Requiem for a Dinosaur

     A couple of weeks ago the phone book pictured above landed on my front sidewalk. I hadn't really thought about how much these were still used, or wondered how many people still used one. I haven’t kept any of the phonebooks I've received the past several years after I got rid of my house phone, so now when I get them they go straight to the recycling bin, except this one for the time being. We are watching the extinction of another piece of Americana fade quietly into the night. 

     Seeing it sitting there on my desk got me thinking about how out of place it is to see a phone book now, because there was a time when there was always one somewhere in the house; now they just seem to be teleported in and dumped from another time. The days of the poor old battered and abused phonebook are numbered; they were often covered with crazy doodles, had a number or two scrawled on the cover when another piece of paper wasn't close at hand, or had the pages containing your usual take-out joints dog-eared for easy access. They served us well for many a year didn't they? Now with the prevalence of cell phones with internet access they have become an object of wonder almost. The fact that I received this one tells me there are still plenty of land line phones out there, though I imagine there may be more businesses with the then homes. This is the Yellow Pages for the East Valley, which is about 1/6^th the size of the first East Valley Yellow pages I encountered when I moved to Arizona in 1994; that one was actually split into two 3” thick volumes because there was so much in it, an added plus due to its weight was it could serve as a weapon in a pinch. I don’t think selling add space in the Yellow Pages would be such a good gig these days.

     Who remembers when you could just call 1-411 for directory assistance and have an operator find it for you? I guess you can still call it since the cell carriers have it available, though from a land line it’s probably 12 bucks a shot now. When I was in college some of us would drunk dial National Directory Assistance at 1-area code- 555-1212 and talk to operators in exotic places like Hawaii, Alaska and North Dakota. Alas, AT&T put a stop to that in 2000, those dirty buggers: 

http://transition.fcc.gov/Bureaus/Common_Carrier/Public_Notices/1999/da992541.html

Over time the phone companies got a little smarter, and started to give you options to connect the call, for a fee of course. If you've ever had a phone you know how those fees manage to sneak their way onto your bill.

     I have been a numbers nut for a long time and there was a time if I wrote a number down, then used it, I would remember it; I still remember the phone number from my first apartment, odd I know. The trusty phone book or books always managed to find a place in the house , whether they were piled next to the phone or stacked up on the floor nearby for those who were phone book rich and furniture poor like me; in a pinch a stack of them made a decent end table. Nowadays, if I write a number down it’s either to just use it once, or to put in my phone under a name and then I don’t have to remember it, I just find the name in my contacts list. The world has moved on.   

     The old days of paying a fee each month to rent your phone as part of your phone bill seems like such a ridiculous idea now with us having the ability to carry our house phone wherever we go. I managed apartments for many years and would find phones left in apartments when folks split in the middle of the night; they usually were owing rent.  At one time I had so many of those ugly princess phones and hang on the wall kitchen phones, in their lovely gag me with a spoon colors, I was giving them away to friends. Of course, I ran extra lines to every room in the house I could to add a phone; when the phone rang it sounded like the donations lines at a Public TV telethon.  

     When long extension cords for phone lines became readily available I was stoked; I never have been one to sit in the same place while talking on the phone.  Of course one the drawbacks to having one of those long cords is that after a few weeks of walking around the house talking on the phone you have something that resembles a rats nest of Christmas lights without the lights sitting on your floor. Unwinding all the twists and kinks was never big fun, though eventually I’d be back in business to start that ridiculous cycle all over again.

      Those original cheap handsets that didn't need a base were a fine example of a product that should have been extinct before it was ever put on the shelf. I had one that would pick up the Spanish station in Hartford, but only at night; it sure made for some interesting conversations.  “Are you listening to the Spanish station?” “No, it’s my phone, only does it at night.” “What, I couldn't hear you the music got kind of loud there for a few seconds.” Ahh, this new technology is great isn't it?

