of two consenting adults to enter into the contract of marriage.

Yes, this is a day to celebrate an historic civil rights victory. Yet I believe we should heed the crackpot Scalia’s warnings. The official majority opinion veers dangerously close, on the liberal side, to violation of the separation of church and state. Do I really want an old man with a robe and a gavel defining the ideals of my marriage? No, I want him to codify and protect my right to marry. Leave the rest to the poets and the college psych majors.

A Thousand Coins, A Thousand Fountains

I made a new album. I hesitated to release it, but I did. It’s called “A Thousand Coins, A Thousand Fountains.”

Over the past eighteen months I have made two full length albums and two EPs, over forty songs. I have also designed and knit forty or so hats, scarves, and other such things. I enjoy knitting and making music, regardless of the quality of the results.  Something compels me to do these things, some lizard brain reaction to forces beyond my understanding. I just nod graciously when people say they admire my dedication to my art or are inspired by my work ethic. What I really want to do is spit on the ground and say, “bullshit.” If I had anything resembling dedication and work ethic, my life would look very different. No, I produce objects, songs and hats. I produce them as a means to process emotions, to maintain a fragile balance, to survive. The problem is that they are just things, with little surface value beyond the utility of the hats.

I pride myself on the things I produce. I think they are pretty great. Yet I feel like I am desperately splintering my identity as a human, like I am breaking off bits of myself to send into the world as emissaries while the shrinking whole hides in a cave. I wish people could hold these bits, wish the splinters could provoke emotions, wish that if people would choose to be close to my things they would be close to me. It’s vain and lonely; it borders on dark and evil. Horcruxes. I sit around all day making horcruxes, and I can’t stop. Oh well. Fuck it. Here are twelve more.

https://giantmoose.bandcamp.com/album/a-thousand-coins-a-thousand-fountains

The World Needs A Quitter

Don’t care if it’s unlawful to remove the boot.

If the mold is on the stem you gotta target the root.

You’ll not repay a penny that the devil lends.

This is how it looks when the nightmare ends.

-from “When The Nightmare Ends”, by Giant Moose (me)

No one likes a quitter. No one likes the deserting soldier facing a court marshal, or the deadbeat dad with the deadbeat girlfriend living in a deadbeat motel, or the highschool dropout hanging out on the corner doing whatever dropouts do when they’re hanging out on the corner. No one likes a quitter. On February 21, 2015 Larry Sanders quit the NBA.

A freakishly athletic 6’11” center drafted 15^th out of VCU in 2010, Larry spent five NBA seasons with the Milwaukee Bucks wowing the league with blocks and dunks, signing a 44 million dollar contract extension, and frustrating fans, teammates, and management with erratic behavior, including a highly publicized bar fight, multiple suspensions for marijuana use, and inconsistent play. In the midst of a “personal reasons” leave of absence, he and the Bucks negotiated a 13 million dollar buyout of his contract, and he left the team and the league. In a general yet revealing first-person video (http://www.theplayerstribune.com/larry-sanders-exclusive-interview/) Larry discussed his reasons for leaving. It’s worth viewing. Not reading too much into it, we see that he suffers from a mood disorder, loves basketball but has many other loves, was deeply unhappy playing in the NBA, likes the sticky icky, and has an awesome hat. Some deride him for being just another spoiled professional athlete who would rather rap and smoke weed than actually work for a living. Some applaud him for choosing to follow his dream and do what makes him happy. I just hear a new Lincoln ad, with a scruffy Matthew McConaughey’s faraway stare and lazy drawl. “It ain’t about rappin’ and smokin’ weed. It ain’t about followin’ your dream, neither. It’s about figurin’ how to live with yourself every day. That’s why I quit the NBA. And that’s why I love drivin’ a Lincoln.”

