Rip My Winkle

 WTF? I mean, seriously. WHAT. THE. FUCK?

Just over eight years ago I was kidnapped and imprisoned by troops loyal to The Dread Pirate Wesley. A grueling, demeaning experience with little food, no medicine, no contact with The Odd family or the outside world, and forced to watch DVDs of The Golden Girls dubbed in Hungarian. During my incarceration I kept fit of body by doing countless sit-ups and push-ups and fit of mind by doing imaginary crossword puzzles. Okay, I made that up.

Bend your mind to this question - if you woke up today after an eight year nap (coma, space journey, kidnapping, etc.), what would you make of the state of affairs? I mean, come ON! Pandemic? Reality TV show host a former President? Russia on the border of the Ukraine rattling sabers? The Los Vegas Raiders? WTF?

As an avid fan of science fiction, I’m keen on the idea of parallel universes. Screw you, fine … the multiverse. What chafes my chaps is that I’m stuck in this universe. How do skip over to the universe where things suck less? I mean, WTF?

You Matter

On a cloudless night far away from big city lights, I was sitting by a lake staring into the expanse of the night sky. Above me were tens of thousands of shimmering points of light. In that moment I felt a deep, oppressive sense of dread. I said to a nearby friend, "I feel so small. What do I count against that?" as I pointed to the heavens.

He thought for a moment and said softly, "Go be kind to someone. Cheer someone up. Take care of someone. If you help them, who knows? Maybe they will be nice to someone, and before long a lot of people are going to be a little happier, a little more cheerful. You can start it."

He convinced me in that moment, whether he intended to or not, to make a difference.

See, we all matter. What we say, what we champion, what we do matters. We will never be unimportant unless we choose to be so. Life is a matter of choice, seasoned with a healthy dash of persistence. The measure of our impact on the world, of our life, on the lives of those around us is not be measured by accumulated trophies, in accolades, in dollars amassed. There is an extrinsic measurement of our quality, found in the people we surround ourselves with, the people we admire, trust, and love.

But the most powerful evaluation of oneself must come from within. You must be measured by you, in a metric or your choice and definition. Seek the advice and guidance of others, but you - and you alone - must decide who you are and who you will be. You alone have the power to exercise your choices.

Each of us have always mattered. If we remember that we matter, if we are willing to risk making a difference, if we live a life guided by ideals, whatever we do will have importance and value. There is a considerable difference between occupying space and having mass and of being of importance. We all take up space, but it is our choice to matter.

You

Don't blink. Don't back off the plate. Don't flinch. Stick your chin out and dare the world to clip you on the chin. Fight, dear love. You, my best friend, are tough and beautiful and wise and funny. There is nothing you can't do, although we both know by now we can't do everything. But what you choose to do, what you give your heart and soul to, will be better for your contribution and dedication. Big and small, you have made - and continue to make - the world special for your children and those you care for. Everyday, we all look to you for love, affection, and strength.

If you flag, we will stumble. If you let doubt and pettiness drag you down, we will only share your misery. Be strong and sing, even of your voice is haggard and flat. Share that voice, because we love to hear it, we love your words, we need you. Trust me when I say, your voice is full of love and power. It sounds better now than at anytime in its past.

Trust me when I say you have more to do, more of us to carry, to uplift. Everyday, I see eyes alight upon you, watching you for a smile. Your littlest compliment or thoughtful piece of advice is going to ripple for decades. You work wonders and don't forget it.

I need you. We need you. The world needs you and more like you. If the world is too big, too cold, too complicated, it is your voice that gives us comfort. Your voice makes us feel warm and nurtured. Your voice helps each of us find purpose and meaning, your voice helps us make sense of the chaos. Your voice is our harbor, our shelter, our solace. The simple things you do, even when we forget to appreciate them, give us structure and shed light for us to move ahead.

Don't let the grit of everyday steal from you the magic of life. Your sweetness, gentleness, and beauty matter to me and to everyone in your life. You make me better, you make us all better. Get your swagger on, 'cause yours is model we should all follow. Your "good enough" is wonderful. And trust me, you have never been more beautiful to me. 

It's On Us

It's been over a month since the mass shooting at Sandy Hook, and I just able to sit down to try and make some sense of what transpired. I get angry at myself that I don't rage and rail when something like this occurs, but I think - I'm not sure - that I go into a state of shock every time a shooting occurs. It happened after VaTech, after the Trevon Martin killing, and after the Aurora Theater shooting...

I wrote once or twice already about gun violence in the United States and I have stated a few things that I thought were provocative:

• We should not be surprised these shootings occur
• Our culture accepts this violence when other similar nations and cultures would not
• Easy access to certain types of firearms contribute to the epidemic of gun violence
• We don't take responsibility to learn how to safely use, store, sell, and control access to guns
• This will happen again

For the record, I'm a supporter of the Second Amendment. Simply, there is no political will to remove one of the original Bill of Rights; the Founding Fathers made it the second amendment in the Bill of Rights for a reason. It isn't going to go away, be overturned, or significantly amended, even if the historical reason the FF's put it in the Bill of Rights no longer applies.  Simply, this country is awash in guns.  Wishing them away is foolish, politically impossible, and practically unenforceable.  I support the Second Amendment because it is pragmatic to do so. I just pray we look at the words "well regulated" with greater scrutiny moving ahead, so some common sense laws at the state and Federal level can begin to reverse the trend we all seem to accept, even with horror and revulsion.

I write this blog with an attempt at anonymity and I began writing it originally to get some shit off my chest and out of my head. I try not to identify myself or those nearest to me, because my writing isn't intended to affect my circle of loved ones and friends. But one of the stories I've been working to get off my chest is very personal.

Eight years ago an angry man shot my brother in the face with a .44 Magnum at point blank range.  My brother was dead before his body hit the ground, and part of me dies every time I read or hear about a shooting.  Sure, I no longer visualize myself as my brother at his last moment, I no longer flinch when the phone rings, I no longer weep unbidden.  But when I allow myself to imagine the living hell the families in Sandy Hook find themselves apart of, I am cursed to know how they might be feeling.

I hope and pray no other live through what I have, what every family who has last someone to gun violence feels and endures. But honestly, I don't think we've turned the corner yet; I think we'll see a Sandy Hook again. We allow this to happen. We accept this. It's on us.

Icy Cold, Burning Alive

Unbidden, thoughts storm through my mind like a nor'easter, random, feckless, chaotic,
Torn, three souls instead of one, ripped between what is, what was, and what will be,
Madly, tormented and tossed like so much chaff,
Nerve-wracked, afraid of doing something - anything - yet equally scared of doing nothing,
Alone, surrounded by aliens, puppets, automatons, and slippery eels,
Uncertain, sureness and clarity seem like someone else's purview,
Irresistible, coldly forced by a faceless, shapeless Fate, but impelled toward naught,
Unattainable, peace and purpose,
Grieving, for losses real and imagined,
Regret, none for I am human and the plagues I suffer made a mockery by,

LOVE, its flame so bright, so hot, it casts back the shadows and enflames my spirit.

