"...plenty of blame to go around.." but, we'd rather you don't focus on our share

One year ago today, the gulf coast woke up to the notion that the Cat 3 hurricane that had been going to Texas, was now a Cat 5 storm headed for New Orleans. One year ago, we were told our government was ready: the supplies were prepositioned; emergency responders were poised and ready; and the coast would be taken care of.

Today, we all know what a complete load of bunk that turned out to be.

Six months after the disaster - there was still garbage in the streets and people living in tent cities. Aid agencies were asking for blankets so people could sleep warm for the first time in months. Those out of power blamed those in power, those in power blamed everyone (and therefore, everyone else). The administration would have you believe that their slice of blame is on par with what others deserve.

I'm sorry, but that's just not gonna wash with me.

"...let's pretend that both Nagin and Blanco performed beautifully throughout the whole thing. Let'e pretend (and this is hard) that Nagin made all the right calls, ordered the mandatory evacuation at the proper time, and marshalled all of New Orelans' meager resources in preparing for disaster. Let's further pretend that Blanco was a model of foresight and was ready to be the grease that helped the enitre disaster machine run smoothly, cooperating fully with both Nagin and Bush. The only thing that stays the same in this scenario is the federal response.

New Orleans is still completely screwed."

Read more here.
(background - Mr. Brodedrick worked for the Feds, and he was worse than useless.)

Yeah. What about that?

A friend forwarded me an editorial written by a former colleague of mine. He's saying something that needs to be said over and over until the glorified stenographers who call themselves a press corps finally get the message.

This man was a Vietnam vet, and he has lost all patience with those who view their role as journalists as simply providing a bullhorn for right-wing character assassins.

He writes:

...I ask: How dare these cowards attack our veterans in these underhanded, vicious and deceptive ways? How dare this bunch of chicken hawks, so eager to propound wars like Vietnam and Iraq, yet never fight in them, deride those of us who served and who may actually know something about body bags, and travesty and death?

To the reporters and editorialists and nightly anchors I ask: Where is the analysis of these accusers? ...

Had I been smarter, better connected, more politically astute, I may have managed to stay home myself. But no chicken hawk, able to avoid war service for himself and his family, should question the service, the commitment, the dedication and the patriotism of those who have faced the fear and the fire and who dare to take part in the democracy they believed they were sent to protect.

Read the rest here.

National Security Archive FOIA Request Yields 9/11 Air Traffic Control Transcripts

Because more information is a good thing:

National Security Archive has posted the 9/11 Air Traffic Control Transcripts

1328:16+
UAL-93 *** (mayday) *** (hey get out of here) ***

1328:48+
UAL-93 *** (get out of here) *** (get out of here) ***

1329:14+
LOR-R [Lorain Radar - Ground control] United ninety three verify three five zero.

1329:20+
LOR-R United ninety three verify you're at flight level ah three five zero.

....[LOR-R repeatedly attempts to contact the UAL-93]...

1331:55+
UAL-93 *** please sit down. keep remaining seating. we have a bomb on board, so ***

1332:05+
LOR-R er uh calling cleveland center you're unreadable say again slowly.

1335:36+
LOR-R ah United ninety three if able * ah squawk trip please.

1336:51+
LOR-R [Cleaveland center announces that UAL93 is turning south and east and climbing].

1339:10+
UAL-93 ah this is the captain uh would like to all remain seated there is a bomb aboard and we go back to the airport and to have our demands so please remain quiet.

This is the last time UAL-93 appears in the transcript.

Controlled demolition? They beg to differ..

All dressed up and nowhere to go. I was going to post a long rant debunking controlled demolition as a reason why the World Trade Center collapsed – but somebody has nicely put it all in a single document.

I will post a few choice bits I found that tackle the notion advanced by conspiracy theorists, namely:

“…2,000 lbs of RDX-grade linear-shaped charges (which could have been pre-positioned by just a few men) could cut the supports at key points so that gravity would bring the buildings straight down.”
-Prof. Stephen E. Jones, Brigham Young University

Professor, meet a man who blows up buildings for a living:

“The explosives configuration manufacturing technology [to bring down those buildings] does not exist… If someone were to attempt to make such charges, they would weigh thousands of pounds apiece. You would need forklifts to bring them into the building.”
-Mark Loizeaux, Controlled Demolition, Inc.

Loizeaux goes on to say that the biggest commercially available charges can cut through steel that is three inches thick. The box columns at the base of the WTC towers were fourteen inches on a side. If big enough charges did exist, Loizeaux says, for each tower it could hypothetically take as long as two months for a team of up to 75 men with unfettered access to three floors to strip the fireproofing off the columns and then place and wire the charges.

“There’s just no way to do it… If you just put bulk explosives in file cabinets next to every column in the building, it wouldn’t knock those columns down. It would blow the windows out. It would trash the [building] and probably blow out two floors above and a floor below… but it wouldn’t knock the building down.”
-Mark Loizeaux, Controlled Demolition, Inc.

On to the really good stuff. It turns out yesterday, the folks over at Implosionworld.com (gotta love the name) have released a report on controlled demolition theories at the WTC.

Their verdict – the Controlled Demolition theory folks don’t have the faintest idea what they are talking about.

Read all about it. (PDF)

Where does the money go?

Damn fine idea if you ask me.

What do Friends of the Earth, the Family Research Council, Phyllis Schlafly and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force have in common? If you think not much, then you are partially wrong: They all love the new Federal Funding Accountability and Transparency Act. Introduced by senators Tom Coburn (R-Okla.) and Barack Obama (D-Ill.), the bill requires the Office of Management and Budget to establish and maintain a single public website listing the names and locations of all individuals and groups receiving federal funds, including the amount of federal funds received annually by program.

The idea of a transparency website -- replete with search engines that include subcontractors -- was born in May 2005 at a hearing on U.S. efforts to combat malaria. Officials from the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) squirmed as Coburn revealed that 93% of the agency's 2004 funding to eradicate malaria had been spent on administrative and advice-giving services. In addition, not enough of these funds were spent overseas; too much was absorbed by high-paid U.S. consultants.

Read more

We can't make this stuff up

The New Bush Quiz is out.

The score to beat is fifteen.

That sinking feeling...

In plugging around for the previous post, I came across the following article on Vanity Fair:

9/11 Live: The NORAD Tapes

Transcripts and audio from NORAD. Shows the chaos and confusion of that morning.

9:32:20
MAJOR JAMES ANDERSON: Have you asked—have you asked the question what you're gonna do if we actually find this guy? Are we gonna shoot him down if they got passengers on board? Have they talked about that?

Worth a read, and a listen.

Memo to 9/11 conspiracy buffs everywhere: Making movies is easy. Research is hard.

I've watched the internet film "Loose change," about 9/11 - and come away with the same sense of bewilderment that I first had when I read the JFK conspiracy book "Best Evidence."

Can't be... it just can't be...

Were I still the 17-year old twerp who read JFK assassination books, I'd still be wondering about 9/11. Thankfully, I have a cerebral cortex, and the curiosity to use it.

Loose change's slick production values give it the appearance of credibility. Quick cuts, edgy music. Interviews that ratchet up the sense of alarm.
Part of the wow factor of this movie is that it was made by total nobodies on a shoestring.

Nobodies on a shoestring don't usually have quality fact-checking.

The problem with going after these guys is you typically come off like you're as kooky as they are.

For what it's worth:

• When conspiracy theories go bad. by David Corn


• Popular Mechanics on 9/11: Debunking The Myths


• Fahrenheit 2777 by Michael Shermer


• State Department's refutation


• Line by line refutation of Loose Change movie (Not very professional, but not terrible either)

Be first, be loud - and you win

The modern news cycle has led to a truth in message management: namely, it doesn't matter if what you say is correct - you have to say it loudly, with conviction, and -most importantly- first. The current administration appears to have not only grasped this tactic, but mastered it.

Spin any malarkey you want, the news will have to play catch up - and by the time they do, you've already won the war of ideas.

This is likely news to no one. But I just had to point out a posting on the New York Times that debunks an earlier use of this tactic. Mostly because it is so richly deserved.

The target of this debunking? Michael Crichton's novel, State of Fear.

Now, I like a number of Crichton's novels; the Andromeda Strain, Eaters of the Dead, Jurassic Park, and Timeline. All good fun, all are loosely based on Crichton's tried and true formula, find a story hook rooted in science and go to town.

In State of Fear, Crichton basically counterpunches all environmental science, using whatever he can find that sounds credible. His loudest refrain was a study on Antarctica that had observed a cooling effect on one of the continent's peninsulas, as well as the thickening of the glacier. Out of context, this appears to fly in the face of global warming. "Earth getting warmer? How come Antarctica is getting cooler?"

Except the study didn't say that Antarctica is getting cooler, they pointed to data that a majority of the continent had cooled - and noted that the rest of the continent was, in fact warming. Their conclusion was that more research needed to be done, and not "Global warming is a hoax!" as Crichton would have you believe.