I’ve quit some things; no, a lot of things. I’ve quit the workforce. I’ve quit socializing. I’ve quit being an everyday presence in the lives of my wife and children. I’ve quit therapy and the accompanying futile effort to manage work and family. I’ve quit subjecting myself to others’ expectations. I’ve quit trying to overcome my fears. I’ve quit dreaming of success. I’ve quit being someone I’m not. I don’t want ten simple tips for managing bipolar. I don’t want the perfect cocktail of five meds that might not be perfect in five months. I stopped looking for help. Instead I asked a select few for understanding and support, with no promise I could offer anything in return. I’ve quit, after all. Now thoroughly dependent on others, but feeling free of their expectations and the fear associated with them, I spend my days knitting, playing music, writing, reading spy novels, watching a little sports, and drinking a little beer. It’s a regular routine that earns me little more than a penny, but brings me regular moments of joy, makes me feel almost worthy of my little corner of the universe. I hope Larry Sanders feels the same.

Sometime during our history, humans began judging the merits of fear, calling some rational and some irrational. No one is expected to overcome fear of an angry mother grizzly who will tear a person to shreds. No one is expected to overcome fear of a grenade that was just lobbed into the bunker. Yet those who are so afraid of failure, of losing their tempers, of being asked a question to which they do not have the answer, of disappointing an audience, of being exposed as a fraud, those who are so afraid of these things as to consider self-harm a reasonable alternative, they are labeled mentally unstable and expected to seek the necessary treatment. I am not here to criticize psychiatric care. I, myself, depend on a daily dose of lithium. I simply argue that, for some, these so called irrational fears are absolutely real, and many precious lives get wrecked by the persistent pressure to overcome them, to be healthy and productive, to live up to potential, to manage a “mood disorder.”

Maybe someday Larry Sanders will play professional basketball again. Maybe someday I will move back to Pennsylvania. Maybe someday a lot of people will do a lot of things. Till all those days, if you see someone who seems to have quit, ask what brings that person joy, and then help him or her do whatever that is. It’s not about helping someone recover, or helping someone become self-reliant, or helping someone reestablish a career. It’s about joy. The world needs joy. If a quitter finds joy, then the world needs a quitter. And it’s nice to feel needed. This is how it looks when the nightmare ends.

Damn The Armadillos

“Give me a thousand words on the Senators’ open letter to Iran; give me a thousand words on the Justice Department’s investigation of the Ferguson Police Department; give me a thousand words on the racist University of Oklahoma fraternity; give me a thousand words on Boko Haram pledging allegiance to ISIS; give me a thousand words on…” That’s what the editor in my head’s been repeating the past few days. I wish I wanted to oblige; ‘wish I felt more outrage. “Don’t you even care?” Maybe, maybe not, probably not.

Boys will be boys. It’s not an excuse; it’s the embarrassing truth. When boys gather into a group (meaning more than one) and are left to their own devices, they do stupid things. They may stumble on intelligent things, but they will inevitably do stupid things. These things may be cruel, dangerous, ignorant, or simply foolish, the shared characteristic being stupid. Street gangs, police departments, labor unions, army battalions, religious extremists, college fraternities, politicians, fantasy football leagues. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! Sure, groups of women can be sadistic, but they never achieve the epic folly of their male counterparts. Boys will be boys. Add ideology and stir.

Why so bitter? Why grind this axe? I don’t know. Possibly because I have never felt at ease among men; possibly because I am ashamed of this; possibly because I wish to justify a hermitic life; possibly because I envy what I perceive as the comfort many men feel around their friends, close or casual. I joined a men’s group once, hoping for some brotherhood. It felt good for a few months, felt like I was a part of. Eventually I began blaming it for my failing mental health, my failing career, my failing marriage. I blamed many other things: doctors, bosses, family, most of all my own short circuiting brain. But I imagined a special ring in hell for gatherings of men, one in which everyone sits around doing needlepoint while watching The Notebook for all eternity. Al Qaeda and the NYPD together on the same couch. “Osama, would you pass me a tissue?”