Withering Heights

So, here's the scene. A nondescript American 80's middle school; beige walls clad in high-gloss cinder block and red brick. Standard classrooms, with metal framed windows, the lower planes louvered out to precisely 14 degrees to let in just a swoosh of air. Thirty hormony kids, clad in jeans, Van Halen T's, corduroys, chamois button downs. Lots of bangs... First column, seventh seat back, three from the rear of the room.

I can still see my 7th grade English classroom and Mrs. B.  Although, truth be told, I imagine all of this through stylized amber-lensed glasses, and thus my memories are not meant to displace fact. My most honest, clear reflections can not be skewed by nostalgia; I never really studied or did much more to prepare for English other than attend. When I think back on it, I'm not sure I even read the books assigned for class. Suffice to say when tests or quizzes came along, I was less than ideally prepared. More to the point, I only gave a shit on test day and the day we got the test back.

Most days in 7th grade, I sat back in the corner praying to God for a snow day. And yes, I prayed for snow in October. In January, God may have listened, but I was asking for a awful lot when the leaves were still on the trees and Halloween was two weeks in the future. My prayers were generally along this theme; Lord, I willingly shall trade a snow day - today, right now - for the following; I will study/read/practice RIGHT NOW and for your effort - for this holy gift also known as a miracle - I will commit some future day to completing a good deed. Think "feed the poor" or "nurture the infirmed" or "take out the trash with out bitching to my mom about it". Apparently, God bargains hard and expected more, as I'm pretty sure my seventh grade year was a snow-free year. In fact, I think it hardy ever clouded up.

I asked God for other possible minor miracles, in case the weather thing was too ... mundane for His Munificence. I prayed for fire drills, teacher absences, teacher abductions, principal heart attacks, Communist invasions, and locusts. When I began to suspect God either didn't give a crap about my lack of effective study habits or was too busy busting up Apartheid, I started to wish to be imbued with my own magical power. I figured Big G could pass the heavy lifting off to me -- just give me a perk of two -- and I would miracle my ass into an A in English. Maybe I'd show some humility and just take an A-minus.

So the little attribute I began to wish for? Nothing major, just ... time stop. Yes, the ability to s-t-o-p freaking time. Hit the breaks, freeze the clocks, halt movement, instant "statuation" of Mrs. B. and all of my classmates. The way if figured it, I'd use the time while everyone else was frozen like Adonis to read the damn book assigned for class, or write the damn essay, or grind the damned vocabulary...
The hell of it? I swear God heard me loud and clear and granted my wish. But his gift to me was far more subtle than time time STOP. He granted me time SLOW, 'cause those English classes never quite stopped, but they sure as heck dragged.

Ideas from a Man Who Lived

As my father's life ended, he took time to sort a few things out and write down his thoughts.  Here are his words:


Believe:


Live on in memory, tradition, human kind


There is "something" in thinking pretty good, positive

• similarities in all religions

There are good spirits, vibes


The Bible is a story

• with contradictions
• lots of good advice

Christianity must be a living spirit, like the Constitution, changing with the ages


Churches must face up to temporal problems:

• divorce
• drugs
• mental illness
• aging
• death

Christ was an amazing person

A certain mysticism / ritual or ceremony is part of religious experience

Need to be a fellow traveler, helping along the way

Religion can be the opiate of the masses

If I am not myself who will be? If I am only for myself, what am I?

Churches must help with the meaning of life

Churches must present a moral & ethical path

Don't Believe:

In Heaven / Hell or life after

There are bad vibes, panic, prejudice (Editorial: I think he means they don't exist outside of us, but rather that we create them)

In the infallibility of the Pope or Bible

In pacifism like Quakers  

In celibacy like Shakers

In the parable of the talents

In eternity; even the earth will some day disappear

A Mirror of Ourselves

No matter what your political persuasion, the shooting death of Trayvon Martin is a national tragedy. For at least two families, it is a profoundly life-altering, permanent personal tragedy. If you are liberal, a conservative, pro-Obama, Tea Partier, an apathetic hipster, a soccer mom, or any other label you want to self-identify with, the death of a young man walking home from a 7-11 with Skittles and an iced tea should disturb you. If it doesn't, so be it. Click away, my fellow human being. Click away, as this essay ain't for you.

As a nation, we need to look into the mirror on this one. As I write this, I can say honestly I don't know what happened that sad night in Sanford, and neither do you. I'm not writing this to take sides on the criminality - or absence of such - of George Zimmerman's actions, from the beginning of his interaction with Trayvon to its painful, brutal conclusion. I'm not here, dear readers, to attack Florida's "stand your ground" law, its merits, its consequences intended and unintended, or its affect - real or perceived - on the safety of the residents and visitors to the Sunshine state. I'm not - in this entry - going to talk about the Second Amendment, the NRA, the Brady Bill, or other state's laws and regulations regarding gun ownership and use. And no, I'm not going to share my opinions about Florida law enforcement, and it's role in protecting all Floridians and visitors while enforcing the state's laws. All of these topics are important, and there is ample room for differing opinions, reasoned debate, and even disagreement. I hope to strike a different chord, hoping that each (any?) reader take even a few minutes to consider the humanness of Trayvon's death.

The famous Jewish proverb states, "Whoever saves a single life is as if one saves the entire world." Thus, its reverse implies that when one takes a life, the world is destroyed. Ignore, if you will, the literal meaning and focus on this simple idea; one young man's death also killed a tiny part of our collective soul. I don't know - but I doubt - if Trayvon's death was necessary. But I'm quite sure his life was necessary, a life that will never be fulfilled. Whatever promise he had, small or large, was extinguished and his family, and each of us, have been robbed of his future. He may have been a doctor or a punk, but it really doesn't matter. What matters is it was too easy, too common, too ordinary for a life to end in violence.

I again say I don't know who is at fault, and worse, we probably will never know with total surety. But that question, as important and profound as it is for the people directly and indirectly involved, is second to a more human question. Put as bluntly as I can, is anyone better served by Trayvon's death as compared to the life he lost? Are we a better country, civilization, a species ... with him alive, or with him dead? It's almost too easy to answer; he should still be with his family, and with us all. Whether he would have led a life of note or not doesn't matter a lick. He and we were robbed of ever knowing what he might have been. We all lost a little, and some have lost nearly everything.

We are our nation, we are the "We the People" our founders were writing about all those years ago. You are, I am, the libtard is, the right-winger is, the fat guy at the beach is, the chorus director at your church is ... the we in "We the People", and whether you like or hate them, we are responsible for the good and bad that goes on around us. So take some time to look in the mirror. Do you like what you see? Can you see both Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman? I can. Are you bothered by what you see? Are you proud of what you see? Can you imagine Trayvon is your son? Can you see George as you, or your husband? What would you wish for either of them, now that you are looking into their eyes? What would you change?