Enter the NYT editorial "Cold, Hard Facts," penned by one of the authors of the study, Peter Doran:

Our results have been misused as “evidence” against global warming by Michael Crichton in his novel “State of Fear” and by Ann Coulter in her latest book, “Godless: The Church of Liberalism.” Search my name on the Web, and you will find pages of links to everything from climate discussion groups to Senate policy committee documents — all citing my 2002 study as reason to doubt that the earth is warming. One recent Web column even put words in my mouth. I have never said that “the unexpected colder climate in Antarctica may possibly be signaling a lessening of the current global warming cycle.” I have never thought such a thing either.

Our study did find that 58 percent of Antarctica cooled from 1966 to 2000. But during that period, the rest of the continent was warming. And climate models created since our paper was published have suggested a link between the lack of significant warming in Antarctica and the ozone hole over that continent. These models, conspicuously missing from the warming-skeptic literature, suggest that as the ozone hole heals — thanks to worldwide bans on ozone-destroying chemicals — all of Antarctica is likely to warm with the rest of the planet. An inconvenient truth?

...I would like to remove my name from the list of scientists who dispute global warming. I know my coauthors would as well.

Counterpunching is fun (I say this from experience) and it can make a good novel - but Crichton's misuse of the one study that supported his plot, and his complete dismissal of the literally thousands of independent observations that support the theory of Global Warming, was irresponsible. The fact that this novel becomes some people's sole interaction with the issue just compounds the fact. Crichton has leveraged his fame into audiences with the President to discuss the issue, which (while unlikely to have swayed the president) lends his work credibility that this scientific dilettante just doesn't deserve.

The guy's a fiction writer. Novelists are, to use Ursula's Le Guin's phrase, "in the business of telling lies." It is presented as fact to make a good story, not because it is fact. Crichton doesn't have to answer to anyone - he just has to move product.

I'm glad that the truth comes out eventually, but once again - it's in the fine print - long after the fact.

Updated
There are more and better criticisms out there. Here are just a few:

• Michael Crichton’s State of Confusion
  By Gavin Schmidt December 13, 2004
• Distort Reform
  By Gavin Schmidt February 1, 2005
• Checking Crichton's footnotes
  By Chris Mooney February 6, 2005

Whole lotta Muffuletta

A local deli has arguably the best Muffuletta I've had in the Midwest. Being a Muffuletta, it's about the size of a small car. On impulse (read "avoiding my desk") I went out and picked one up.

I love this place. The first time I was there, the guy made the Muffuletta and was so happy with it that - I kid you not - he photographed it before he gave it to me. Must have put it in his advertising materials. Gotta like a guy who takes that kind of pride in his work.

So I order mine and he drops it down on the counter with an impressive 'whump!' I look up at him, "Now that's a sandwich!" He just grinned. A pound and a half of ham, genoa salami, and provalone, topped with the holy sacrement known as olive relish. Oh yeah....

Well, I ate it. Damn near all of it. And while it was eye-rollingly good. I'm starting to realize (for the bazillionth time) that sometimes, too much of a good thing is truly too much. Now here I am at work trying to stay on task, when all I want to do is find a large sofa and pass out.

Foolish, foolish mortal... Do not anger the gods of the Muffuletta, for they will hurt you...

The best disinfectant

Just saw this, and thought it was too cool not to mention. This specific interface may or may not catch on, but the general idea is sure to last: Greater access to politician's fundraising information and voting records via a common web app.

• Read the article from TPMcafe, or
• See the example

Reverberate

Last week, my sister-in-law gave me a copy of Neko Case's Blacklisted, and I just can't shake the song, "Deep Red Bells." She wrote it about the Green River Killer, which gives it the macabre flavor that ensures maximum sticking power - at least, for people like me.

The windout has been camped out in my head for three solid days:

Where does this mean world cast its cold eye?
Who’s left to suffer long about you?
Does your soul cast about like an old paper bag,
past empty lots and early graves,
of those like you who lost their way
-murdered on the interstate-
While the red bells rang like thunder?

You'll just have to imagine Neko's voice soaring through the last line like an avenging angel.

Gives me chills.

Spot on

NTY on the reality of the current administration's power grabs:

The Real Agenda
Published: July 16, 2006
The New York Times

It is only now, nearly five years after Sept. 11, that the full picture of the Bush administration’s response to the terror attacks is becoming clear. Much of it, we can see now, had far less to do with fighting Osama bin Laden than with expanding presidential power.

Over and over again, the same pattern emerges: Given a choice between following the rules or carving out some unprecedented executive power, the White House always shrugged off the legal constraints. Even when the only challenge was to get required approval from an ever-cooperative Congress, the president and his staff preferred to go it alone. While no one questions the determination of the White House to fight terrorism, the methods this administration has used to do it have been shaped by another, perverse determination: never to consult, never to ask and always to fight against any constraint on the executive branch.

More

Thief in the night

I talk about soccer a lot, because it's easy. The words fall out of my head and more or less say what I want to say.

Real life isn't so easy.

This morning, E's father passed away after a long struggle with cancer. He passed away in his sleep - which I suppose is a small comfort. E's sister had just made it up from L.A. - and I'm hoping she got to spend time with him before the end.

I doubt he got to see his new grand-daughter, but I'm hoping he did.

There is real comfort for E, but she's with her sisters. Times like this, companionship is all you can lean on.

The words aren't coming out right, so I'll just stop here.

High treason

July 9, 2006
Italy: 1
France: 1
Zidane 7' PEN; Materazzi 19'; Italy wins 5-3 on penalties.

Going into this match, I'd been pulling for France. Mostly pulling for Zidane and the old guard to stump the critics and walk home with a second world cup. Zizou's last game - the frogs could win one for the old man, and everything would be golden.

I wanted the fairy tale.

Being a soccer fan, I know that fairy tales have no place in soccer - and I'd prepared for an Italy win. No matter what, Zidane had shown his quality - and the world would have to give him his due.

Win or lose, he still walks off the field a hero, right?

Enter soccer -the cruelest sport of all.

France's early lead forces the Italians to play, which they do very well for about a half an hour - deservedly scoring and dominating play in the first half. Then France pulls out the stops and starts running the show. Italy turtles in, and just gets shelled.

Henry's a madman, the French midfield is dominating, but nothing's going in. Zidane's playing hurt, the fairy tale is all queued up.

Extra time, France is driving - subbing in two forwards doing everything right. Italy's looking ragged, they could lose at any moment -

-and Zidane headbutts Materazzi. Materazzi (having played in the Serie A) drops to the ground like he's been shot.

I'm looking at the screen, trying to figure out why in God's name Zizou would do something so blatantly unforgivable, when I realize that the ref hasn't seen it. Impossible, it's on the replay, as blatant as the Hand of God - maybe he'll -

No, the fourth official's looking at the same replay as the rest of the world - and the ref reaches into his pocket.

Win or lose, Zidane, you just lost your legacy. One of four men on earth to score a goal in two World Cup finals, and you will forever be remembered for this stupid act.

A ten-man France plays valiantly, managing to dominate the Italians. Two quality chance don't go France's way - but it doesn't really matter anymore. Even a win won't redeem Zizou. He blew it, and when it goes to penalties, two of the three worst outcomes have already happened.

The PK coin toss comes up Italy, and provides the third.

Losing is nothing, and PKs are an evil of the game that need to be rooted out and destroyed (replay, anyone?) but Zidane's flame out is just the worst.

It undoes all the nobility of France's run to the final - and guarantees that whenever Zidane's name is mentioned, the next sentence will be about him headbutting his way into a red card. It's been said that a man is more than the worst thing he's ever done, and while that's surely true - truth has no foothold in the mass media.

Zidane didn't lose a game, he lost everything.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

Salvation

There comes a point in every World Cup when all the teams collectively realize that they are a few games away from winning the whole thing. This is usually right before the games start to suck.

Defense being easier than offense, teams start playing conservative and hope the other side screws up bad enough to let them win. This is compounded by suspensions and injuries acquired in group play. Now everybody’s on Plan B. This is when the tournament’s goal average starts to plummet, and the penalty kicks crawl out of the woodwork to screw up everything.

Exhibit A

June 30, 2006
Germany: 1
Argentina: 1
Ayala 49'; Klose 80'; Germany wins 4-2 on penalties.

On the one hand, this game had drama, Argentina scoring early in the second half and Germany playing catch up in front of the home crowd. But it was not the German team that demolished its earlier opposition; they played tight, and almost lost because of it. Klinsman inexplicably pulled Klose after scoring the equalizer (you hung with his ineffective play for 80 minutes, and now that he shows signs of life – he’s gone?), and didn’t use his last sub for overtime.

The Argies were the same drama queens they always are – flopping like fish every time a German walked near them. And once again, they squandered the brilliant talent at their disposal, keeping quality subs on the bench and running headlong into the German defense. Klose equalized and Germany surged for the early part of overtime, but then it just became two teams hoping to get lucky. Germany won the coin toss, so their fans can stay happy. Dull, dull dull.

