Two hours.

That’s just about the amount of time I spend every week - give or take a half hour - at the local laundromat. Local is actually a misnomer. New Jersey has an over abundance of laundromats, dry cleaners, strip malls and asphalt. Garden State indeed. But I shouldn’t trash on my adopted state; it has provided me with a vocation, education and my son.

It is my son who once again has provided me with a perspective, and a thought, for this blog. (more…)

Idling is what they call it. General Motors and Chrysler are shifting gears downward in plants throughout the United States and Canada as they attempt to stave off the impossible.

My first thought, when I heard this, touched on my brother. He works in an auto parts plants off a winding country road in rural Michigan. One of many plants just like it that many families rely on throughout Michigan and elsewhere to earn a living. The men and women at my brother’s plant have already volunteered to cut the work week by a day - and one day’s pay - in order to save some of their coworkers from losing their job altogether.

I know Michigan. I know the feel, the taste and the smell. At times like this, senses pull everything together and grip your gut in knots of fear. Fear has a definite taste; it removes the flavor from everything else and steals your appetite. The smell of fear has a similar effect. There’s nothing quite as vapid as a future of uncertainty.

As the economic engine of Chrysler and G.M. rumbles to a low and coughing sputter, there are many who will need to shut the car off, sell it, or let the repo man come and take what’s his.

It’s nice to have my assumptions challenged occasionally. Notice that I didn’t use the indefinite you. I took my son out for dinner at a Chinese buffet over the weekend and after we settled in with our first plate of sushi (for me) and chicken fingers (my son) two men were shown to a table next to ours.

I like watching people, no real curiosity there, a lot of people do. But when these two, large, biker-types sat down next to us I thought for sure I had some entertainment to accompany our dinner. I did. But not what I had anticipated.

With his black T-shirt encased belly pressing up against the table, the man to my right looked like he road in on a Harley. Perhaps the Harley-Davidson leather skull cap was what gave me that impression. He also sported a chest-length ZZ Top beard streaked with white hair that matched perfectly his shoulder length black hair accented with the same seniority highlights.

His friend, dressed all in black except for the white athletic socks scrunched above his soft-soled black street shoes, also fancied longer hair and kept his squarish glasses perched professorially at the bottom of his nose. The two complimented each other nicely, I thought. Perhaps they are brothers, maybe they’re going to talk about the job, or women, or maybe even the latest hemi.

Nope.

It was hard to hear Mr. Spectacles, he had a low voice that was hard to pick-up between his munching and chewing and the ambient noise of the restaurant. Music piped in from the back room also helped to drown out most of the conversation. But Mr. Harley was easy to hear, mostly.

He had a high-pitched voice that chirped the most unusual dialogue for someone who most assuredly belonged to a local biker gang.

“I prefer to think of it as the wild west of role playing,” he said. Mr. Spectacles nodded and chewed. “Also, there’s a powerful weapon inside his gut.”

No way, I thought, these guys are gamers. It continued.

“Unfortunately, even when you go through the dungeon, it can come back and get you,” the high-pitched one said. “Yes” was all that Mr. Spectacles said, too intent on his massive plate of food to give a more detailed response.

“The first time is great, you literally come out the other end, the monsters are so big . . . ” and on the conversation went. I scribbled down some of the dialogue on some napkins, thinking what a funny blog post this will be. Hm, well, probably not.  But, I learned - once again - not to make assumptions.

Just a quick note. There has been much said lately about the amount of money, history-making, being raised and spent by Barack Obama. It’s interesting to note that when navigating to the JohnMcCain.com the home page has an embedded video and a clean format of available links to make a contribution or to find information about the senator or his running mate. There is another website that leads directly to a secure site for supporters to contribute to the McCain campaign.

The top listing on a Google search for Barack Obama, or Obama-Biden, led to BarackObama.com (other than a sponsored CafePress link at the top of one search) where those seeking information about the candidate are taken directly to a page soliciting donations.

Hmm.

I knew, with the first welt, that I needed to see a doctor. Without any insurance, however, the idea turned in my head registering with dollars and cents. This was going to be expensive. (more…)

Let’s see, I am a 42 year-old white male, of average height and weight and exercise only occasionally. I avoid the obvious, no soda or excessive salt, try to eat only meals made at home with ingredients I can pronounce, drink green tea and plenty of water and take several vitamins and minerals daily. If you follow this blog you will also notice that I bake, at home, pies and cookies and breads. Baking is usually a weekend indulgence and, again, I know everything going into that pie because I made it. Perhaps this is a off-kilter view of healthy living, but it is my life and I feel pretty darn good over all.