 I grew up in the dark ages, i.e. the 60’s, and we had a wall phone in the kitchen with a short cord. You had to stand there next to it like you were using a payphone in your own house. My dad finally put in an extension in the basement; after breaking the railing on the cellar stairs for the 3^rd time dashing up from his workshop to answer the kitchen phone.  There were no answering machines or Caller ID, which really didn't matter; when the phone rang you wanted to answer it! 

     That thinking changed over time of course. I learned that if I turned the ringer down and my music up loud I didn't hear the phone ring; kind of like Caller ID before it became available and the best part; no extra fee. There was about a 2 year span where I was pretty much subsisting on berries and bark and it wasn't in my budget to have a house phone. I really didn’t miss it much and came to see having a phone as a luxury not a necessity. That was back when you could still find a payphone somewhere besides a grocery store, an airport, or some other mass transit location. Those phonebooks at those pay phones really took a beating didn’t they? How often did you find one that didn’t have a chunk of pages ripped out of it? Who can say they never ripped a page or two out of phonebook at a payphone; if you have never seen one then you can’t count that as a never.

     What’s it all mean? Do I long for the days of phones on the wall, with a stack of phone books standing by at the ready to let my fingers do the walking? Hell no,now I have room for the detritus of my daily existence to fill the space created by the phone books absence. I like that my phone can go in my pocket, I don’t need an alarm clock and it’s a great little flashlight to save my toes from finding malicious furniture in the dark.

     .

It's a Brown Christmas Charlie

Christmas lights on palm trees, a very Arizona Christmas.

    Winter time in many locales is usually infused with brown as the primary color in the surrounding scenery; trees are hanging out naked, the last few leaves to jump from their limbs huddle at the base patiently waiting for the first leaf blower of spring. Your lawn takes on the color of the walls of your first low budget apartment, producing the sound of walking on a bed of corn flakes in your daily trek to investigate the postman’s offerings of more flyers and promises to save you money on your car insurance.

     Of course you could be lucky enough to have Santa deliver a blanket of snow for the holiday season, no doubt your opinion of the word luck determined by how thick that blanket is and whether or not the snow blower has enough gas on hand to allow you to make it possible to see the driveway again before spring time.  Of course, not everything is a dull shade of brown or dusty white, if there are evergreens populating your home turf. There is nothing quite like snow on evergreens, unless you happen to be standing beneath one when gravity decides it is time to free itself from its winter coat. 

                                                      

   Winter, no matter where you live brings to mind images of warm socks, thermal duds, and sitting in front of a crackling fireplace sipping something hot, either toddies or cocoa, whichever way your pleasure tends. We actually do that in Arizona, winter is winter, and desert cold is cold even if you think 50 is not. My friends from back East laugh at me when I tell them it’s cold here. I've realized cold is a relative term.  If you live in a place where the summer high is in the neighborhood of 85-90, and you drop the temperature 65-70 degrees, that’s kind of cold; not the “It’s so cold I’m going to die and it feels like there’s a porcupine in my nose’ type of cold. It’s just cold period. In this part of Arizona the summer highs typically get to 110-115 and if you drop the temp here 65-70 degrees that is going to feel cold.  That’s winter just being winter.

    Winter also brings thoughts of the holiday season to come; the snap in the morning air becomes a bit snappier after the goblins disappear from our sidewalks and plans turn to important things, like who can’t sit next to each other at Thanksgiving dinner.  By the time the last of the leftovers have finally disappeared from the fridge, Christmas decorations have been dragged from the attic or shed and begun to make appearances in our environs, including the dreaded strands of Christmas lights.

                                            Simple elegance.

                                                             

                        Shrek the Halls, or the front yard

                                                          

     In backyards and garages, on porches and patios everywhere, innocent Christmas lights become victims of a stream of vitriol usually reserved for the driver that hurries to get in front of you so he can go slow. This is done no doubt in the expectation that swearing at that rats nest of lights will magically cause them to untangle themselves before they swath the house in Christmas cheer for the coming weeks. Have no fear, those sturdy strands of blinking beauty can handle a few cuss words; all they want to do is show off and they do it oh so well.