Exhibit B

Italy: 3
Ukraine: 0
Zambrotta 6'; Toni 59', 69'

With a three nothing scoreline, you’d think this one was a barn-burner – but it too, was an exercise in tedium. Ukraine putting everything into their lone striker (and everything for Ukraine wasn’t much) and Italy clumsily hacking their way around the field until their instinctive skill saved them. Not much ebb and flow – just kicking the ball around until Gol, Gol, Gol. I’m happy for Luca Toni, he was more than due – but outside of that, I’m sorry I taped this one – I could have caught up on some much needed sleep.

Exhibit C

July 1, 2006
Portugal: 0
England: 0
Portugal wins 3-1 on penalties.

I got up at 4:30 AM so I could road trip in time to see this one live after I arrived. I shouldn’t have bothered.

What the hell is with England? Eleven men on the field – they can’t find their own ass with both hands. Rooney gets ejected and suddenly they remember how to play. Ten-man England was looking like they’d pull this one out, when Eleven-man England was lying back just asking to be beaten.

Portugal was disorganized and sloppy, but England lost Beckham to injury than Rooney (because he’s a total idiot – I can see the headlines now: “Another Stupid Boy!”). For the life of me, I can’t figure why Sven-Goran Eriksson pulls Lennon out after he’s creating holy havoc every chance he gets. All the drama this one had was due to Rooney’s expulsion, so I suppose I should be grateful. OT was grueling only because you knew that Portugal was only to happy to go to PKs and the English have this thing about losing every shootout that matters.
Seen it before. Thanks for playing England. And C. Ronaldo? You’ve still yet to do anything impressive this tournament. Bleah.

And then...

And then there was Brasil vs. France.

Not much hope here – I’ve seen the Ronaldinho videos and assumed the only drama was how badly Brasil would crush a French team that couldn’t even beat S. Korea. Brasil would march on to its sixth World Cup trophy, and the skies would turn black as sackcloth.

And here is where my faith in soccer is restored.

France: 1
Brasil: 0
Henry 57’

Best match of the tournament, folks. I’d buy this one on DVD, and I’ve only bought one movie in my life.

Where to begin? Swarming defense. End to end attacking. No letup for 90 minutes.
The French didn’t beat Brasil, they OWNED Brasil.

Wait a minute…no one owns Brasil. No, today, they were owned. Shut down. Made to look desperate.

Ronaldinho? Ronaldin-who? The French midfield made him a non-factor. If you’ve watched the above clip, you know what a big deal that is. Zidane was a God, running the attack and keeping possession while under attack from all sides. Henry scored in the 57th minute (Tell ‘em who he plays for! Arsenal!! Damn right.) and it took that long only because God wanted Brasil to hope for awhile.

Y’know, just before he crushed them.

This match could have still turned to suck-age after the goal, most teams would count themselves fortunate and sit on the lead. France attacked in waves and (somehow) defended in waves. I’ve never seen so many Brazilian passes intercepted in my life.

Brasil would lose possession, and France was off to the races in a counter attack. Cafu got subbed because he was so tired, he was getting beat with regularity. Cafu!

Game over and I’m staring at the tube with relief and despair. What a game, Allez les Bleus! But I wanted them to keep playing…

French fans are going nuts, the team is exulting...

Zidane's coming off the field in his last World Cup, knowing he just kicked Brasil's ass, and he winks at the camera. Yeah, you just made history, and you know it. Vive la France, man.

God, but I love this game.

Oh, just shut way the hell up...

So, I'm at the car dealership getting some work done on the car. No biggie. And I notice that they have a television in the lobby and - hey! - the Switzerland-Ukraine match should still be in the second half right now.

I look around, no one's even glancing at the TV. So I'm looking at the staffer, soon as they look up - I'm going to ask them if they could switch it to ESPN.

And there's this lady there. Middle-age type. Groomed. She's giving me the eye like she's afraid I'm going to ask to change the channel or something. She just sat down, but is clearly agitated in some way.

The staffer looks up, and I ask if she can switch the TV over to ESPN. I smile "it's the World Cup."

Middle age lady pipes up. "Ugh. Soccer! Bo-o-o-ring!"

I smile and say what I always say to people like this, "It's the only game the world plays."

Staffer is fiddling with the controls and making nothing but static.

Middle age pauses, like she's overstepped "I'm just kidding you." Then she finds her stride, "but if we're taking a vote, I'd like to watch 'Guiding Light.'"

Staffer can't figure out why the TV is displaying static or CNN. I realize that she's adjusting the TV and not the cable box, but at this point - it's really not worth it. Switzerland is typically pulseless, and Ukraine hasn't exactly been a wow-fest. And, truth be told, I really don't care who wins. This was just a way to pass the time.

I sit down and resign myself to the lobby magazines. Middle age now wants to be my friend. "I read an article about soccer just the other day."

I start to mutter some affirmation, but she continues.
"It was about Beckham. I guess he won the game. I saw his movie."

Inside, my self-control is holding my reflexive response at gunpoint.
"Bend it like Beckham?" is the only phrase it will allow to escape.

She's glad that we're friends now, "Yes, that was a great movie."

I dive into my magazine, and don't come up until the mechanic arrives to tell her she can leave.
---------
Ok, I'll spare you the the "Becks is a one-trick show-pony" rant and the "He's not even in the damn movie, you witless twonk," rant.

I'll even sidestep the classic "There are only two stories about soccer for you, right? 'Beckham/Posh did something' and 'US loses'"
We'll also skip the ever-popular "Boring? This country has a Golf Channel. We televise the pro-bowling tour. There are dozens upon dozens of fishing shows!!!!"

-But I do have to have one rant: the "Why don't you just shut the hell up, lady?" rant. I mean really, if she'd have beaten me to the punch and asked for Guiding Light - I would't have said, "Soap operas? Stu-pid!" I'd have looked for a magazine and kept my mouth shut.

I mean, what the hell? Who does that? Snarks a complete stranger's TV choice out loud in a roomful of people?

Some other day, she's telling her book club how the younger generation has no manners. Well, from my generation: Just shut way the hell up, lady.

Crash

Scoreline - June 22, 2006
Ghana: 2
Dramani 21'; Appiah 46' PK
United States: 1
Dempsey 42'

And so it ends. Another four-year campaign resulting in a single point, and another first round exit. The team crawled into a hole vs. the Czechs and never managed to claw their way out.

Italy tried to help us (Having trouble? We'll send one of our guys off. Need a goal? We'll put one in for you. Beat the Czechs? Ok.) but two players sent off and a a bogus PK vs. Ghana just wore us down.

The second round was laid out on a platter, and we just couldn't be bothered to attack with any numbers. Our midfielders service was terrible, our strikers were pulseless wonders (excepting Dempsey and Johnson), and any time we managed to get some momentum - something wouldn't go our way, and we'd lose all composure.

I'd love to blame the refs - but this was all on us. If you'd have told me before the tournament that we'd have tied Italy (playing a man down for a half) and then lose to Ghana, I'd have said you were nuts.

Well, it happened. I saw every minute of it. But that's soccer.

Abomination

Scoreline, Jun 17, 2006 -
Italy:1
United States: 1
Gilardino 22'; Zaccardo 27' o.g.

"We bled for our country," read the quotes. Yes, Brian McBride had his head split open, and yes we defended like lions. All true.

But lost in all the screaming about if Pope and Pablo deserved to be kicked out is the simple fact that we still haven't managed a goal in two games, and Claudio is playing like total crap.

Clint Dempsey is combining and charging forward like a maniac in the first half. Every time he gives it to Claudio, all momentum ceases while Reyna takes a moment for himself, and then passes the ball to no one. Claudio's service is crap, balls sent into the teeth of the defense, or miles away from their supposed targets.

Compare Reyna's performace with Piro's and you'll see why the US couldn't bash in a goal when we were a man up for over twenty minutes.

We can defend. But defense alone is just sitting around daring your opponent to beat you.

Oh, and the Ref was way outta line on Pope. No way that's a yellow, right off the bat. Pope was getting beat all day, if the ref wanted to be a pro - all he had to do was give Pope a warning, and wait for the inevitable screw up. Then he could throw him out with his head high.

Go Italy.

The only game the world plays

"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that."
-Bill Shankly, celebrated coach of Liverpool FC

When life falls apart, you go to your comfort zone. For me, at least - the World Cup has arrived at a good time. MLS is merely fast food, but the World Cup is a month-long feast at the French Laundry.
Two weeks of three games a day, where the best in the world going get medieval on each other.

This year’s tourney has been a minor goal-fest (2.5 goals per game, - thank you, Argentina), with many of them last minute game-breakers, and there have been some sparkling performances:

• Dutch striker Arjen Robben was a holy terror in both of his countries victories – hopefully he’ll break out in the round of sixteen against the likes of Mexico or Portugal.


• Paraguay’s Nelson Valdez, the only ray of light on an otherwise outclassed (and homeward-bound) squad. He was all attack, all the time. Something a lot of clubs would love to have.
  
• Sweden’s just-in-time winger, Freddie Ljungberg, saving the day in the closing minutes vs. Paraguay. (Tell ‘em who he plays for! Arsenal!! Damn right.)
  