I doest protest too much, I know. To rationalize loneliness is to condemn camaraderie. But fuck it; if it helps me survive, so be it. And, in the end, isn’t that what all this stupidity is about? Survival? An instinctual, virile response to a threat? It’s a cliché to say men think with their dicks, yet it’s crude but true. The instinct to piss or fuck is much stronger than the instinct to have a nuanced thought. It’s science! And don’t get me started on the fear that someone else’s penis is longer, thicker, stronger. Giggle, giggle, right? Stop laughing. The penis is a useful but very stupid organ. Trust me; I would know. Perhaps that is why none of the news stories of men behaving badly shocks me into outrage. Racism, partisanship, zealotry, they all come down to men thinking with, playing with, and measuring their dicks. You may say, “what about the hatred? The prejudice? The disrespect?” Sure, all those things are there, but men act on those because of their dicks. Yep, when Senators Cotton, McConnell, Graham, et al put their dicks together end to end, they might just be a smidgeon bigger than Obama’s. Those idiot frat boys at Oklahoma are so terrified of the size of some black star football player from some big city that they won’t let any into the brotherhood. Yeah, whiteboy. ‘Wouldn’t want to lose your girlfriend to a n!@#**, would you? And then there is the endless parade of virgins awaiting the martyrs of the war against the infidels, all for striking a small blow against the swinging-to-the-knees Great Satan. Shit, boys. I realize for evolution’s sake you got to whip it out, but really? Armadillos in our trousers… sheesh! ‘Think I’ll keep it in my pants for a while, brotherhood be damned.

Kareem Abdul Jabbar For President!

What do Hillary Clinton, Elizabeth Warren, Jeb Bush, Scott Walker, Chris Christie, Rand Paul, Marco Rubio, and all the rest have in common? None of them is Kareem Abdul Jabbar.

The man is over seven feet tall; his sky hook was unstoppable; in Airplane! he gave far-and-away the greatest movie performance by a professional athlete; and, for my money, he possesses the clearest, humblest, most human voice in the media today. If you have not read his columns for TIME and others, I suggest you start now. The man is at once sly, pragmatic, and, above all, compassionate. And he is an African American Muslim.

I couldn’t stand him when he played for the Lakers. My parents were Celtic fans. Anti-Showtime bias seeped into my young brain like pesticides into good soil. But Kareem was not Showtime. He didn’t have a million no-look passes and a million dollar smile. He didn’t have pomade-drenched hair and Italian suits. No, his game was measured, fluid, and unstoppable. Today, his voice is the same.

He recaptured my attention only recently with two of his responses to current events. The first was to the tragic deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner and the ensuing protests (http://time.com/3132635/ferguson-coming-race-war-class-warfare/). The second was to the attack on Charlie Hebdo (http://time.com/3662152/kareem-abdul-jabbar-paris-charlie-hebdo-terrorist-attacks-are-not-about-religion/). I hear the voice of a man unafraid to call “bullshit” on anyone, unafraid to hold the right people accountable, and unafraid to believe good people can learn to understand, respect, and collaborate with one another.

Obama drives me nuts. I grew tired of his sanctimony on day one. Although his administration made some halfhearted attempts to slap band aids on the issues of economic and criminal justice inequities, he’s done little to nothing to address the root causes. I don’t know what the solutions are. That’s a little above my pay grade. Still, I believe these are the two most important domestic issues facing the U.S. And Kareem Abdul Jabbar is the man to tackle them!

What about foreign policy? Most agree that currently the greatest threat to the international community is the spread of radical Islam. The West makes pleas to pragmatic, compassionate Muslims to rise up and reclaim their faith, as if that were as simple as removing a burka, sitting down in a classroom, and saying “please don’t shoot me.” No, compassionate Muslims need real economic and political power on their side. What better than if one of their own were the elected leader of the most powerful western nation? Who better than Kareem Abdul Jabbar?