             
                My first ever sighting of a reindeer with a parachute.

A cul-de-sac offering

      In Arizona, where brown is virtually a year round color scheme, the fall and winter months are when we start to see color, especially around Christmas time. Christmas lights are much more prevalent here than what I remember from the cold Northeast.  I've decided it has to be because it’s much more comfortable putting up lights when its 55 degrees outside as opposed to 25; no doubt when you’re hands aren't stiff with cold it’s a tad bit easier to really go all out. This is a sprawling city, filled with neighborhoods often built like a giant cul-de-sac, each containing a several smaller ones within their borders. It is apparent the residents of that cul-de-sac either get together to simply entertain or try to outdo the others in their semi-circle in the city. The light displays are impressive, whether they are simple and whimsical or garish and garbled, they have an inherent ability to bring out the season. Seeing Christmas lights wrapped around a palm will always make me giggle; I guess I‘m just an old Yankee and still associate Christmas lights with evergreens not desert plant life. I make a point to look for someone both brave and foolish enough to put Christmas lights on a cactus; it’s not impossible though removal time must be fraught with prickly consequences.

The group of lights in the back are in a tree that's tough to see in the pic. It looks like someone stood on the roof and threw them into the tree. 

The main drag in Gilbert, Arizona

   My wife and I enjoy looking at Christmas lights and finally decided to take some pictures this year, which are included here. We had a lot of fun driving around looking for interesting displays; the time just melted away.  We made a special trek to see if the little farm we were married at was lit up for the hoiliday; alas there we no lights lit at our special place.  As we gazed out the windows on our trek homeward what to our wondering eyes did appear, but a dune buggy lit up with Christmas cheer. A hasty pursuit culminated in a parking lot filled with more buggies lit to celebrate the season, some in the process of being loaded for home.  We interrupted a couple and their teenage son as they were beginning the process of loading their buggy on a trailer. They were both gracious enough to stop and talk to us for a few minutes. 

                                          
                                     Just a few of the buggy light parade.

   The wife told us that the group started about 7 years ago with just a handful of folks getting together to decorate their buggies and ride around town. Over the past several years it has grown to the point where 60 buggies joined in for this year’s night time light parade. We stopped to grab a few pics. It was a really neat way to end our Christmas light trek through the city.

   I've lived out here in the desert the past 20 years and Christmas still manages to sneak up on me, probably due to the fact snow is never in the forecast during this time of year. Seeing Christmas lights adorning houses, lampposts and palm trees is usually what it takes to get me in the Christmas spirit; Christmas lights on palm trees will never cease to make me smile.  This year seemed to fly by, don’t they all the older you get, this year I decided to put some thoughts of the season down on paper, or at least something approaching paper. My wish for you all is your Christmas was the merriest of all and the New Year brings success, love, good health and happiness.

                                                             

                            

                       

                   
    This was the find of the night with video below as a perfect compliment.

     

     I saved this for last. Turn the sound up on the video. We had the car radio tuned to a station playing Christmas music; timing as they say is everything.

                             

                                                        

    

    

Be Ready to Throw that Hooey

     My wife and I both work an evening shift at our jobs and with her end time being a little later than mine, I get the opportunity to write and do other fun stuff like dishes and cleaning the cat box. I get home a few hours before she does and by the time of her arrival I am beginning to wind down with my feet up till I melt into the couch; upon which she shoos me off to the sleep sack. During the week we typically DVR the shows we like and watch them together when she gets home. Sometimes I have to watch them again because that melting thing happens and I miss some things. Last week started that time of the year when the networks, both national and cable, put their regular shows on hiatus during the holiday season. Our DVR didn't have much to do, and when we sat down to watch the boob tube at the end of the day, pickings were kind of slim. Anyone who works a 2^nd shift job knows that infomercials and multitudes of “why is this on” type of shows rule the airwaves as the night goes on. No thanks; I don’t need a dump cake cookbook, a sticky buddy, or a knife that can cut up a beer can, then slice a tomato.