I see myself looking back at me, and I am Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman. I can see the promise of each, and the wreckage of both. I see myself, and I see a culture that is too accustomed to violence. I see hope. I see failure. I see a citizen, a father, a friend, a husband, a teacher. I see a man and a country who is dying a little bit at a time, and I see hints of resignation, of acceptance. The mirror is showing me an uncomfortable truth. What is it showing you?

Dear Santa ...

Sir,

Perhaps last year around this time you read my mock article about work conditions in the North Pole? If in anyway that offended you or your elves, I express my deepest regrets. With the recent downturn in manufacturing and pressure on labor unions from big business, perhaps the timing of my post was insensitive. I'm writing today to make amends - please accept my most sincere apology.

In keeping with my sense of contrition, I am going to write a letter of thanks rather than of wants. To be honest, I have all of the things I need and want, or at least rationally could use. I have no need of, to quote from The Grinch, packages, boxes, or bags. In a season too focused on "getting", I would like to give thanks for what I have already.

First, I have a most wonderful home. It is secure, in a wonderful town full of remarkable people, many whom I call friends. Sure, it has some peeling paint, a few drafty windows, and some mismatched fixtures. But it is not a mere house; it is our refuge and escape. We all sleep peacefully, each of us surrounded by comfort. What more could I dream of?

Secondly, thank you for my son. He is perfect in every way, meaning that as far as people can be perfect, he is wonderfully real. He is healthy, optimistic, athletic, respectful, and courageous. I watch him grow with a sense of awe and wonderment, knowing that I couldn't be more blessed.

But I am more blessed, as I also am graced to be the father of a beautiful daughter. She is wise, philosophical, clever, and strong. She is emerging as the kind of young woman anyone would like to know, a balance of beauty and ability - with a slice of humility - that forebode great things. A unifier, she is not so interested in the little things like labels, fashion, or popularity. Rather, she seems to see one's soul and she measures it carefully. Woe to those who pose as something they are not!

Lastly, Santa, I give thanks for Mrs. Odds. She is beyond description as a mother, friend, and partner. We have gone down many roads together, and when I stumble, she lends me her strength. When I am angry, she is calm. When I am silly, she is patient. When I joke, she laughs, even when I'm not a funny as I think I am. She is hot, too, but as gentlemen we'll avoid the details, right?

So, as you and the elves prepare to bless the world with presents, tidings of joy, and special memories, perhaps you can give a little more to some soul other than me, as I already have the gifts I cherish most.

Respectfully,

Mr. Odd

Life and Small Things

Mr. Odds has been a busy, busy fella'. Funny how normal life can be so full of ... things to do, places to be, people to see. Tonight sort of became the night I had to at least write down, for others to know, that my cup nearly runneth over. We Odd folks just had a night out, but it was slightly more special than some other nights out.

My niece came out from the big city to stay with us, the third time she's done that this fall. When I was in college, I NEVER wanted to hang with oldies like us, but she's her own judge, jury, and executioner. What makes this small thing no such thing is how she found herself in Beantown, a freshman at one of the great schools. She got here without her dad's guidance, love, and company. Her mom clearly picked up the slack, but the deck was stacked. See, her dad's life was shortened through a barbaric act of violence six years ago (he'd be 47 for those who keep score). She could have gone off the rails, but somehow she didn't. Instead, she is a happy frosh doing the college thing, visiting her aunt, uncle, and cousins for a simple night out on the town.

For her uncle, though, it ain't no small thing. It is a miracle from the wreckage of my brothers untimely death. A mundane, everyday miracle to be sure, but nonetheless I can't believe my beautiful niece just broke bread with my two little Odds, who everyday are less little. When did she grow up? When did my own kids become so grown up? How did I get a chance to be more than an uncle to her? How lucky am I that Mrs. Odd gets it? I once hoped and prayed my niece would see us as her family, in our boring grandeur. I didn't pray for big miracles, I prayed for small ones. And this one prayer may have been granted.

I think, now, I may set my eyes higher. I pray I'm there to walk her down the isle for her wedding, or at least there to watch her mom have the honor. I pray I see her full of life, happy and fulfilled. I pray she is as whole as she can be. I pray that my brother knows I'm still here for him, doing what he should be doing. I pray that if things were different, he'd have done the same.

The Best of the Best

Perhaps you missed the big political headlines earlier this week, so let me get you up to speed. Just eighteen short months from the next presidential election, and a bevy of national Republican figures are jumping into -- and in some cases officially not jumping into -- the race to challenge President Obama.

Perhaps the biggest surprise non-candidate for the Republican nominee was former Governor Mike Huckabee. In a statement released to Faux News, Huckabee's press secretary Eileen Wright said, "The Governor decided the time to run isn't now, especially since four of the seven likely voters for the Governor moved to Idaho and declared themselves Sovereign Citizens. Additionally, polling data indicates most Americans would vote for themselves rather than waste a vote."

Following soon on the heels of Gov. Huckabee's first and probably last smart political decision, Donald "The Donald" Trump announced he, too, would not enter the fray to become the next former Republican candidate for President. Pundits on both sides of the isle speculated that Mr. Trump would indeed run, if for no other reason than to plug his show Celebrity Apprentice. But in a statement announcing his non-candidacy, he stated that he wanted to continue to make gobs of money by hawking crappy properties and manipulating the court system to, as he put it, "Bugger the working class 'til they pronounce me King of Siam." Interestingly, NBC announced it is renewing Apprentice because they litterally couldn't find any other quality programming. Apprentice will anchor NBC's fall Thursday line-up, when executives at the ailing media giant hope the show can buoy several new shows, including Lepers 'n Love, When Hairy Becomes Sally, and Erectile Malfunction: The Hans Ruffer Story. When reached for comment on Mr. Trump not joining the Repulican slate, Democratic staffers at the DNC broke into tears. Rumors continue to swirl, however, that "The Donald"'s hair is still continuing to explore a run for the White House, given that it was polling several points higher than the head it rests upon.

These two latest announcements leave RNC insiders anxious about the dwindling field. Some have expressed serious concerns that every eligible candidate is withdrawing, leaving them stuck with Sarah Palin ... again. One staffer, who asked for annonimity because of fear that Mrs. Palin would hunt her down and kill her with a big-ass gun, said, "Sarah Palin is Satan's Bride, and even Beelzebub is scared shitless by that souless harpy!" Other RNC insiders fear that the early exit of party favorites such as Haley "Even Too Redneck for Southern Men" Barbour and Mitch "Who the Hell Are You Talking About?" Daniels opens the door for former Governor Mitt Romney, who insiders worry is literate, experienced, and telegenic. Pollsters indicate likely Repulican voters prefer to vote for candidates they can identify with, which makes Romney an unsavory choice. Says one insider, "Mitt is smart, doesn't watch NASCAR, and eats with utensils; the typical Republican voter just doesn't understand that fancy college talk, neither."