• Ecuador! What the hell got into these guys? Demolishing Poland and Costa Rica Like it ain’t no thang… Germany’s set for the next round, so Ecuador might pick up the group if the Deutchlanders take it too easy.
  
• Match of the tourney so far? Croatia vs. Brasil. Great game, and even after Croatia lost, Croatia’s fans were rocking the stadium with pride at how their team gave Brasil all they could handle. Brasil played well, but seemed a bit hampered by the fact that Ronaldinho is perhaps the ugliest man on the planet.

*sigh* and then there was that other match… you know, the one where the US team was supposed to give a message to the world.

Yeah, well if the message was “Hey, you unwashed European-types, can one of you teach us how to play soccer?” I think you can safely say the Czechs heard us loud and clear.

Three nothing, and it should have been worse. Two goals for Tomas Rosicki (Tell ‘em who he plays for! Arsenal!! Damn right.) and he’d nearly bagged a third.

Our defense was crap. Our midfield and offense would have been crap if they had bothered showing up at all.

Here’s the problem with the US: We have no stone-killers in our lineup. Not one. Eddie Johnson has some game, but only because he’s too young and foolish to be intimidated. All damn game, our guys are waiting for the ball, backs to the goal. “Not my job.” Losers, every damn one of them.

We need a Romario, “I am a striker. Give me the ball.” We need a guy who’s only decision point is “After I put this in, how long should I celebrate?”

The Czech’s top striker goes out with a hamstring around halftime and they don’t even notice. Us, we’re lucky to have one guy who remembers where the other net is.
“Excuse me, Pavel, could you direct me to your net…?”

So now it’s all on Saturday’s match vs. Italy. Win or go home. Mathematically, we could stay alive with a tie – but that’s like saying Trinidad and Tobago are still in it. Oh sure, hope springs eternal – and Italy could still feeb – but I’ve been down that road before (France 1998 i.e. LAST FREAKING PLACE), not doing that again.

No, I’m reserving my hope for teams like Ecuador and the Netherlands. Somebody’s got to stop Brasil from getting six.

Housekeeping

Of the numerous minor projects that have soaked up the hours recently, DSL is the by far the most distracting.

Yes, I’ve finally broadbanded and while I’m happy with the speed, there are a number of side effects that are turning into larger complications.

Case in point: My email address of six plus years is going away.

Anyone looking to reach me where you’ve been finding me all this time – sorry, but I’m gone. I’m at my gmail address, E’s at hers, and if I ever get all our subscriptions and logins consolidated into the new address, I’ll start telling people what it is.

On hold

E's with her dad now. I'm at work. Mom's been here with the boy for the week.

She's overhauled the entire house, and now we're headed north to join up with E. E's dad's showing all kinds of mixed signs, so there's no way to know what's next.

No weekend plans, E's back home next week, but not sure for how long. Her sister has taken family leave for the duration.

There is no elegant way for any of this to happen, so we do what we must - and the rest gets bumped.

All fall down

Five a.m., we get a phone call. It's E's sister, and so we brace. E's dad's in the hospital, and we're not expecting good news.

E's folks both have cancer. Her dad for a long time, her mom was diagnosed only late last year. Both are unable to drive, but manage to stay relatively independent.

Yesterday, E's dad felt so ill, that they called 911. Her dad began treatments while her mom waited. One of the nurses noticed that E's mom didn't look terribly well herself. She was examined, taken to the ER. and treated for pneumonia.

That was sixteen hours ago. Now E's sister is calling to tell us that the hospital doesn't believe E's mom will last the day.

We pack in a rush and are out the door before seven.

Eight thirty, we're still over an hour away, we get VM from her sister "Call me, now."
E's mother passed away at 8:12 a.m. We drive for ten minutes in stunned silence. E's sister was just up for the weekend to visit. Last week we'd been up - E's mom was fine. Hungry, active, upbeat.

Not the plan.

The one immutable law of hardware stores

So, over the course of doing a few small jobs around the house (that should have been done months ago), I've gained some wisdom on hardware stores that I felt like passing on. It is the following:

-Look for the old guy.

You know who I'm talking about. The world-weary senior citizen wearing a red vest, looks disgusted with their surroundings? Yeah. Him. He's the guy you want.

Forget the teen idiot on the register, that twenty-nothing with the vapid smile. No, they're not for you. When it comes to advice on hardware, these people can perform one of two useful things:

1) Tell you "aisle 10."
2) Tell you where to find the old guy.

That's all. Nothing else.

Oh, they'll try. They'll march you to the right aisle for the topic you mention, they might even grab a part off the wall and studiously read the label - "It says here, '3Z-3C,' which means, uh..."

Now if the old guy were here, he'd take your misshapen lump of metal (formerly a valve), squint at it for about a minute, then walk off with it. He will not explain. He doesn't have to, he's the old guy - you came to him, remember?

You and the twenty-nothing tag along behind, the nothing holds up a handful of parts they were about to recommend. "I thought that-"

The old guy looks up, just for a second. The nothing goes quiet and walks away like a beaten dog.

Old guy's got your valve apart, and is staring at a deformed lump of black slag that, in a former life, was a washer of some kind. Old guy is unphased. All of a sudden, he's Grissom, Columbo, Dirty-Frickin' Harry rolled into one.

"Ehrm," he says, holding up a single tapered washer. You stare. "The large rise on the old one tipped me off, its was tapered."

Comprehension sets in. "How much?"

Old guy looks down. "Thirty six cents."

You stop reaching for the ten spot and thank him. Old guy smiles for a second, briefly validated, then lapses back into full blown contempt for the universe.

And then he's gone - no, actually, he's still there having a conversation with himself. But he could be gone - is mentally - he's just waiting for the next petititioner.

"Uh, sir? Do you know anything about plastic garage-door-opener chains?"

Your cue to leave.

Up front, idiot teen takes your money and waits for the register to dispense the correct change. He complains loudly to no one that he hasn't been able to get something to drink for over an hour.
You smile. Despite him and his tag team partner, you found the old guy.

Say it ain't so, Joe

We all love to believe in things, things we set apart from what we see around us everyday.
Like most people, I have many - Stuff I hold up to be admired. Things that, on good days are truly inpiring.

Today I have to cross one off my list.

Soccer. Specifically Italian soccer, and to get to the real point: Juventus.

Soccer is a big money sport and has always had its share of corruption and controversy.

Match fixing, threatening or bribing officials, meddling with player transfers, etc

Well, the Italians have decided to top everyone.

A small group of owners has done all of the above. Not with an eye to winning a big match here and there, but controlling all aspects of the game to pre-determine who will be in contention for the championship, year after year.
If you played against these teams, the officials ruled against you when it mattered, the player's organization didn't allow you access to the best players.
Players and teams outside of this cabal were pressured or marginalized.

And it's full, blown, systemic corruption. The top league officials, the big owners - all the stuff the tinfoil hat people are saying about baseball and football in this country is true in Italy.

My team, Juventus, just won the Scudetto, and I just don't care. Juve is more than up to their neck in it. They're the capos. They're due for having their titles taken from them, and are possibly facing relegation.

• Read the disgrace at the Guardian.
• The BBC's take: Italian football's tangled web

Doubling down

E went public the other night, so I can post this here to catch the rest of the crowd who hasn't heard yet:

E and I are expecting a new baby as of November - so the boy won't be the only little one in the house.

Cool and scary all at the same time.

Signs

Originally, I'd intended to recount my return trip south with Jen and my mom.

Obviously, I haven't found the time - and my memory keeps getting away from me. I do want to get it all down, just don't know how coherent it will be when I finally do.

To prove that point, I'm going to post a recollection from the second trip down south that's been rattling around my head for the past few days.

Mom, Jen and I had driven from upstate New York down through Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Tennessee (all of it gorgeous, by the way - Vermont was incredible, no wonder New Englanders are like that). For most of the trip, it had been like a vacation, snapping photos, admiring the scenery (Eastern Pennsylvania is freaking amazing). We were in Mom's new Lexus, which she'd bought with the money she got when the other vehicles were totaled), and a lot of the trip was spent checking out the new ride.

When we got to Alabama, the mood changed almost instantly. People will laugh, but I was really thinking of Heart of Darkness as we drove south. We all knew something awful awaited us at the end of this trip, and we all were looking around each corner expecting to see proof that we'd finally arrived in the disaster zone.

That downed tree... was it from the storm? or was it just a downed tree? That ruined building, did it collapse? or was it just abandoned?

About an hour of false alarms in an otherwise normal landscape lowered our guard. Stop gawking - it's been over a month and damage has been cleaned up- at least this far north.
Two hours from the coast, I realized that the sun was about to set, and we'd be in darkness before we crossed into Mississippi. Nothing to see here, folks.

disappointment turned into more practical concerns almost immediately. Gas had been scarce, we'd top off the tank before we left Alabama, Mom was getting her proof of residence together because we'd arrive after curfew. If we were stopped without it, we would not be allowed into her neighborhood.

We're in the middle of sorting this out, when out of the corner of my eye I see a billboard, gutted and wind-blown going by on our left.

Is that...?