I doubt Kareem would ever run for president. If he did, I doubt he’d win. But hey, we elected a black man; we elected an actor; we elected a developmentally challenged fratboy; why not an ex-professional athlete? He looks better on camera than John Runyan. Anyway, I’m writing Kareem Abdul Jabbar in on my ballot in 2016. You should too. You can thank me later for four years of “Roger Roger” jokes at presidential news conferences.

BIRDMAN or (The Unexpected Virtue of Flatulence)

Damn, Hollywood sure loves to sniff its own butt. It comes as no surprise, and I shouldn’t care, but I do. Twenty thousand dollar gowns, hackneyed political statements, Doogie Howser, and Birdman takes home best picture. “Everything is awesome; everything is cool when you’re part of the team,” indeed.

I enjoyed Birdman when I saw it. It is a breathless, technical marvel. I loved the performances of Emma Stone, Zach Galifianakis, and, most of all, Michael Keaton. If I had a top ten movie list of 2014, Birdman might have come in at twelve or thirteen. Of the Oscar nominees, I would have chosen Boyhood or Whiplash as best picture, but my list of nominees would have also included Snowpiercer, Mr. Turner, Inherent Vice, Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, and maybe some others. Meaning, I don’t want to quibble. Different strokes for different folks.

Well, maybe I do want to quibble. Watching Birdman, I felt unsure whether to laugh at or laugh with our pathetic fallen hero, unsure whether the movie was mocking or celebrating creativity, unsure whether I should feel scorn or sympathy. The movie is as miserably pompous and desperate for attention as the characters moving through it, as if the filmmakers and the characters are trapped in the same hall of mirrors. Most likely all these feedback loops and contradictions are purely intentional. And therein lies the problem.

Oscar loves a film made with intent; it loves to confuse intent with inspiration, and ego with vision. Look no further than past winners Crash, American Beauty, Dances With Wolves, or even Schindler’s List. Birdman is an especially incestuous case: a movie about egos running amok, created by egos running amok, and celebrated by egos running amok.  This might be easier to swallow if the movie and its director, Alejandro González Iñárritu were a little more sly and a little less heavy-handed, but they’re not. Despite its audibly grinding gears, Birdman feels downright effortless compared to Iñárritu’s previous films such as Babel, 21 Grams, and Amores Perros. The poor man wants so desperately to matter! As the grips tightened and the knuckles whitened around each statuette Birdman won, one could feel everyone on stage and in the audience clinging to their integrity and credibility. “Yes… (exhale) We matter.” Bless them. Whatever gets you through the night, Oprah.

Truth is, Hollywood’s embarrassed. Its most talented actors and directors are making movies that don’t matter, that have little intent but to knock your socks off. Look at J.J. Abrams, Joss Whedon, Brad Bird, Jon Favreau, James Gunn, Matthew Vaughn, Paul Greengrass, even Christopher Nolan and all his darkness and no parents. Even masters old and young alike, from Scorcese and Spielberg to Paul Thomas Anderson and David O. Russell, are never so alive as when they drop their pretensions and simply get drunk on the wacky pleasures of moving pictures on a great big screen in a big dark theater. And would you rather watch Michael Fassbender agonizing through empty, depressing orgasms in Shame, or dropping a fucking football stadium on the White House lawn in X-Men Days of Future Past? Would you rather watch Robert Downey Jr. engage in an embarrassing scenery chewing competition with Robert Duvall in The Judge, or build the original Iron Man suit from scratch in a cave in Afghanistan? Would you rather watch Scarlett Johansson lure naked men to some inky, impossibly bizarre doom in Under The Skin, or watch her kick fully clothed men’s asses in like every Avengers movie? Ten bucks says Damien Chazelle, the 30-year-old wunderkind director of Whiplash, makes a terrific big-budget action movie within the next five years. If we simply pretend Michael Bay does not exist, then big action blockbusters have a far superior track record of quality compared to so-called prestige dramas over the past decade. Even Iñárritu’s Mexican best buddies, Alfonso Cuarón and Guillermo del Toro, are all about that entertainment. I wish Iñárritu would just chill, smoke a bowl, and answer Marvel Studio’s phone calls. Relax, Alejandro. Loosen your grip and set down the Oscar. Listen to Birdman, and he will tell you this. If there is one thing Hollywood should be ashamed of, it is the public jerk-off circle called Awards Season. If there is one thing Hollywood should be proud of, it’s The Avengers.