The big winner of the week was, of course, Newt Gingrich. In announcing his candidacy, he spoke to reporters about character issues that have dogged him throughout his careers, especially in terms of extra-marital affairs. "I'm not perfect. At least five or six interns turned me down while I was Speaker of the House." Gingrich's wives, ex-wives, girlfriends, one-nighters, hookers, and former President Clinton all hailed the news. President Clinton was overheard praising Gingrich's move, stating, "Ha! Dogged by character issues? Newt-baby has sure dogged some characters. Maybe him winning will put the gap in my character into perspective. Huh-huh, "the gap" ... get it? The gap..."

Super Powers

I love superheroes and superpowers.  Maybe because I grew up with "The Savage Sword of Conan" and Christopher Reeves, and I was at the opening of the modern Batman series.  I love "The Watchmen" and dream of flying without mechanical assistance.  I used to imagine longingly of having a magic ring that allowed me to become invisible, especially when I was a gawking, awkward seventh grader.  I still wish I could stop time and watch "Groundhog Day", wondering what I would do with a do-over, over and over.

The other day I struck on the magic power I would want, if only one was allowed or gifted.  I've given up on flying because I have a clumsy streak.  I can see me taking off on my maiden flight and immediately crashing into a transformer or a low flying Southwest flight or a goose. Splat. Either me or the goose. And invisibility?  Kinda' creepy for a forty-something sneaking around, don't you think?  And stopping time?  I'd get older while everyone else was frozen in space.  And it would get boring and too quiet pretty quickly.

No, my superpower du jour is ... heavenly singing. First, I can't sing. At. All. Babies cry, birds fall stone dead from the sky, and loved ones reconsider their relationship with me.  Secondly, singing - music in general - universally makes people peaceful, happy, and joyous. Sure beats beating my enemies to a pulp or lopping off their heads. And lastly, I could sing myself onto American Idol.  And I'd win.

And winning is fun.

AP Newsbreak: More Question Arise from Labor Dispute at North Pole

By Yukon Cornelius, Associated Press – 1 hr 37 mins ago

Reykjavik - A civil suit was filed on behalf of the North Pole Toymakers Union in Reykjavik on Friday, alleging unsafe work conditions, racial discrimination, and animal abuse and/or misuse.  Named in the suit is the sole executive of Christmas, Inc. (CI), President of Operations and Plant Director Mr. Santa (NMI) Claus.  The filing of the civil suit follows quickly on the heels of the opening of a criminal case by Interpol, which is investigating several alleged crimes committed by Mr. Claus, including slavery, animal neglect, prostitution, harassment, breaking and entering, intentional inflection of emotional distress, and trademark and copyright infringement. It is believed charges are pending and that an arrest is imminent.  The timing of these dual actions comes at a difficult time for Mr. Claus and CI, already struggling to keep up with a changing business climate and competition from cheap labor markets in Asia.

Mr. Claus, who Interpol states has gone by several aliases during his infamous career, including the ironic Saint Nicholas, Father "Who's Your Daddy" Christmas, Kris Kringle, or simply "Santa", had no comment about the impending civil or criminal actions.  Calls to the Public Relations Office at CI were not answered or returned.  According to court filings, no attorney has been appointed for Mr. Claus in the civil suit.

Others, however, have not been so tight lipped in addressing the allegations.  Mr. King Moonracer, a popular winged lion who acts as the nearby Island of Misfit Toys' (IMT) Chief Executive Officer, was quoted recently challenging Mr. Claus's distribution system; "I was the first to utilize available technology for flying around the world each night in search of unwanted toys. Kringle illegally copied our infrastructure, adapting it for his questionable service.  Regardless of his questionable use, the system is the product of IMT and we have not received compensation for the impermissible use of our internally developed system." Moonracer further states that Kringle intentionally violates the airspace of IMT and has filed multiple complaints with the FAA, citing unsafe vehicle operation, unlicensed pilots, noise disruption ("Those damned bells!" stated Mr. Moonracer), and illegal dumping. Apparently the flying reindeer have been indiscriminate in handling their waste.

It is not only Santa's neighbors who allege misdeeds.  Perhaps the most serious allegations relate to work conditions at Mr.Claus's factory.  "It isn't a factory; it's a sweatshop," alleges one Mr. Charles Springer, now known to former colleagues as Charlie-In-The-Box. "I was pressed-ganged into service, required to keep elves contained on the work floor, using coercion and even force.  I didn't want to, but I went along because I needed the job.  Times are tough, you know. When I spoke out, I was physically restrained and placed in solitary confinement in a cell the elves refer to as 'the box'. Eventually I spoke out so often, I was deprived of my freedom for weeks at a time, earning my unfortunate nickname." The emotional pain, according to Mr. Springer, has robbed him of the ability to earn a living.  He seeks redress from Mr. Claus. "I am speaking out on behalf of the elves.  Someone has to stand up."

Mr. Springer's story is substantiated by affidavits signed by Sam the Snowman and Hank, the so-called "Tall Elf".  Neither was available to speak with reporters, but through their lawyers issued a statement, which reads, "The North Pole has changed, and not for the better.  Mr. Claus has abused his power, and seems fixated on self-gratification and personal debauchery, often seen bright cheeked (signs of alcohol abuse) and ranting 'Hoes, hoes, hoes' merrily. The whereabouts of Mrs. Claus is unknown, but Mr. Claus clearly has been keeping company with some unsavory women in her absence."

Other instances of abuse of workers is evident in the narrative of one Mr. Hermey.  Mr Hermey was initially brought to the factory to work off "immigration fees" for himself and his immediate family. "I didn't want to make toys.  I was training to be a dentist.  But that dream was taken from me," Hermey testified at a recent hearing into the matters at hand.  "My immediate supervisor was a portly and ill-tempered lackey. He wore a goatee styled to resemble Josef Stalin. He was outraged at what he perceived as my intentional, persistent disruption of the assembly line. And the music! He used to imitate Lawrence Welk's  famous introduction, "Ah one, and ah two" and sing carols all year round. It was unbearable."

Mr. Hermey recounts the tale of escaping the confines of the plant in his soon-to-be released autobiography, titled Unsaintly Nick; The Dark Underbelly of Christmas.While in the woods outside of the plant, living off of melted snow and stale cookies, Mr. Hermey met a starved, skeletal reindeer, whom he called Rudolph. "The stories Rudy told me just broke my heart. You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen? But do you recall why they are famous? They were bullies, four-legged, jack-booted thugs.  Poor Rudolph, you see, was afflicted with a red-nose, a very shiny nose. He was terribly anxious and self-conscious about it. When Rudy would get nervous or anxious, you would even say it glows. All of these dominant reindeer used to laugh and call him names. They never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games. Totally exclusionary behavior.  Typical playground bully crap. And Rudy's story wasn't unique. They domineered every other reindeer who aspired to elevate themselves out of poverty. They repressed any and all fair competition; they ran the whole show, with Claus's blessing. That's why they are famous and you have never heard of Rudy or the thousands of other reindeer trapped in an endless cycle of servitude and pain." More of Mr. Hermey's narrative, including his desperate escape from the frozen north, is contained in his book, available from Amazon.com on December 19th. He wouldn't comment on the fate of his friend Rudy, other than to remark that he no longer eats meat.