And then another, and another.
We're easily 100 miles from the coast and virtually every billboard has been reduced to a skeleton and tattered scraps.

Fast food signs are bent like pretzels, gas station gantries slant at improbable angles, and then come the trees. Whole swaths of trees blown flat on both sides of the highway. Acre after acre of split timber, and this is over sixty miles from the coastline.

By the time we got to Mobile, any doubt that the damage wasn't anywhere near cleaned up was long gone. Highway signs were randomly destroyed or oddly unaffected - enough remained so navigating was not a problem. Night fell hard and it was difficult to determine if the darkness was normal, or amplified by power outages.

When we crossed into Mississippi, any curiosity was long gone, replaced by raw disbelief. My parent's neighborhood was a shambles, and the month since the storm had only intensified this fact - since the owners of flooded houses were tearing out ruined walls and possessions and flinging them to the curb.

On my parent's street, we drove slowly - flanked by six-foot piles of debris the entire length of the road.

And then we were home.

Blue Sky Mining (comes to my rescue)

Okay, so yesterday afternoon, I happen to run across one of the managers where I work, and she's asking me to do a few things for her, and I'm good with it. Near the end of the conversation, she casually says "See you tomorrow at 9:30."I'm like, huh?

"The presentation?"

I'm Presenting?

"Yes, to the [whatever] people, it's not on your calendar?"

Err...

"I'll send it to you."

Out the door, a little flat-footed, but I know the material, and I've presented it before. Null perspiration.

So this a.m., I'm checking the appointment, and find I don't know the room. In a complex that spans three massive buildings, this is problematic. In the system, it's listed as "Auditorium." Not a good sign. So I ask around and people direct me to the only one they know of, the one that seats 150 people.

Err...

I peek my head in and verify this is the right place, and it is.

I'm not just presenting to the [whatever] people, I'm presenting to ALL of them. Oh, and we're being taped. So it can be made into a streaming video for the masses.

Err...

So, I'm outside getting my collective Sugar, Honey, Ice Tea together, and remember My iPod arrived yesterday, and Ms. no-H has thoughtfully provided me with some tunes to get me rolling.

Quick flip of the menu and I find Midnight Oil>Blue Sky Mine. A great intro with harmonica.

Buds in, push play.

Hey, Hey, Hey, Heeeeeyyyyyy....

Much better.
Nerves gone. Buds out. Game time.

Veni, Vidi, Vici baby.

The Goverment turned me into a Pod person...

Okay, I got my state tax refund today, and the sudden influx of cash made me do a foolish thing.

I've ordered an iPod.

So, I'm riding the post-buy buzz and waiting for the remorse to set in...

Any iPodders out there with ramping-up advice for a new Pod-ling? (I'm looking at you, Ms. no-H)

You think you've got it bad...

"We receive a billion emails a month;
900 million of them are spam."

-William Vass, Sun Microsystems CIO,
speaking at Forrester's IT Forum 2006: GigaWorld.

Star Witness

Ok, I'll grant that right now I'm pretty susceptible, it being 7:44 on a Friday night and I’m here at work, up to my neck in it – but I’m getting seriously messed up by Neko Case’s ‘Star Witness’ right now…

Give it a listen (.ra file on NPR.org). The lady can bring it.

Mental note

I complain about my memory. Forgetting where I put stuff, forgetting to do things...

picture this: not being able to forget anything.

-----------------------------------

Jorge Luis Borges, the great Argentine writer of the 20th century, wrote of the Uruguayan Funes the Memorious, whose perception and memory became infallible after falling from a horse in the mid 1880s:

We, in a glance, perceive three wine glasses on the table; Funes saw all the shoots, clusters, and grapes of the vine. He remembered the shapes of the clouds in the south at dawn on the 30th of April of 1882, and he could compare them in his recollection with the marbled grain in the design of a leather-bound book which he had seen only once, and with the lines in the spray which an oar raised in the Rio Negro on the eve of the battle of the Quebracho. These recollections were not simple; each visual image was linked to muscular sensations, thermal sensations, etc. He could reconstruct all his dreams, all his fancies. Two or three times he had reconstructed an entire day.

And thus Ireneo Funes lived like no other before or since, remembering all that had happened to him. And remembering that he remembered. This vicious cycle led not to the incalculable awakening of genius that one might expect. Instead, it led to the opposite: a painful sagacity of everything he wished to forget.

(From bokardo.com)

Little help

Saw this in today's Sun Herald:

Mississippi's Invisible Coast

"Our plea to newspapers and television and radio and Web sites across the land is no less important today: Please, tell our story. Hear the voice of our people and tell it far and wide.

We are here. Do not forsake us.

We are no footnote."

Somebody oughta know. Read the rest here.

Live now, write later

As most would have guessed, this blog has been written retroactively.

The recollections are as good as I can make them - and I have every intention of completing the events of that week.

This post is realtime, and my sister and I are about to get in the car to take mom home. Mom has no phones and no internet, and while I've explored posting via cell. I've come to the conclusion that writing is best done in quiet reflection, and this is not likely to happen in the coming week.

The full story will be posted - it has to get out of my head - but it will be the 17th of October before I'm back from Mississippi.

Non sequiturs

It's getting away from me - and some gaps are simply too large to ignore.
Some of the things I don't want to lose:

• C's wife watching our boy so that E and I can go into the service together. She's the absolute model of decorum and charm the entire weekend.
  
  
• C's showing up in jeans and a blazer, because they'd packed in such a rush. They'd bought a shirt en route or he'd have been Sonny Crocket in jeans, Tee-shirt and a blazer. He's a champ, that one.
  
  
• Jen's in-laws watching her boys in the nursery. It is the only time I see any of them, it was as if they were there and gone between blinks.
  
  
• G's wife T giving me a hug before they go. G promising to give Notre Dame "my regards" as they drive by South Bend (in about seven hours).
  
  
• My little guy. Dressed up and happy to see everyone, oblivious to it all.
  
  
• BJ complaining to my mother that the coffee she was serving was "too strong yesterday, and too weak today." Well, thanks so much, BJ. Next time one of our immediate family dies, we'll be sure to double-check the coffee.
  
  
• One of my cousins telling me that dad often bragged on me to family. Something I could scarcely imagine, much less believe.
  
  
• Someone telling me at the internment. "Well, you're the man of the family, now." Biting back my first impulse, I opt for "Don't you say that."
  
  
• Talking with dad's cousin, DB at the internment. We have a nice talk and I float part of the eulogy I will never give- that dad was spared the one thing that I'm sure he could never stand: losing the ability to do things for himself. I shouldn't have said this to DB. Fortune has not been kind to his family, and that's a little too close to where he lives right now.
      He says that it would be terrible to just exist, and not be able to contribute anything. I can tell he's upset - We change the subject.
  
  
• And Grandma. Such an undeserved hardship after such a charitable life. If there is a God, he's got a lot to answer for.
  

< Previous  

Souvenir

The internment is at one, and it is to be family only. Mom told me that this of course includes my friends and I pass this along.

I'm unsure how I would react to such an offer, but G & C and the gang take it in stride. Of course they'll come along. I'm glad - having them around has really helped.

I pass my cousin in the parking lot, and he begins telling me a story about him and my dad. It means a lot to him, and it clearly takes a lot to tell it. I'm just a million miles away while he does it, though.

I'm remembering my dad teaching my cousin to ride a bike. Dad's brother had said that my cousin wasn't ready yet - and my dad went outside to prove him wrong. By the end of the day, my cousin was riding a bike - and I always thought that was a lousy thing for my father to do, rob his brother of that moment. Sensitivity be damned, dad got it done.

My cousin finishes up and I drift back into the conversation. We collect mom and head to the internment.

---

I have a fairly active imagination and along the way to the cemetery I'm remembering the thousands of times I have imagined a moment like this one. Any time my mind is idle, it begins conjuring up horrors and dramas to throw at me until I make it stop. I've envisioned almost every conceivable family tragedy over and over.

Mini-dramas from beginning to end, the phone call, the funeral, every anguished moment.

I've no idea why this happens, or - more accurately - why I do this to myself. But I have, and I do - and never, in any of these scenarios did I imagine my father.

The nightmares and imagined tragedies now seem like grade-school fiction. Incomplete, inadequate, and born of no real experience.

---

Dad's casket is out in the sun - it's a lovely day and we join the crowd gathering around it.

I think the pastor was expecting an small affair with immediate family - when the full multitude of extended family arrives, he's clearly overwhelmed. He has nothing prepared, and quickly launches into prayer.

Mom's been concerned for days that this service would degenerate into an endless stream of remembrances, and - lacking direction - we are clearly headed that way. As soon as the pastor stops talking, I'm afraid we'll be listening to everyone's favorite Dad story, each in turn.

And then something great happens: The cousins begin to sing.

They're a musical group by nature - and lots of times I wished they're weren't. But today, now, I close my eyes and just soak it up.

A sunny day, a slight breeze, and a hymn sung a Capella. This was how everything should have been. No church, no fool of a pastor, just a family singing a lament for one of their own.

---

After a few hymns, mom steps forward and takes the flag off dad's casket. I tell her she'd best keep moving or people will begin to fill the silence with whatever comes to mind.