     Last week we came across the National Finals Rodeo from Vegas and basically fell into it headfirst. We occasionally watch Professional Bull Riding, so it wasn't a big stretch to stop and check it out. After watching Bull Riding, which is basically the same group of guys trying to avoid getting tossed into to the air by a different angry bull every round; the rodeo was a nice change. I've never watched the rodeo on TV before; the last rodeo I went to was at the Big E in Springfield , Mass and  I was probably about 10 years old, so it’s been a while.

    We had a lot of fun watching this and started to DVR it after the 2nd night.  It was a kaleidoscope of bedazzled cowboy gear and colorful names; there were cowboys named Tuf, Turtle, and Timber; bulls with the monikers of Bushwacker and Train Wreck, plus a 22 year old horse called Sweetness in the roping event. The rounds went fairly quick, each cowboy only had one shot each day to make a score, so missing out on getting a score or putting up a bad one made it tough to make up for. The national finals last for 10 days and by the end of it almost all the cowboys walked with a limp, or were holding some body part that had been banged up along the way.   

     The riders in the bucking competitions, whether its broncs or bulls, proved over and over again that they are hard as nails and a bit nuts. The cowboys really don’t wear any padding, other than a Kevlar vest and what looks like a lacrosse helmet, and they take a hell of a beating. Even though they only have to ride for 8 seconds to get a score, it seems like forever watching that clock tick, while you’re rooting for them to get in a full ride.  Watching their heads snap back and forth, one arm waving in the air, using it to maintain their balance, while trying to keep their legs from flailing in 6 different directions makes for an intense 8 seconds, or less. While I was watching some of the guys get tossed into the air like a Saturday Morning cartoon character, I was hoping they didn't break something when they landed. A few of them did.

     One of the bronc riders was thrown in the air and landed smack on his head; he wasn't allowed to continue when they found he cracked a couple vertebrae. Another of the bronc riders broke the forearm on his free hand and kept riding. It was almost painful watching him limp back to the waiting area holding his injured arm after his each ride, I wondered at the degree of toughness or insanity it took to get back on a horse. To say these guys are single-minded is a serious understatement.  During another round of the bronc competition a rider got his hand caught in his saddle wrap as he was thrown off, so his shoulder did a “Right turn Clyde”, which made me cringe watching, as it obviously dislocated. He’s done right? Wrong, the next round he’s back on the horse, the arm he used for his saddle hand strapped to his side with a shoulder brace and out in to the arena he went for the full 8 seconds. Ouch.

     The horses in the roping competitions were not only gorgeous animals; they were really cool to watch. The expressions on their faces before each round were classic examples of, “I got my game face on.” They each stood at the start, ears up, eyes focused on the calf in the chute, a quiet confidence burning in their demeanor showed they knew what the job was and that they were ready to do it.  The cowboys had to be quick on their horses when the chute opened and the calf took off running. During the roping we had our first taste of rodeo commentary that had us looking at each other and wondering what the hell he just said.  “You have to be quick when you throw that hooey”. Umm...okay what’s a hooey?  Well, turns out that’s the short rope that calf ropers have to hold in their teeth because their lariat is in one hand and the reins are in the other. Where the name came from I have no idea, though I‘ll tell you those cowboys sure have speedy hands; they make that rope fly around the calf’s feet.

     The barrel racing was the ladies time in the spotlight. Fallon Taylor won the barrel racing, after coming back from a broken neck a few years back, on a horse she raised from a foal. The barrel races at around 14 seconds were the longest of any event and were a nice change of pace from the others.

     Each night the bull riding was saved as the last event in the show. The only familiar face we saw from the PBR was JW Harris, who is one of the top riders. We watched him get thrown, then stomped on and kicked; that was tough to watch. He went and rode the next day with stitches in his head and a notable creakiness to his every move; it didn't go well. 