On the criminal side of the ledger, local police agencies have been given updated warnings from Interpol regarding Santa's potential illegal entrance into homes on Christmas Eve via the chimney. Extra police around the world will be on duty this Christmas Eve, given recent threats posted on Santa's Facebook.  In a rambling post dated last week, Mr. Claus stated, "Oh! You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is coming to town! I'm gonna get you and your (darned) cookies, bitch. I'm making a list, checking it twice, gonna find out who's naughty or nice. Oh yeah, mother (freaking) Santa Claus IS coming to town!" With a chilling coldness, Mr. Claus finishes his missive by darkly stating, "I sees you when you're sleeping, I knows when you're awake. I knows where you live."

The sun has set on the North Pole for the year.  Clearly, the dark times facing a once proud Santa Claus won't brighten with the arrival of spring.  Facing countless legal problems, Mr. Claus's erratic behavior and poor business practices caused one insider to warn, "Jump in bed, cover up your head, 'cause Santa Claus comes tonight. And the long arm of the law is waiting!"

Don't Ask, Grow Up

"It's important that we're clear about the military risks," said Gen. George Casey, the Army's top officer. "Repeal of 'don't ask, don't tell' would be a major cultural and policy change in the middle of a war."

With all due respect to the Honorable John McCain (R-Arizona) and General John Casey, it is indeed time to repeal the military policy commonly known as "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." And to the hot-heads, pick 'n choose moralists, and pseudo-conservatives, save the "This is about special rights for gays" argument for somewhere else.

The reason why "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (DADT) has outlived its usefulness (presume it has a usefulness at some point, please) is that serving in the armed forces for the purpose of defending the US Constitution -- and the United States from all enemies, foreign and domestic -- is a duty that anyone, regardless of religion, race, gender, or creed has a right to fulfill. If you can hold a rifle, fly a plane, maintain a vehicle, or do any of the myriad of tasks required by our modern military, your color, race, sexual preference, political beliefs, of anything else that makes you who you are is -- must be -- subordinate to fulfilling your duty while in the service of our great, special Nation.

Let's run this out to a logical conclusion. Consider these scenarios: Black soldiers won't fire on black enemies? A Christian won't fly a mission against a Christian opponent? A woman, in the execution of an order, won't fly a Predator (MQ-1) and launch a Hellfire missile against a Taliban target that might be female? Silly, really. Check your history. There is no evidence -- none -- that indicates gays or lesbians can't, haven't, or won't execute their assigned mission. In other words, if one can do the job, they should be allowed to do the job. I would honor - and you should, too - any veteran, whether they are like you or very different than you. In some way, honoring a veteran who is different than you might be even more important. I call you to remember the story of the Tuskegee Airmen, African-American aviators who served in World War II with great distinction, while at the same time being actively discriminated by their own Nation. You don't have to like "gayness", or for that matter anything else. But is morally wrong to disallow someone from serving their -- our -- Nation because you are uncomfortable with them.

I feel compelled to dismantle two points reported this week in the hearings on the matter of DADT. First, early this week, the Senator from Arizona "misspoke" when he questioned Robert Gates' service record, in a thinly veiled attempt to show that his own service record (and Mr. McCain, indeed has honorably served our Nation) makes him more expert to speak about DADT than Mr. Gates. Look up Gates' record if you want, but trust me when I say Mr. Gates has ample -- even extraordinary -- experience to discuss the impact of the repeal of DADT on the command structure of the modern US military. And Mr. Gates, after a long, serious, conservative study of the impact of gays serving openly in the military, has gone on the record saying repealing DADT won't negatively affect our ability to defend ourselves.

For a moment, allow that these honorable gentlemen's service records balance each other out; then deciding on the future of DADT comes down to what is right, not politically popular with one's base. Sadly, McCain is arguing against comments he has made in years past regarding DADT, and sullying his outstanding record in a drive to the right for short-term political gain. Don't go right, John. Be right. Apologize for the cheap shot against Mr. Gates' record, acknowledge your concern, bias, and phobia. And then, get on the right side of history.

General Casey's comments are far more insidious -- and more troubling -- than he perhaps he intended. First, while he was testifying under oath and in uniform -- and I trust speaking from the heart -- he approached speaking dishonorably by publicly challenging the command authority. His answers approached what will be interpreted by some, if not most, as insubordinate. He -- in fact and by law -- must support any change to (or preservation of) DADT without hesitation. He may have personal opinions -- even professional opinions -- but they are not valid in this domain. He may have done serious damage to not only his career, but worse, caused real harm to the command structure by indicating, passively or by implication, that following orders are a choice or preference. Following orders in the military are not subject to personal opinion. Ever.

What is his shield, his rally point? That the US can't change policy while at war. This statement is far scarier, far more fanatical, than his view point on DADT. Does he really believe we can't change course or policy while in a war? That, my loyal reader, is terrifying. First, we have been at war for nine years with no end in sight, although one might rationally debate whether an actual legal state of war exists. Can he really posit that we can't change any policy that affects the military while engaged in armed conflict? Well, we already have, multiple times. We have changed policy on stop-loss. We have changed command structures. We have changed policy that affects strategy in Afghanistan, just like we changed policy about how we executed the mission in Iraq, forgetting for a moment that we changed the goals and mission profoundly while in that ongoing conflict. To not change policy in the face of new tactical or strategic understanding, is preposterous on its face. We can expect to be at war -- or in a state of semi-active armed conflict -- for years to come. General Casey would have us deny Americans the right to serve until we are conflict-free? We would deny access to serve to our fellow citizens until it is convenient and easy to "give" those rights? No, sir. We must do the right thing, the American thing, most importantly when it isn't easy. We may not be at peace in our life time; the Constitution doesn't prescribe rights only when we are happy, safe, and prosperous. We must do what is right, even when we don't want to. In fact, we must do what is right when even considering change causes us great trepidation.

This issue is not about being gay, or accepting gay lifestyle. This is an issue of rights, of supporting the Constitution, of maintaining a military representative of all Americans. To those who say that there is something wrong about being gay, you may hold that opinion and I honor your right to believe it. I can - in turn - think you are wrong, but I must accept that your belief -- as unpleasant as I find it -- is your belief. But as a Nation, we must respect all citizens' rights and access to our institutions. We must allow anyone able to serve simply to serve. Mind your own business, and if you don't want to know if the veteran marching in the parade is gay, don't ask. But grow up, would you? If they are willing to sacrifice their safety, their health, even their life, to preserve your rights, do you really care if they are gay? America, it is time to grow up.