At that moment, to prove my point, mom's brother (who was a Marine for about five minutes) steps forward and salutes the coffin.

With that, everyone seems to know it's over.

I'm turning to thank G & C and everyone for coming all this way, and Mom's brother stops me.

"The crosses, they come off."

I look at him uncomprehendingly.

"You get one, so does M and your mom and your sister."

He's pointing at the casket. The funeral director is grappling with one of the Gaelic crosses affixed to each corner. He gives a mighty heave and it snaps free. Triumphant, he hands me the cross.

Not having any idea how to react, I take it and walk over to the gang, while other family members - having seen this, descend on the casket to remove the other three crosses.

I thank everyone for coming and say my goodbyes.

A&C ask me about the cross I'm holding - and the words just fall out of my mouth.

"Apparently, modern coffins come with souvenirs."

I don't let it bother me. It it so good to see everyone.

< Previous   Next >

Chatter

We go downstairs, into the waiting throng. There's a huge line for food and the church's layout ensures maximum snarl. I cut through to find mom - people shift rapidly from annoyance to sympathy as I bump awkwardly through them.

Dad knew a lot of people, and I know virtually none of them. Most are good enough to identify themselves, but I'm not really in a good mindset for retaining anything.

"Thank you, thank you. Yes. Yes.... Yes."

I meet up with mom, E and the rest, take my turn in line for food, and ultimately find myself parked with G, C and the gang.

The basement is sweltering and soon we're upstairs, commandeering a room and talking about subjects that have no business being discussed in church. We're jolted back into good behavior when one of the church ladies arrives to take our picture.

Cheese.

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Pallbearer

Lining up to be a pallbearer, I just can't help from getting mad again.

When L had phoned me at home to offer to help with the funeral in any way, I had passed this on to mom. She had naturally, invited him to speak and to be a pallbearer. At that point, adding L meant we had an odd number, so mom asked me to step in as well.

When the moment comes, I'm near the front end of the casket, so I just take hold of the front right handle- only to be interrupted by dad's youngest brother

"No. L goes first."

I let go and look at him.

Are you serious?

L steps in front of me and takes hold, and we all carry dad's casket into the back of the hearse.

Where I was in "the order" was the last thing in the world I would have thought about, and now it's the only thing I'm thinking about.

What a crock.

< Previous   Next >

Eulogy

Jen's in-laws are watching the boy, so E and I can go in and see dad together. By this time I've had it and the two of us just stand there until the people waiting behind gently herd us to the back of the church.

There are a lot of people. It's hard to say that without seeming proud of that fact, but I was - and there were a lot of people.

Mom had stopped near the entrance to the church and a line of people formed almost instantly - each person waiting their turn to offer condolences to the widow. Mom kept moving forward to greet people and soon she was in the driveway, with people lined up into the parking lot in the sun. I brought her inside so at least these people would be in the shade.

E's sister arrived with her husband, they'd had a hell of a trip up from Chicago, but they were here.

Jen moved through the crowd greeting and visiting - she knew so many of them, and she was always better at this sort of thing. I found an out of the way place to stand and readied my pat responses. Thank you. Yes. Thank you.

A classmate, a co-worker, uncles, cousins. They keep coming and I run out of things to say.

The service begins, and we file into our reserved seats. Front row, center. Three feet from dad's casket.

The pastor tries hard, but there's nothing he can say to me. He'd barely met my father, and is only a little older than I am. He talks of an end to suffering and is mercifully brief.

A family friend sings my dad's favorite hymns. It is for me, the first genuine moment of the service.

Then L stands to deliver the eulogy. He's been a wreck all morning, but there's no doubt he'll pull it together. He's a politician, a former radio host, and a natural showman. He's polished, funny and well-spoken - and I am in no mood for any of it.

He said "Guess God must have wanted something fixed." I laughed - we all did - but it was the kind of joke that goes sour almost instantly. I stare at the casket and go into my own head.

Part of me has been wanting to speak at the funeral since that first day. I'd been mentally preparing ever since. Mom put paid to that idea when she said that the wanted the funeral to be short and simple. "I don't want this to turn into a drawn out affair," she'd said more than once.

It was the right decision for so many reasons. If she invited more than one person to talk, everyone would. A prolonged lament wouldn't be good for anyone.

I really wanted to say something, though. Say all the things I'd never said to dad when he was alive. My eulogy would not have been uplifting. It would have been filled with self-reproach, self-pity and regret. I doubt I would have been able to pull it off in front of a crowd. It would have been exactly the kind of thing mom wanted to avoid.

---

The service ends and the family stands and files out behind the coffin. I've spent the end of the service shutting out the whole room, so it's a bit of a sudden realization that we will be walking out first - past the entire congregation. As if anyone would care what I looked like, I try to keep my composure on the way out. This holds until I run into some friends from college I didn't know were coming. A&C had somehow found out and driven until they were standing right in front of me. They are such decent people - and the sight of them just ruins me.

< Previous   Next >

Visitors

The boy is up earlier than usual, so we're downstairs when the rest of the crew wakes up. Jen and her husband, their boys, mom - we're all bouncing around the house - taking food in turns.

There's a flurry of people, we get dressed in our best and then we're taking mom in.

At the church, we park and are walking up the front ramp when we are greeted by mom's brothers. One look at their faces and we're up to our necks. That side of the family is pretty big hearted, mom's younger brother isn't taking it well, her oldest brother and his wife take mom by the hand and go in.

On the way in are two cousins I've never met. From their mannerisms and conversation, I can tell I haven't missed much. My wife has the boy, so - unthinking - I enter the main room where my dad is.

---

I've often said that the worst thing I've ever seen was Grandma crying, that's not really true. The worst thing I've ever seen happened right in this church, right where I'm standing.

My grandfather's funeral was also held here, many years ago. I arrived in the entrance of the church for the visitation right when my mother and father were returning from viewing my grandfather's remains.

My dad had just seen his dad's body.

All my life, my father had been many things: furious and kind, blunt and tender, wise and hardheaded. This moment was without precedent.

My father was being helped from the room because he seemed unable to stand. He was shattered and overcome - something I doubted was even possible. Mom was holding him up, and they rushed out of the entryway to somewhere private.

It was, without a doubt, the most frightening and terrible thing I have ever seen.

---

So I go in, alone, since my wife is with the boy - and because I'm too simple to just wait. So I go in a rushed circuit of the room. I barely look before I'm unable to see anything. Mom's brother thought to pack extra handkerchiefs, so I'm using his to mop up on my way back to the entrance.

More people arrive - L and the rest. I go up again with mom and Grandma, and we all wilt together. Mom remarks that she was afraid of how dad would look because of the swelling of the head injury. "They did a good job," she says.

I can't think. Dad looks nothing like himself - I've never been to a funeral where the person ever does. There's a folded flag and dad is not in uniform, he'd want it that way.

That's when I just can't contain the fury at all of this. So unnecessary, so pointless, a goddamned tree branch. This man swam though a hurricane surge, he was in better shape than his own son, he was not a careless man. He's supposed to teach my son things, he's supposed to help Grandma, mom, the whole damn family. This isn't right, and there's nothing to do but take it.

Grandma's saying something about how it doesn't get easier. Grief, that is.

"No," I say, "We'll just get used to it being this bad."

< Previous   Next >

Turning in

We get back, the house is dark. Everyone turned in early, so we sneak upstairs and into our bedrooms. My wife is in one room with the boy, I'm in the connecting room.

The boy's out - always been a good sleeper. I line up my clothes for tomorrow and go to bed.

Since Sunday, my waking moments have been filled with me writing a eulogy I will never give. I'm back on the job tonight, but it just is too much. I go to pieces sometime around one and can't get it back together.

Afraid that my wife will hear, I turn it into a coughing fit. That I can suppress, and soon I can quiet down.

Sleep.

< Previous   Next >

Sauerkraut pizza

I've got one last out, one last personal indulgence before tomorrow. Pizza.

When G called on Monday - I joked that if he came to the funeral, I'd make him go to the local pizzeria and have their specialty: sauerkraut pizza. "Least something good could come out of this, I could finally win you over." G said he'd try it, and I'd been planning for this ever since.

It's not as selfish as it sounds, I wanted to do something to acknowledge my out of town friends. These are people who've maybe spoken to my dad once or twice, but are coming up out of respect for the family. I wanted to make sure we had time to visit.

So it's pizza, sauerkraut pizza to be exact. A local delicacy that the mind recoils from and the taste buds adore.

When I was a kid, the only pizza we had at our house was those Chef Boyardee pizza kits, and mom always made them with cheddar cheese. Needless to say, the first time I went to dad's hometown pizza joint - I was hooked for life. Any other pizza I've had, at best it's a distant second to Frankie's on the east end of town.

C and his wife were delayed, they had a clothes mix-up and had to buy C a shirt in Duluth, so I start by connecting with G and his wife at their hotel. They're great, and I relax immediately. I love my family, but it's easier to feel normal around my friends.

C, his wife, and presumably his new shirt all arrive and we head out for za.