HEY, YOU CHEATED! An Opinion On Jackie Robinson West

Overheard in every schoolyard:

“Hey, you cheated.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“YEAH, YOU DID!”

“NO, WE DIDN’T!”

A minor scuffle ensues; the bell rings; and it’s back to class.

Summer 2014 the streets of Chicago were buzzing. Jackie Robinson West, a team of African American eleven and twelve-year-olds from the South Side were tearing up the Little League World Series. Philly’s Mone Davis and her throw like a girl 70mph fastball were the national story, and deservedly so. But Jackie Robinson West winning the U.S. title before ultimately losing to South Korea in the final was a pretty big deal. Why? In Chicago, it was a matter of local pride. Nationally, it was a matter of civic pride. African American participation in America’s pastime has slipped in recent decades, likely because of nothing more than changing tastes. But the iconic image of Jackie Robinson, the first African American to play in the major leagues, looms large, not just as a symbol of the struggle for civil rights, but as a symbol of fairness and morality in sport. The JRW little leaguers were the first all African American team to win the U.S. LLWS title. These exuberant boys were somehow exorcising both the recent demons of ARod, Barry Bonds, and Pete Rose, and the darker, older demons of Hank Aaron receiving death threats as he approached Babe Ruth’s home run record, the horrifying treatment of their namesake by fans and media, and the simple reality that once upon a time there was a Negro League. It felt great to root for the boys. It was sport stripped to its beaming essence. And they cheated.

If you have not heard, this past week Jackie Robinson West was stripped of their national title. It was a huge story in Chicago. It was a big story on national sports programs. But national front page news? I don’t know. It wasn’t quite Deflategate! It goes like this. JRW used players whose residency violated the defined boundaries of the league. Some Chicago voices are trying to turn it into a race issue, and it does smell vaguely of district gerrymandering and voter disenfranchisement. But that’s grasping at straws. Some enterprising parent or manager walked a couple blocks and said “hey, your kid’s pretty good. He should come play for us.” They brought in a ringer, or two, or three. And someone finally cried foul.

I cheated in a game once, probably more. It was a flag football game in gym class. I don’t remember my age. I wrapped the flags around my belt so they couldn’t easily be pulled off. I scored a long touchdown on the very next play. It was disallowed, of course, but I will never forget the exhilaration of running down that field, defenders grasping desperately at my waist to no avail. Nobody plays sports because he or she likes rules. You play because of the endorphins released by the physical activity, the self-satisfaction of improving a skill, the adrenaline rush of competition, the camaraderie, and the euphoria of winning. Rules are necessary to maintain order, but they are hardly as essential as, say, rules against insider trading or rules of military engagement. But cheating makes a great story, one that plays outside the world of sports. Deflategate anyone? Steroid scandal?

I don’t advocate cheating. I just don’t believe the myth of the tainted sports legacy. What happens on the field, court, rink, diamond, pitch, track, or course is a brief event accompanied by brief euphoria or slightly less brief misery. As fans we are lucky to share in the event and the emotions. The legacy is better left to sports figures like Jesse Owens, or Mohammed Ali, or Jason Collins and Michael Samm, or Jackie Robinson. So, unless you are talking about Joe Paterno and Jerry Sandusky, please don’t talk about tainted legacies when you talk about sports scandals. People get too clever and they get caught. The parents of Jackie Robinson West were chasing euphoria, and they chased it a little too obsessively. But frankly, that’s between them and their priests.