Blink

"Poor Man's House" is playing on our television, which is hooked up to our Xbox 360, which in turn is connected to our family laptop. That's a lot hardware, a lot of gigs and IP addresses and 1's and 0's flying around, all so I can watch a slide show of my kids' summer fun. After all the horsin' around with the machines, I got THEM to do what I want. Now playing - "Let My Love Open the Door" by Pete Townsend. Ah... bliss. On the screen, Ms. Odds vamping with a good buddy. My heart swells, my eyes water, and I leave the present, traveling back to August and then even further back.

When Patty Griffin sang "Poor Man's House" to me for the first time, Mrs. Odd and I were driving a green Tercel around the hills and mountains of Vermont, without a penny or a care. Even while I sit on our couch on this fine October day, nursing yet another injury, watching hi-def pictures of the little Odds make tie-dye t-shirts and catch frogs scroll by, I feel the Vermont sun on my arm, as its rests on the window sill of the Tercel. I'm here today and there, too, almost sixteen years ago. We never called the Tercel by its name; it was the "tersil" and we thought that great humor. The "tersil" wasn't around a few years later when we first watched "Grosse Point Blank" and heard Pete Townsend sing his acoustic version of "Let My Love...", but I remember so clearly cranking the soundtrack in our little rented bungalow, just about the time we found out soon-to-be Ms. Odd was going to join us. Who says time travel is impossible? Hmmmm?

I'm now watching piles of stones, mounded up to serves as landmarks for hikers, also know as cairns. With the clear New Hampshire sky in the background, as blue as blue can be, the yellow lichen glows like gold, the granite dark and strong. The cairns aren't designed, per se, but each has a personality and uniqueness, a sculpture of sorts. Nature did the lion's share of the work, the many and anonymous hands of hikers merely arranging the stones, one a top another, for the sole purpose of helping the next hiker to his or her destination. Now playing - Jason Mraz's "Curbside Prophet" is lightly yammering and fibbidy-dibbidy-blibbidying along, throwing me back just seven or eight years back, driving to and fro outside Baltimore. Little Odd had joined up by now, and our foursome was gaining traction. Oh, and here comes James Blunt and "High", which steers me west, out to West Virginia. The picture in my mind's eye isn't available on the current slide show, but it is as bright in vivid in my memory as any on the screen - bright gold, red, and orange leaves and five beautiful kids, throwing leaves and laughing and eager to be. Just to be.

Crash Test Dummies singing "Superman's Song"... I loved the Dummies cause I can approximate the lead singer's deep, rough baritone. Seventeen year's ago, living with Ed and Mary, two goldfish Mrs. Odd and her friend Meg rescued from a coi pond before it froze. They would travel with us to Vermont, north from our little garage apartment, riding in a cooler in the front seat of a U-Haul moving truck I drove over the Middlebury Gap in a thunder storm. I remember looking up, perhaps an hour later, into the wide expanse of the dark night sky, watching a meteor streak from west to east. Our wedding was only weeks away, Mrs. Odd already setting up house in a barn. Yep, a barn. Ed and Mary weathered the trip just fine, out living half a dozen or more store-bought fish. They had quite nice little run, until we got sick of cleaning the filter, and let 'em loose in Lake Champlain. God, I hope they didn't breed.

Wrapping up this post with "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie. There are no pictures on the screen, and this brings up my oldest memory, gray and hazy. I'm walking from school to my part-time job vacuuming floors in a women's clothing store, with my Walkman on. I had no idea what lay ahead. Funny thing is, I still don't. I just hope the songs keep playing.

Head Movies

Sleep is so boring, and since I was little kid, I always felt I was going to miss something exciting while I snoozed away my life. I blame my parents - hey, who isn't blaming someone else for what ails 'em nowadays? - as they were the most fun, the most relaxed, the most full of love and laughter just after they put us three cherubs to bed. Go figure? What could that possibly mean?

The party always started around nine, after the kids were fed and had run circles around the house. Us, clad in our little one piece jammies with the slick covered feet and bright colored flammable polyester fabric, shuffled off to bed and the dark confines of our rooms. Then the stories and ribald jokes began to float of waves of louder and louder laughter, up the stairwell and through the just-cracked bedroom door. When it was an especially good gathering, the clinks of ice in glasses would compliment the laughs, like a bright ribbon wrapped around a present. The smell of cigarette smoke, when it evoked images of maturity and the mysteries of adulthood instead of cancer and emphysema, would begin to tickle my curious, wondering little mind as I lay wide-eyed and smiling under my covers. I fought sleep like the past-his-prime boxer, slowly succumbing to the relentless onslaught of an unbeatable opponent. Consciousness would leave me, as if I'd been clubbed, me unaware that I'd even left one world for another.

It isn't much different now, for me. True, I'm the now parent and it's my own kids I tuck into bed every night, kissing their brows and thanking a God I don't really believe in for their presence in my life. I love my kids every minute of everyday, often stilled in mid-thought by the miracle they are to me. But I know this best, remember it most poignantly, as I put them into bed. In this moment, between today and tomorrow, feeling the blessing of childhood and the unadulterated power of love a son and daughter has for a father. A father, who may or may not be an idiot, who stills feels like he's a child, who lives an adult life with more than a small measure of nostalgia for a simpler time.

When my kids are asleep - or in my daughter's case, often pretending to be asleep in order to attend to the adult mysteries she should but can't resist - I begin the slow approach to sleep myself. Even though I often go a million miles an hour, I'm usually anything but tired. Perhaps it the momentum of of trying to do twice the amount of thinking, twice the amount of living, twice the amount of remembering, that makes just stopping impossible for me. My body betrays me; my body almost never feels tired. My brain exhausts itself - becoming a racing but idle engine - but it clings to consciousness stubbornly. It wants to find the party, chase the action, watch the next episode, hear the next joke. It - me? - hates the idea that something is going on and I'm not there.

Enter the director. When my smarter self finally buts my dumber self into its place, puts down the book, shuts of the television, and hits the lights, the movies begin. I've trained myself - over decades - to give my brain a little treat, a bow to its base programming. I allow my creativity to ramp up and run a scene from the movie of the life I would live if I were not responsible for anyone or anything. I make myself the director, executive producer, and star of an action movie, where I play the hero, the good guy, the protagonist. To date, I've been the leading man in brain-movies with themes ranging from drug dealing to zombie apocalypses. I've been falsely imprisoned for murder - abandoned by my family - only to lead a daring escape from prison to pursue righteous justice. I've fought corrupt FBI agents, who frame innocent men for crimes they commit. I've landed jumbo jets full of desperate passengers, I've stolen Cessnas and flown to to safety. I've lived on desert islands, with an adoring, beautiful women (when I was younger and single...) and alone (now that I'm married). I've broken into bank vaults, into meth labs, into mansions of serial murders and robber-barrons. I've caught touchdown passes, thrown touchdown passes, run for touchdowns, intercepted and returned the ball for touchdowns. I've hit homeruns and caught game winning flyballs, too, although I can't recall ever casting myself in a soccer game.