I've been talking the place up, and fretting about how we'll get in (I've called for pizza at 6pm and was told it won't be ready until 9pm) so I'm more than a bit surprised to see the place is deserted. All my life, this place is a place you need a crowbar to get into, and if the wait was two hours, you found something to do and came back.

As soon as we step in it occurs to me, I've only been here on the weekend - we've never lived in this town - so I've only ever come at peak days and times.

We're here at nine-thirty on a Thursday. Not even the local die-hards are here.

I order one with sauerkraut and one with everything else, and the gang gamely gobbles both down. All claim to enjoy the sauerkraut pizza - although, given the circumstances, I doubt any would complain if they were allergic.

It's great to see everyone, and they're all just like I remember them, only thinner. We have a good meal, goof off with the help, and are generally obnoxious. Hell, there's no one else there, we own the place. We break up outside and say our goodbyes 'til tomorrow.

'Best two hours I've had all week.

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Arrival and reunion

We pull into town around one, and we drop mom off directly at the funeral parlor. I want to stay and help her, but mom makes it clear that this is something she'll handle.

She's worried that the clothes she packed for dad are in the suitcase she left with Jen. That would mean one or two hours behind us. I don't see this as a problem, but it wasn't in the plan.

Mom waves us off, tells us she'll call our cell if she needs us, and goes inside.

I just didn't know where to be on that one. Mom might need the help, but she genuinely seems to want to spare me this. I guess I want to be spared.

We drive to Grandma's old house, and see Grandma and my dad's sister B just getting out of their cars. Dad's sister did get the news, and made it back, nice to see the fates aren't that cruel.

Grandma says hello and mentions how nice it is that the house didn't sell and we can all stay together.

I say something stupid, "Things never change." Big grin on my face.

Grandma buckles and says, "everything's changed."

And there goes the composure, right out the window.

---

The house is eerily like it used to be, albeit with an apartment-sized bite taken out of the furnishings. The living room has three chairs and the entertainment center that dad made, and nothing else.

My aunt tells us that the upstairs rooms are all set, and people have been bringing food all day. F brought by two industrial-sized pans of food, and there's enough lasagna to feed a battalion.

We get the boy set up, he charms the locals, and then the crowds start to arrive. L's here, with his wife I adore - and his brother I don't. Dad's brother is out picking up the youngest brother up from the cities. Family friends of my mother... and on and on.

The ladies from church stop by to ask about themes and decorations for the funeral lunch. Mom's not back yet, so mostly we offer them indecision. At least in my presence, mom was very clear on two things: this was not going to be a drawn-out affair and dad viewed his military career as in the past.

Their American-flag theme goes out the window, and they opt for plan-B and depart. (Well, first they inquire as to who I am for saying so, but since I'm the son - they take my word for it.) At the moment, I'm just too pent up to think nice things about these folks - but later I'm just floored by their energy and drive. Details I would never think of are being handled by people who have never been asked for a thing.

Bad news hit this town and people got busy. Mom told me she got the obit in the paper while she was in Mississippi. She was standing in her back yard, screaming into her cell phone because the connection was so terrible. She's amazed it turned out.

Dozens of details, songs, lunch, music are all being handled without my knowledge or input - all while I'm safely gorging myself Grandma's.

---

Mom gets back from the funeral parlor and says things are finally set. Jen dropped off dad's clothes before they showed up, so now her two boys mingle with the teeming mass of humanity at the old house.

Mom's surrounded, and I'm no help. I offer some useless advice about who should speak at the funeral, right before I realize that mom's past making more decisions or changes. It's done. The crowd swells, and we become numb to it.

Ten a.m. tomorrow, the onslaught begins.

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Petty thoughts

I'm leaving a lot of things out, too much to cover - too hard to remember it in sequence.

Phone calls from family - dad's cousin L in Chicago seems overly affected. They'd had some kind of feud, and now it will never get cleared up. He'd sent me an homage, told me how devastated he was, volunteered to be a pallbearer.

Truth was, I was so far from the action on that one, I have no idea what to think. Dad's baggage with him was his issue. Dad didn't discuss it, and so much as I was able, I communicated to him that L wanted to mend fences.

Now, the whole thing just seems so stupid. I have no absolution to offer, and whatever gesture L can offer up will never get to its intended audience.

I want to say, "It's over. Let it go."

Instead, I just say whatever seems safest.

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Road trips

The boy gets us up at six a.m., just like clockwork. I pre-load the trunk and put some coffee on.

We're up before mom, not normal - but she's entitled to sleep.

Last night, I taped some of the arial footage for mom, but it's all about New Orleans. We have a quick breakfast and are on the road before eight. Jen and family are starting out from Milwaukee, so they'll be at least an hour behind us.

Unknown to us, the family has been making arrangements to stay at Grandma's old house. I'd been thinking we'd do a hotel, or stay with Dad's brother.

Dad had been moving his mother out of the old house over the summer. Typical dad, he'd made the arrangements for his mother's new apartment - then spruced up the apartment with all new appliances, overhauled the old place, put it on the market, and gave her the entire summer to move anything she wanted from the old house into her new place.

The last job I helped my dad with was helping him install the cornices on Grandma's windows. Didn't so much help as bring him tools and stay out of his way - same as always.

Things were going according to plan, but Grandma's old house hadn't sold yet and was still full of things that might be moved, stored or parceled out to family. It's virtually ready to use, and friends and family are stocking it for our arrival. I'd said my goodbyes to the house, and here it was again - taking us in, just like old times.

Mom delighted in being with the boy. My son. He's just happy and doesn't care who knows. He's good for all of us on the way up. Gives us something good to focus on, safe conversation.

My sister in law is coming north with her husband. That's easily seven hours, even if you speed. My best man C is driving up from the cities with his wife, and G-

-on Tuesday, G had told me he had to be in Ohio on Saturday - so a Friday funeral was a non-starter. I totally understood, my God, I wouldn't expect anyone to-

-he's coming. He and his wife will spend six hours driving up on Thursday, attend the funeral, then get right back in the car and drive to Ohio. I'm speechless.

Stand up guy? Oh, hell yeah.

Dad's brother is flying up from Florida. Dad's sister was in California and incommunicado as far as we know. We're just hoping she'll check in soon.

Family's coming from all over. Dad administered the last family reunion, so he's well known. This is hitting the family hard. Mom said she'd been asked if the people planning on food should expect more than one hundred. Mom told them two hundred wouldn't be out of line.

Two hundred. Jesus.

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Overnight

We part ways after dinner. Jen and her husband go back to their kids, I take mom home with me. Mom's big bag goes with Jen in the Blazer. We'll meet up tomorrow at Grandma's.

My wife's been prepping the house, and getting our things ready for the five and a half hour drive north. Mom talks a little about the past few days. Like her, I'm starved for information.

She'd spent an entire day roaming around with her friend J trying to find out where my father's body was. He'd been moved from the hospital, but since there were no communications, checking the possible options meant driving to each of them and banging on doors.

J bears special mention - prior to the storm, I'd known that her house was in a low area, and that her extended family was sheltering with them. After the storm, I'd feared the worst.

I should have known better. This woman goes to mass every day, and is a force to be reckoned with. Not a drop of water in her house. By the time my mom needed a ride to the airport, J's house had power and running water. Anyone who came to their house was fed, and she was doing laundry for eight families. J and her husband drove my mom to Mobile on back roads. They sidestep everything from traffic to washed out highways and put my mom on a plane.

Some way, somehow - these people are going to know how much I appreciate them.

We get home and it's too late for much of anything. Light conversation, mom takes a peek at my son, and we all turn in. My wife's gotten everything under control, made arrangements I haven't even begun to think about. Nothing to do but sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I'm awake just noticing how loud the world has become. I can hear my boy snoring softly down the hall. Below us, mom sleeps in the guest room dad put in, I can hear her coughing.

After a few minutes, she stops. My wife shifts next to me.

I lie awake for a long time.

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Mom

The airport is just like I remember it, forgettable.

We're an hour behind schedule, thanks to the airlines, but I don't think anyone can muster up the energy to care.

We walk as far as the security perimeter allows us, and eventually mom shows up looking just like she was at her last visit. We get the bags, and are gone - like this was just another pickup.

We head for dinner, choose a place based on its proximity to my parking spot, and there we start gradually edging closer to the awful reason why we're all together on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday night.

Dad's death is referred to as "the accident," by unspoken agreement, and that is as deep as we go into the subject. Mom is hungry for news of the outside world and I give her my copy of the Times for later.

No power, no phones - we realize she hasn't any idea of how messed up things are down south. We relate the latest horror stories coming out of New Orleans. Tell her about the terrible arial shots of her town. She takes it in stride, only the presence of ice water on the table seems to draw her full attention.

"They give you ice water," she beams.

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Starbucks

I'm meeting Jen and her husband outside of town. We'll pare down vehicles and meet mom's flight together.

The flight out of Mobile was delayed. Mom managed a call out to say that Mobile airport was just a nest of snakes - her flight was delayed and she was going to miss her connection.