    Don Hay, an 8 time PBR champ, did the color commentary for the bull riding and he had us in stitches every night.  We had to rewind to hear these classics again. “You know it’s kind of like when your car is coming out of the garage and you have to be invisible and it’s hard to do.” I think this was in reference to one of the bull fighters, formerly known as rodeo clowns, though I can’t say that with any certainty. The other I still can’t make any sense out of.  “It’s like trying to ride around a square box and come out smooth.”  Um, WHAT?  The comments rivaled Cosell, Gifford and Meredith at their goofiest on Monday Night Football years ago. One thing that was very apparent was Don’s love for and knowledge of bull riding, though he often left us wondering what the hell he was talking about.

     Even though I live in the West I don’t see a lot of cowboys. You really have to get out of town; way out where the cactus outnumber the cars and you won’t see someone buzzing by you on a rice rocket wearing a tank top and flip flops, to see some real cowboys. You may see a few here or there in town, and since this city is like Southern California East without the implants, they are easily recognizable.  I was glad I took the time to indulge in something a little out of the norm for me; it was well worth the time invested. I think I could see the two of us heading to a rodeo in the future.  

   One final note I thought I would add. A rodeo is essentially a gathering of cowboys.  The street in L.A. pronounced Roh-DAY-Oh was the name given to the area by some of the first Europeans to settle there. They called it ”El Rodeo de los Aguas”, the Gathering of the Waters, because the area at that time had water aplenty.  No matter how you pronounce it, they are both a gathering of good things. 

     

The Race Begins at Old Churned Butter

                                                 The Starting Line

     My wife and I decided after our first Christmas together that we would do the same thing again each year when it came to shopping.  Our first year together we only had one car between us and that old bird didn't make it to the next one. We had a lot of fun trying to hide packages from each other that day. We agreed after such a romantic day filled with laughter we had to make it our holiday tradition. We started the day of with lunch at “Old Churned Butter” , which I was the name I gave  Cracker Barrel in one of those , “ I know what that is but I can’t think of the name but it’s something like this” moments. There are enough of those kinds of moments around our house on weekly basis that I could collect them into another blog post, which may or may not include translations.  The next year we followed the plan of the inaugural event, all the way to the driveway. Since I drove I had to wait while she took stuff inside, then it was my turn.

     By Christmas 2012 Dani had her own car, though we still started the day off at Old Churned Butter; yes, the name stuck. For the first time, we were running off in separate directions to get our shopping done. That day’s shopping was the prelude to our now annual race home, hoping to get presents in the house before the other one arrived.

     This year, is year 5 of our annual shopping together/apart tradition. As before, we kicked off the day by having lunch at Old Churned Butter together. After lunch, we decided to do something a little different, and started off our shopping in the same store. My wife insisted she take me to Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World, since I had never been there. Yes, I am the stereotypical guy when it comes to shopping; go to the store, know what I ‘m looking for, grab it, pay for it, and get the hell out. I have never been one to just rattle around in a store just to look at stuff, unless it’s a book store, and those are rapidly disappearing.  This, though, was quite a place, definitely a toy store for outdoorsman.

This sign, no doubt elicits many a giggle 

Another in a myriad of stuffed critters that stare at you from all over the store. He got that plaque for having a record sized head. Really.

     There is plenty of stuff to keep the kids occupied while Mom and Dad shop. There is a fish tank that is probably 12 to 15 feet deep filled with some good size fish. Next to the tank a waterfall cascades into a little pond, then spills into the tank; the sound assaults you when you walk in the door.

                                                                   

                             

                                                                   

A lot of catfish nuggets in that one.

     There are also games for kids on the main level and a shooting gallery for them in the gun section upstairs, which was the busiest section in the store other than the cash registers. We wandered around for a while, looking at stuff, and in an homage to the Walking Dead’s Daryl Dixon, stopped to check out the crossbows.  After the second, “what else do you want to look at honey?’ I realized it was my queue to leave, so I headed for the door. 

                                                                  

Not everyone may need one of these, but....