As the scene unfolds and refolds, the director calls "Cut!" and "Action!" over and over, trying to get the scene just right. The angle, the lighting, the dialog, the plot - all must be perfect. It can take me weeks, even months, to get one scene just right, months and years to get the whole movie in my head. And just as it was when I was a young boy, no matter how I weave and dodge, sleep always drops the curtain, turns off the lights in my head, sends home the stars and crew. And when the director in my head has done his best work, the real me switches from today to tomorrow without awareness.

Riding the Edge

This summer has been a great one. The weather has been downright stunning, especially here in the Great White North; hot, dry, sunny. But isn't just the weather, it is the confluence of our kids' lives, our home life, our goals, our hopes. It is a little weird to know that, no matter how great the future might be, this simple time of beauty, growth, love, laughter, and peace in our family has set a new high water mark. Even when we didn't get along, it was civil and understandable. Pinch me, but the Odds family has been surfing the crest for months. Crap, I just jinxed it!

Years ago, I said pretty much the same thing to a friend of mine in Puerto Rico, how our life was bucolic, happy, even mundane. Then we were robbed, our dog died, Mrs. Odd's grandmother passed, and my mother and brother died. I spent a year or three wishing I said, "Naw, life sucks." Truly, for awhile I irrationally thought my big mouth had brought down the Big Hurt. I'm yankee enough to be hardwired that you don't get too up, and that being down is a normal, common part of life. I don't like being down, but I do like climbing back up. Having stated that, Mrs. Odd has taught me over the years that it is okay --maybe even normal -- to be happy with little things, to have simple distractions, and that there is no such thing as jinxes.

See, I can't help feeling that I've run this streak of happy luck all the way out. Yeah, even though I don't believe in jinxes, curses, fate, or design, I can't escape completely from my foundation, my inner self. I can't but feel that God or Death or the Three Sisters tapped me on the shoulder last weekend, as if to say, "Yeah, we see you. You seem a little too happy, brother boy." Tap, tap.

Why the worry? Why the glance over the shoulder? Let me set the stage. I took up road biking again, after years off. Mrs. O hooked me up with an entirely sweet (...expensive) bike, and I took to it like cheese to macaroni. Starting in late May, I started riding hard, often, and every day out, a little faster. I was good wearing my helmet, and maybe not so good cranking my i-pod with motivational tunes. A few weeks into my new pursuit, I set two goals; a thousand miles by end of the summer and break forty miles per hour. So all summer, ride-train-ride. June passed by, and I saw it happen from the road. July passed by, and I saw it from behind the bumper of tourists visiting my town. August arrived, and my miles count was edging past 800, but I was having trouble breaking thirty-eight miles per hour. And then we took a weekend in Vermont.

If you have not been to Vermont, imagine a world that is always tilted 5 - 10 degrees. I lived there for nine years, but didn't really notice. But the first day out on my bike, and it became the key feature I cared about. The state should change its name to plain old Mont. But with the hills and mountains came the extra boost I needed, and on that first ride I broke forty three times. Wahoo. Hair on fire. Indestructible. "I'm flying!"

And so it went. Gathered up the miles, built up the legs, and started thinking, "Can I break fifty?" It really never occurred to me to ask, "Should I break fifty?" So now it is last Saturday, and we are in Vermont again, way up the big hills. I get geared up, and ride uphill for awhile. Delayed gratification, you see. And then I aim the handle bars downhill, and "Whoooooosh." Thirty. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Curve. Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck...

Tap, tap. My sweet bike has breaks. I began to gently pump the breaks. Shitfuck. Tap, tap. Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals. Shitfuck. Wobble. In my head, I yelled, "What the fuck was that?" Tap, tap. Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals, lean back. Wobble, wobble. Shitfuckshitfuck. Wobble, wobble,wobble. SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE, WOBBLE, WOBBLE, WOBBLE. Aloud, with a resigned voice, "Oh, SHIT!"

The curve was coming for me. My bike was breaking apart. I was going forty miles an hour. And in a brief flash, I thought of Little Odds and Buttons, and wondered, "What didn't I teach them?" Pump the breaks, stand on the pedals, lean back, navigate the curve. Wobble, wobble, wobble. Pump. Wobble, wobble. Pump. Look for soft landing area. Pump. Wobble. Pump. Smoother. Smoother? Pump, smoother, pump, smooth. Pump, pump, stop. What happened to "Tap, tap" I wondered? I found myself in parking lot, standing astride my most excellent bike. I wasn't dead. I didn't wipe out. I was gonna go home in one piece. Huh, didn't see that coming.

So Sunday, Mrs. O and I spent the first part of the day at the pool. She picked me up from that very parking lot Saturday and I decided to take Sunday off. Sunning. Reading. Eating. Swimming. Checking my balls. Pinching myself. As the day went along, Mrs. O suggested we take a Alpine Slide ride. Sure, I said. What could go wrong? Tap, tap.

So up the hill we went. Tap, tap. And I sought out the fastest cart. Tap, tap. And I bragged that no one ever gets hurt on these things, those signs are for insurance purposes. Tap, tap. Brakes? Who needs brakes. Tap, Tap. Off we went, swoosh! Faster, faster, faster. Tap, tap. Faster, faster, faster, CURVE! Tap, fuckin' tap!

So how did it end? I stayed in the track. The cart didn't. Funny thing how skin reacts to friction on cement. Tap, tap. We got you, sucker! And strangely, as I ripped down the track and felt my skin flay, and saw stars as my jaw cracked on the track's edge, I thought to myself, "This isn't as bad as yesterday would have been. I really got away easy this time!" Tap, tap.

Summer Falling

Spring's eternal hope bursts upon the Earth with exuberance, energy, and boundless optimism. A seed breaks from its winter husk, and reaches for the sun, a new, slender sprout. It twists and turns, reaching higher and higher. Its company is other gentle flowers, only just beginning to grow, each beautiful, simple, fragile. The attentive Gardener gently weeds the soil, watering when the flower is thirsty, fertilizing to encourage growth and strong roots, The flower and her companions know no frost, for the the Gardener covers them when its cold. The flower and her companions know no blight, no pestilence, nothing more harmful than an occasional strong gust of wind. Around the flower buzzes life, heard in the joyful voices of the birds and crickets and bees. What for so long is seen as simple sprouts begin to show buds, each young flower similar but none the same. Awaiting their blooming, there is nothing but happiness in spring.

Soon spring gives way to summer. Almost overnight, the flowers' buds burst into the the air, bright colors and complex shapes. They shine nearly as bright as the sun, enlivening their surroundings, to the envy of the old oak and stone wall. The Gardener takes time to admire, knowing the flower did more work than he. The garden is so full, so dynamic, so alive, even a small patch such as this surpasses most works of man. But the garden is not one thing, but many, many hundreds. The Gardener focuses on the one lovely flower, and his heart swells with joy. He sets aside his trowel and rake, and rests from his labor.