She'd lost it, right there at the counter - and the person at the counter had an attack of humanity and told her they would get her on a plane out, don't you worry.

So she's delayed, but she's still on the way. We meet up, and do the hug thing. I buy a latte out of habit. They'd driven all the way from New York, and had left the kids with her in-laws in Milwaukee.

Before they'd left, their neighbor had come over to give them $250.00 worth of gas cards and a care package full of food and games for the two boys. People can really be something.

Yesterday, I'd come home to find a nondescript envelope out of Milwaukee. No letter, just $100.00 gas card from my friend G. Stand-up guy, all the way.

We chat a bit about navigation woes and the dreadful state of airlines in general, then we're off to the airport.

Fittingly, it's a crappy and grey day.

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Condolences

"He was a good man"

Yes, he was.

"How are you holding up?"

I'm all right.

Two days of this. Expressions of genuine concern that I'm fielding like tennis serves. "Ok?" Yes. "Sorry." Thanks.

And the truth is, I'm happy people care enough to ask - I just can't seem to manage to say anything other than something obvious and stupid. Family's doing ok, mom's flying out today, not sure what's next. They just keep coming out on reflex - like prefixes to the answers I should be giving.

He wasn't a good man, he was dad. He was the irresistible force, all my life. The guy who knew what to do all the time. The dad other dads envied, when he fixed their kid's bikes, then fixed their cars, and then pointed out a dozen things in their houses that needed repair. He took care of life's details, pushed through the pain, and got things done. Good man? Yeah, for starters.

Dad didn't do the empathy thing. He'd save you from your own foolishness, but you'd still feel like a fool when it was over. "You do this, like this, see? Simple." he'd say, before moving on to the next thing. And, sure, it was simple as explained to you - that instant - and you'd wonder why in hell you didn't just take care of it yourself. It's what dad would have done - just did, in fact. And while you're standing there berating yourself, he's found three other things that you really should have taken care of months ago.

What's with you anyway?

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The last normal day

One of the symptoms of not being in your right mind is not knowing it. Yesterday I made the decision that there was nothing more to do - the news has been spread far and wide, and Mom's got her flight reservations out of Mobile. Nothing to do but wait, and I rationalize that going to work is a good way to keep my mind off things.

When you're being stupid, you usually are the last to know.

I've got a number of things to put in line before I go, and it's for damn sure I won't be at work the rest of the week. I already called U in Chicago to back out of being in his wedding on Saturday. He was a stand up guy, I'm in mid-apology and he cuts me off with "Don't worry about it, and don't waste any time talking to me, do what you gotta do, man."

I should have known I was being stupid when I emailed the news to my friends - somehow that just seemed... classless. G called me first thing on Monday, to see how I was - of all my out of town friends, he was the first to ask how they were doing after Katrina hit.

'course I told him they were doing great - so he was where the rest of us were. Stunned out of our reassurance.

To the office, then. I figure there are people who have to know, and so I tell my supervisors and ask them to keep it quiet. I'm quite sure that I don't want people coming up to me all day, and anyway - if I'm going away, I'll need to get some things done.

This seems like a good plan, until the day wears on. I check with HR to make sure of the leave policy for funerals. Which naturally provokes the innocent question, "Who died?" and I ambush our poor HR manager who just stares at me until she realizes I'm not kidding.

I spend most of the day being angry at people for not asking, and being angry at myself for not telling them. D asked me how my folks were doing, "Everything still okay?"

Rather than lie, I told her the truth, and asked her to keep it quiet before trying to go back to work. I must have looked like a crazy person to her. A bad choice was becoming a really bad choice. I'd neglected to notify the people who would have to cover for me, so I opted to do that in the group meeting, dropping my story into their laps - as they all looked back waiting for the punchline.

I kept it together, but it just added to my sense that the day was unraveling. I posted what happened on the intranet just before I went out the door.

Mission accomplished, I was spared the succession of well-wishers for one more day. Tomorrow my co-workers will be getting the news when I'm headed to Milwaukee to pick up mom.

Like that makes sense.

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We're on

Funeral set. Fri a m at ten for visitation. Service at eleven.
Sep 6, 11:50 am

Mom will be on the flight, I'll pick her up. My sister and her family are driving in from New York state to meet us. The plans go down in ink.

Dad's going home, and everything else can just go to hell.

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Phone calls

I don't walk home, I drift. My son's weary and I'm just not good company. I'm remembering the phone relays: Telling dad's brother the news. "Oh no," was all he said, but his tone filled in the blanks. Couldn't find his sister, his younger brother was out, so I left word with his wife.

And Gramma, dear God - more sobs than words - the worst thing I've ever heard.

One after another, the same story - the same shock "But they'd made it through the storm, they were ok..."

They were, I'd explain, but not anymore. Remembering myself telling my friends that very day how fortunate my folks had been - yes, there was water in the house, but the house was still standing. The truck still worked, they had mom's intermittent cell phone. "They're doing great," I had said - during the very hour my dad was dying.

He was clearing some tree branches that had fallen across some power lines. He thought they'd delay the restoration of power to the neighborhood, and nobody was doing anything about it. Mom said she'd told him not to, but anyone who knows my dad, knows that's never going to be the end of it.

It had to be done, it wasn't being done. And that's all my dad needed to know.

Mom was going over to the neighbors when she heard the crash. One of the limbs fell in a way my father didn't expect, and he was thrown to the pavement. Head injury. "He was bad," was all mom said, "I thought he was gone right then."

I'm turning into my yard when that image overcomes me, my dad on his back, eyes open and staring - mom seeing the whole thing. He's 61 and fit, careful, a good person.

Not supposed to be this way. Not by a long shot.

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Walk in the park

The next day is Labor Day, down time. My sister and I have done the phone relays, most everybody knows now, so we’re at irons. I go to the park.

How and why this makes sense, isn’t really clear to me – but it just happens on automatic, and alternatives never really present themselves. Mom’s cell is in and out, but she was able to tell me she’s meeting with the coroner today. I’ve arranged for mom’s flight out, but there’s no telling if she’ll be able to take it.

My cell barely works in my house, but it’s the number she’s been calling – so I go out. The boy and I are going to spend the day playing in the park, all the while hoping that transport arrangements have been made for my father’s body.

All this from two phone calls, both lasting less than 5 minutes in total. I’ve called relatives and friends relating a partial story as if I know. In reality, I don’t know what happened, I know he fell, Bill gave him CPR, and mom thought he was gone right then. No last words, just there – then gone.

We get to the park and set up. I’m just going through the motions, done it before. The boy is on the swings, and mom is trying to locate my father (he’s been moved, and there are no working phones) trying to meet with the coroner, trying to make a host of decisions she’d likely thought were decades away.

My son’s on the slide, and I’m doing my safety net thing. The boy is a godsend – you can’t be unhappy around him. His laugh and smile are infectious, and despite everything, the afternoon is going great.

No calls, though – and all southward calls are being blocked: “Due to the hurricane, your call cannot be...” I try a few times, just because. We’re in a neighborhood park that’s cut out of a modern Norman Rockwell scene. My son and I arrived just before one family starts setting up a grill. Then another family joins them, then another. Soon I’m in the middle of a community event, complete with sporting equipment and a buffet.

Children being great ice-breakers, I’m soon chatting with one of the moms in the group, as her son trots into the same sandbox as mine. She invites me to have a beer with them, but hell – I’m not going to be up for that. Either I avoid the subject, or become the downer. I bail out
– and call my sister. Mom got her earlier in the day, and it looks like things are progressing, mom will call that night.

Home is where the food is, and the boy has to eat. I pick my son up and pack it in. Crummy reception or not, we’ll just have to deal.

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Booking

To mom:

flt info NW5736 Dep MOB wed 9-7 11:25 AM Central
Reach me @ my cell.
-Me

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Out of the blue

Sunday.

Brunch in the morning. Bunch of friends, good time. "Folks are doing well, thanks for asking."

Home, and out. In the car.

I was taking a load of drywall to a nearby dumpster. When dad overhauled my basement- we had a ton of scrap left over, and it's been piled up in my garage for over a year. I never get to it, and every time I see it I think, "the next time dad comes up, he's going to wonder what the hell is wrong with me." Just the thought is motivation.

So I'm in the car, realizing that about three more trips like this and I'll be halfway done. I've already planned my cop-out - the boy will be waking up soon. Dad, of course, would keep doing this until the rock was gone, or the dumpster was full. Me, I'm planning on hitting DQ.

Phone rings. Mom. I miss it - hit the damn button that sends it to voicemail. Looking to call her back, turning out of the parking lot when the phone rings and it's my wife. She's losing it, "Your mom just called, I think your dad died!"

And everything after that just streaks behind me.-until mom calls and gives me the news for real.
There was an accident, something stupid, and he was dead at the scene. The connection is terrible; since Katrina beat hell out of the coast it's a miracle she got through at all. I tell her I'll break the news to the family - she hangs up-

-and the world comes back in a rush.

I'm somewhere on the east side of town. Somewhere in Mississippi, dad is dead, and no one around me has any idea why the guy in the white car is screaming at his steering wheel.

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