But what do I know? I know three things always give me chills: “I Heard You Looking” by Yo La Tango, handmade cards from my kids, and seeing players jump up and down, embrace, cry, and fall all over each other after a big win, no matter their age, race, or gender. Thanks for the chills, Jackie Robinson West! Your parents cheated; a minor scuffle ensued; the bell rang; and it’s back to class.

Mark it 8, Dude.

AN UNEXPECTED BENEFIT OF AN UNPOPULAR CHOICE

I hope no zealot puts a bounty on my head. I wrote this about a week ago; at the risk of pouring fuel on a fire well on its way to burning itself out, I share it now. Perhaps The Onion already published something similar. I don’t know, but it most certainly would have been from a different perspective. To be clear, this is a FALSE NEWS STORY, intended only to satirize paranoia and complacency. Je suis Charlie.

BREAKING NEWS: PRESIDENT OBAMA ANNOUNCES PLAN TO SHIP ANTI-VAXXERS TO AN ISLAND. Following is a transcript of the press conference: “My fellow Americans, following the recent measles outbreak and in light of the fear and outrage it has sparked, I have decided to take swift and immediate action. Many have suggested the best solution is to ship the anti-vaxxers to an island, and, after careful consideration, that is what we have decided to do. Over the coming year, we will institute a program to relocate anti-vaxxers to the Hawaiian Islands, thereby protecting those citizens on the continent who have performed their patriotic duty and gotten their kids vaccinated. The vaccinated citizens of Hawaii will receive assistance to relocate to the continent where they may live in the homes vacated by the anit-vaxxers after those homes have been thoroughly inspected and cleaned by hazmat teams. We regret this inconvenience, but in times of crisis, we must all make sacrifices. To prevent fraud, only families wherein parents had opted out of vaccination prior to February 1, 2015 will be eligible for relocation to an island. We will begin the program by relocating families from the hardest hit areas in California. Once that is complete, the order of relocation will be determined by a random drawing of anti-vaxxers. If Hawaii becomes full, we will continue the process using the island of Puerto Rico. If we need to dump the stragglers on Guam, we will. We have strong bipartisan congressional support for this program, as well as an eight to one decision from an emergency Supreme Court session approving temporary suspension of the Constitution as we combat this dangerous enemy. In addition, we will institute a mandatory, semi-annual titer test for immunity among the vaccinated population. The five percent found to be consistently resistant to the vaccine will be relocated to the first available inhabitable planet, where their highly evolved immune systems will insure the continued existence of the human race.” Final note: in the shortest dissent in the history of the Supreme Court, Justice Scalia wrote, “I had it as a kid. Why the fuck should I care?”

HELLO 2001! I HAVE A BLOG

I will stop sharing 1500 word Facebook posts. Instead I will do what every sensible person did over a decade ago: get a blog. I plan to cover a wide range of topics. Current events, pop culture, sports, health and wellness, parenthood, food, education, nothing will be off limits. The tone might be sober; it might be irreverent; it might be nothing but Big Lebowski quotes. But I hope my deep love and admiration for this big, messy experiment we call humanity always shines through.

Why not just tweet? Why do I want to blog? Does it not reek of ego to shove my inexpert opinions into the ether without the filter of an editor or publisher? Yeah, it does. So here’s a bit about me. I am a musician, a fiber artist, a father of three, and I have suffered from mental illness to varying degrees my entire adult life. As I age I withdraw further and further from my community. In short, I don’t talk to people much anymore, and I have made a shaky peace with that. Although resigned to a dormant mouth, my brain triggers obsessive mental and emotional cartwheels when confronted by subjects about which I care deeply. I can’t turn it off; I often can’t sleep; and I desperately want to be heard. These episodes can last a few weeks, meaning I often can’t stop scribbling about yesterdays news. Left shark, anyone? Didn’t think so.

So what in God’s name am I blathering about? Beats me. I probably wouldn’t follow me. Still I would be honored by and grateful to any who do. Cheers!