This is a must for everyone's reading room; there is a dog or a bear if you're not partial to  ducks.

     Our individual plans crossed paths again as we finished the day at the same store; my wife won the race home to hide stuff in the house, again. After we both got settled we realized that braving the stores had worn us out; I proceeded to fall asleep not long after I put my feet up.

     As Christmas traditions go, ours is not typical, though we've both been working crazy call center schedules since we met and we've had Christmas day off together only once. That is life in the salt mines of the city; you have to decide on a tradition that works for you. We have made our own tradition for Thanksgiving also; another holiday we've only shared once on its actual day. Holiday traditions are those little warm fuzzies we cherish; they are as much a part of any holiday as the reason for the holiday itself.  The world moves on, as the calendar reminds us it is always about addition, not subtraction, as the years melt away. Time and circumstances may change some of those traditions, as well as the players involved, but the essence remains the same. Those moments shared become frozen in the great eternal Now. They are called up each year as we remember those from days past, while we fully expect them to be there again next year when the day rolls around. That’s kind of what the season is about anyway isn't it; family, friends and fun. Cheers to Christmas traditions no matter what form they come in. 

The Kyphosis Inheritance

Dusty demons found hiding in my office

I often have to stifle a giggle  when I witness what is essentially an impromptu group photo of the obsession with cellphones. It is not like I suddenly noticed; the rock I live under does have windows after all.  I am talking about that moment when I just stop to observe; I marvel at the scope of this current cultural phenomenon. Age isn't a factor, nor is social strata. It manifests right in front of you, whether you’re cruising the aisles at Walmart looking for cheap crap you don’t need or strolling into a fancy office fronted by a receptionist with a $100 manicure. I’m talking about that obsession with our “cellulose” phones, those magical devices that convince a goodly portion of any group to stand around with their faces buried in the screen. I’m guilty too at times, though I force myself to stop walking when I ‘m writing a text, which occasionally does help the person on the receiving end. Anyone that receives texts from me on a regular basis can attest to the 3^rd degree eye slaughter that results from the “some language other than English” those texts frequently contain. And no, I don’t use auto-correct thank you; I can make perfectly nonsensical messages all by myself.

     I get that I can do lots of stuff on a phone. My question is why? I just don’t get the attraction of fiddling with Facebook, getting lost in a game or watching a movie on that little bitty screen. Nope, lost me there and no I don't want the app for that. I guess I should go out and come back in again.

     I'll catch myself standing there gawking when I‘m somewhere like a store or anywhere people tend to congregate, and I'll notice how so many folks have their heads bent over their phones. Sometimes I wonder what the teens and twenty something's of today will look like when they are my age or older. Will we have a whole segment of society populated by those afflicted with kyphosis? Scores of folks walking around with their head bent forward since they can’t lift it up because their back and neck is all whacked. I’m sure you've seen those little old folks in the grocery store, head bent over their grocery cart, shuffling along pretty much staring at their feet?  In addition, I envision a myriad of arthritic thumbs and index fingers bent in 6 different directions from sliding, tapping and texting. It doesn't sound pretty, then again I’m paying for my misspent youth too in some ways, so the invincible mindset managed to get passed down the line. Not that wasn't much of a surprise now was it?

 I’ll catch myself walking and texting and I make myself stop, finish my message and put the damn thing away. I see so many people out and about that walk with their face glued to the screen of their phone it makes me shake my head. I guess there is no great concern out there of walking in to a wall or the person in front of you, possibly trip over a curb, or just wander out in to the street. My question is, why the obsession with our cell phones and why do I see so many people doing it? Even If it’s in my pocket it's still sending me updates and such from text or email messages. It is somewhat like having a bunch of kids around when the ice cream man comes down the street; its just going to bug you until you take it out and respond to what it wants.

The changes in phones and how we use them has been quite amazing really, though I doubt the old land-line phone will disappear entirely. There are still a lot of areas where cell reception is bad, whether due to terrain or in cities where cell towers are not allowed for aesthetic reasons. I haven’t had a land-line phone in about 7 years and doubt I’ll go back to one unless the geography of my domicile deems it necessary. 