And later, some time later, the Gardener is working a new patch of garden, coaxing more flowers to bloom. Upon his knees, he focuses on the young, immature stalks, knowing how fragile and exposed they are. A quick, unexpected gust of wind rocks the old oak, and a loud crack splits the air. The Gardener looks up, and at first everything seems in order. He stands and covers his eyes, shading his view from the strong summer glare. Almost instantly, his hands drop to his sides. He walks quickly to the flower bed, a gnarled branch from the oak driven into the soft soil.

For a moment, he naively thinks all is well. Most flowers' colors remain bright, as they sway gently in the breeze, reaching for the sun as ever. But alone on the ground lays a lone flower. While still beautiful, it is painfully, heartbreakingly clear the flower is broken, lifeless. The Gardener forgets for the moment the rest of the garden, and thinks only of the fallen. Surrounded by life, this loss feels so much more poignant. Some time later the Gardener returns to his toiling, but he thinks not of what is to come, but of what might have been. Soon his latest plantings will need his full attention, but for now the lone flower stands alone in his memory.

Stars

Along time ago, I put on a cloak that I thought I was supposed to wear. I was a young man of seventeen, so perhaps that excuses or explains things. Since then, my definition of manliness has changed an awful lot. The combined gifts of fatherhood, loss, love, marriage, friendship, and a bit of maturity all conspired to make it all but impossible for me to wear just one guise. It (manliness...) is, if I were to quantify it now, richer, gentler, less sure, complex. As a teenager, however, I thought differently. In my view, being a man was a role with a narrow sets of attributes; tough, simple, linear. Looking back, I was following a cliche, not modeled by any real man but constructed by movies, rock stars, and athletes. I was not philosophical about my persona; I just simply became a jock. At the time, my other choices were band dork, D & D geek, or nerd. Jock seemed, frankly, the best - safest? - choice. I wore my mantle proudly, figuratively and literally. So you can visualize it, imagine a lanky kid with growing muscles, wearing cut-off sweats (80's short) and my local football team's practice jersey. If that doesn't paint it clearly, how about Larry Bird, just shorter? A real man's man, no? Oh, yeah, add a puffy mullet haircut, too. I practiced flexing in the mirror, for crying out loud.

And then unexpectedly and against my wishes, I found myself on a dock by a lake, nestled in the deep woods of New Hampshire, looking up at a night sky peppered with millions and millions of stars. I was sitting next to another young man (maybe 20) who I had already pigeon-holed into a fifth unnamed category, quantified by traits like eccentric, feminine, artistic, intellectual, light-hearted. In other words, about as opposite from what I was trying to be as could be imagined. Steve was, in short, not a man's man, and thus I didn't want to have anything to do with him. But circumstances out of my control put the prototypical meat head in close proximity with ... with ... this random, odd, undefinable guy. I was quite sure this night, leading a bunch of little kids on camping trip, was going to be hell.

As the night wore on, I unexpectedly found myself dropping my judgements and preconceptions he told outrageously funny jokes and recounted summers past full of pranks and misadventures. He casually about talked about girls he had crushes on, love affairs and broken hearts, good sex and bad sex. He talked about being an A student while causing all sorts of mayhem in high school and college. He wasn't shy about the fact that he couldn't fix a car engine, never played sports, or that he didn't really give a shit about being popular. Without mocking me, he made it really clear that what he thought was cool was what he decided was cool.

As the night progressed, I began to realize this guy I'd decided was a total freak was post-cool; at the time I thought he had changed before my eyes. In hindsight, he didn't change at all. In the span of a few hours, my trajectory had changed just a degree or two. It was me who changed, or opened up, or grew up. Or at least started to be a real man. That is, a man who thought. I didn't change overnight and had lots of growing to do, but my path that night changed irrevocably. Frankly, the journey continues, but I started it that early summer night.

And I remember most clearly the moment I laid the cloak aside. As he talked about his life, I began to share a bit about the inner me. The inner me that was unsure, a boy who felt unimportant, a child who was scared by a big, big world. I'm not sure of my exact words, but Steve grew quiet for a minute or so. Then he directed my attention to the stars. He said that we, as humans, are staggeringly small in the universe's scheme of things. We all are, ultimately, tiny and insignificant in comparison to any one of the billions of stars. As he paused to think, I could feel a deep sense of cold dread seep into my soul; was he indeed saying I was as unimportant as I felt? But then Steve changed the direction of his observation, with this simple idea; what if you are kind to just one or two other people? What if that kindness lifts them up, so that they feel hopeful or happy or stronger, and they in turn pass that optimism onto two more people. Pretty soon, a lot of people - a really large group of people - may be a bit happier, kinder, gentler. What kind of power does that give you? How small are you, really?

In that one moment, under the veil of the night sky, the world I knew became infinitely more rich and exciting. This simple statement of hopeful goodness gave me a new, powerful philosophy to call my own. Either consciously or unconsciously, Steve had applied his own axiom to a young, scared boy, and in that small window of shared time and conversation, changed my life. And I still go back to the dock, traveling back through time, and hear the water lapping against the pilings, and smell the woodsmoke, and feel the warm summer breeze. And I see the stars, the infinite expanse of the universe splayed across the horizon, and I feel so, so small. Yet, strangely, I feel free.

Hero vs. Celebrity

James Bradley wrote, in Flags of Our Fathers, that "Today the word 'hero' has been diminished, confused with 'celebrity.' ... Celebrities seek fame. They take action to get attention... Heroes are heroes because they have risked something to help others." I got to thinking about his words as I finished his book last night, having also recently watched an ABC Good Morning America clip showing U.S. servicemen and servicewomen reuniting with family and friends. Mr. Bradley puts it down well enough for me not to try to rewrite it in my own words.

My own truth is this; there are very few true heroes. And this is okay. There are more than few truly good, generous, caring, humble people out there. So, they are virtuous. And let me be clear, we need the virtuous as much as the heroic. Both categories deserve the most credit and honor, although those truly virtuous or truly heroic would most likely share whatever credit they are due, which is ironically evidence of virtue. And as bonus, probably true. In my experience, both heroes and the virtuous needed others' love or camaraderie to stay afloat. They encouraged others to serve, thus amplifying their own efforts. And often, they were materially supported by others as they, in turn, served those same folks and society at large.

As I mentioned, we need virtue. We can all seek to be virtuous and achieve it in some humble measure. We can all serve our fellow citizens. We don't all have great courage, nor do we -- if we are lucky -- find ourselves in situations where personal courage is required. If we do find ourselves in danger or moral crisis, we are best served by simply serving our pursuit of virtue.

While we all can seek virtue, seeking heroism is contradictory. Seeking heroism is reckless, although being heroic isn't. You just don't seek it, nor do you know if you have it. Simply put, seeking virtue thrusts some of us, unwittingly, into heroism. We should honor heroes for their courage, while perhaps highlighting their basic service and pursuit of virtue equally.

Mr. Bradley's father was virtuous by choice and action. He was, by his own admission, heroic by accident. He wanted to be remembered for the latter, and he didn't particularly care for or about the latter. We could do worse than to follow his ideal.