I have a love/ hate relationship with my phone even if it serves 3 functions fairly well.  First and foremost it's my alarm clock. No more pumpkin face luminous numbers staring back at me in the middle of the night; I don't own any electric clocks now. Second, it’s my watch since I don’t like wearing one. Lastly, it’s a phone, where it’s used sparingly as a talking device. Since I talk on the phone all day at work I sure as hell don't want to talk on it when my day is done. I probably use it the most for texting, and it only makes noise when the alarm goes off.  Oh and there is another thing I use it for occasionally and mainly outdoors. I used my current phone to take the picture at the top and was surprised it actually came out all right. It really sucks for taking inside picture, I almost need Klieg lights to get a decent picture. I leaned them against the lamp that sits on my desk, which is made out of an old coffee pot and voila! Wonders never cease.  

Now my dastardly companion will go to one side of my desk, where it resides most weekends until I need the alarm on Sunday night. Now if my thumbs would stop aching and I could just get rid of this stiff neck…

Watching Train Wrecks

    

     I am happy to report that despite being exposed to 24 hour cable news on a daily for basis the past several weeks, I do not have Ebola.  I am not a news watcher, whether it’s the local,” If it bleeds it leads” variety or the 24 tag team loop of the same 3 stories repeated over and over. Since I choose not to eat at my desk and rarely go out for lunch, most days it’s just me and this enormous TV in the break room; the 72” flat screen on the wall is rather difficult to avoid. Granted the Ebola story needed to be told, though some of the lead lines just made me shake my head. I just munched on my brown bag fare of the day, read my book and waited for the dire warning to grab a few rolls of duct tape and cover my windows with plastic. News in any variety is basically the use of certain volatile words like, “deadly”, “tragic”, or “ devastating” to create an emotional response to get you to stop and watch, then sell you a few pills, the latest electronic gadget , or a car you can look great in while you drive around collecting cans to help pay for it. Then again, maybe I’m a bit cynical when it comes to some things.  Believe it or not I hold out some hope for the human race, though that has been tested by the other ongoing sagas filling our various news outlets recently.

     The other stories of course have to do with police involved shooting in Ferguson and the killing of an unarmed man on the streets of New York. The subsequent protests are just another example of how everybody loses when incidents like this occur.  A crisis like this hits friends and families on both sides and we are given a ring side seat to watch. Well maybe not everyone lost; I’m sure the networks probably made out pretty well, advertisers’ stuff got eyeballed and no doubt several lawyers picked up a few new clients. There is always money to be made from other folk’s misfortune; somehow a train wreck has its own special magnetism and we become powerless to tear ourselves away from the devastation.

     I watched chunks of coverage after 9-11 and Hurricane Katrina and the latter drove me away from watching news altogether; I felt like a voyeur after seeing people at their most vulnerable and being firmly convinced that it all didn't need to go down that way. I feel the same way about the police involved incidents that have been filling the newswires of late. Ferguson, from what my half ear has heard and the little I've read, seems to have been wrong right from jump street; inconsistent statements came from both sides, though it appears to have exposed an attitude that has no place anymore, which the New York incident showed is not restricted to St Louis.  Based on the response to a few football players making a show of support, the Police Chief’s office in St. Louis must have had a stray can of gas lying around and figured he’d thrown it in.

     As a kid growing up I watched the Civil Rights marches on TV and I thought over time they gave this country a good start in making some progress in race relations.  By saying that I must add a caveat; I’m not black and I never have been so I can’t speak to what it’s like being rousted for being black in public. The only thing I can speak to is being stopped for being long haired in public. It really doesn't have the same social impact; one is a choice the other is not.

     I don’t have any answers, though I wish I did. No doubt the answers are within our grasp, I just wonder if anyone is listening.

   

    

 Photo source - www.me.umn.edu

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