When I was a kid, we didn’t get candy except on Easter, Halloween and Christmas. That was it. There were no store-bought cookies in the kitchen cupboard and no soda in the refrigerator. When she had the time, and we had the money, my mother would bake pies or cookies or bread (zucchini and banana were my favorite) and at Christmas the younger kids would help to make candies. Perhaps this is a way of life that doesn’t fit for most people any more. I can believe that. But I am also likewise convinced that, at least for myself, the option to instead buy off the shelf pre-made meals is quite literally off the table. (more…)

Campbell Soup, based here in New Jersey, announced quarterly earnings that were better than expected for the final term of it’s fiscal year, ending in August. Quoted in another source, not the one linked above, chief executive Douglas Conant said it was difficult to know if the higher posted earnings were due to new, lower-sodium, products being introduced to the market or because soup was an attractive option for hungry people facing higher food prices. That’s not an exact quote, I inserted “hungry people facing higher food prices” for Conant’s “lower-priced meal options, like soup, because of the weak economy.” But, it’s basically the same idea. Families need to stretch their budgets and make sure there is something on the table, or in the cupboard, when the kids get off the bus. (more…)

Waiting on the examining table, sitting on paper that crinkled with my every move, I thought about my surroundings. It was the same room I had been in a handful of times before. The same commonplace, everyplace poster on the wall intended to give a comforting touch to the otherwise suppressing fluorescent blankness in the room. A few medical charts hung on the wall for the patients’ edification, if a physician should need to direct them there for a medical condition requiring colorful pictures to better illustrate a diagnosis or treatment. The table, small rolling stool for the doctor, a nearby sink, cabinet and counter top stocked with glass jars of tongue suppressors and gauze all as I remembered it. Something was different. It was me. I felt different. I didn’t belong here. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have medical insurance. (more…)

I have worked with adults who have Down syndrome and those with schizophrenia in a Georgia group home, assisted developmentally disabled adults with dual sensory impairment in New Jersey, provided respite to the parents of an emotionally impaired, developmentally delayed youth in Missouri, provided behavior and language modeling to Deaf children in Alaska and managed a shelter for abused and neglected children in rural Alabama. My life and my heart has touched the lives of those who are special in our society in communities and states literally from coast to coast. I also have seen the effect of waste and mismanagement in many of those places. Sarah Palin promises to be an advocate in the White House for parents of special needs children. But, what kind of advocacy is really needed? (more…)

It was the summer of love. (more…)

I lived in Anchorage. I worked in Wasilla. It was a beautiful drive that, for the most part, I didn’t mind making every day. From my apartment just off Muldoon Road to the Matanuska-Susitna Borough School District where I worked as a Sign Language interpreter it was nearly an hour drive through lush green valleys - during those months not blanketed in snow - and alongside breathtaking mountainfaces tacked against the sky with wisps of steam and cloud. Almost all the people I knew, worked with or considered my friends were Alaskans by choice, not by birth. As a Midwesterner, I felt comfortable with their perspective on the daily rhythm of work, family and life. I understand Governor Palin. (more…)

Already fading in the news, John McCain’s hesitation in answering just how many homes he and his wife own gave Joe Biden and Barack Obama a chance to make inroads with American voters who dream of owning just one home.

I am one of those Americans.

My father bought our house on that gravel road, in rural southern Michigan, for twenty-five thousand dollars. I was a just a kid at the time we moved in, and I remember running from room to room shouting into empty closets and up at ceilings that seemed enormously beyond my reach as my voice echoed off the walls. This was our house, no more renting, it was ours. The inroads attempted by Barack Obama and Joe Biden caused me to pause and think, quite literally, of the road that I have traveled from that house to this apartment. The road is in fact in me.

One of the single greatest thoughts, occupying many pensive moments every day, is how I will afford a home for my son and myself. Where will we live? Many who have homes have the same thought as the prospect of losing their house becomes real. In this apartment complex there are many who can’t think beyond making this months’ rent. Several I have spoken with have lived here for decades and have no hope to ever owning a home. Decades. It seems unreal.

I don’t believe either presidential candidate will deliver the type of change I hope for. I don’t think a President McCain can move this country decidedly toward energy independence or that a President Obama will be successful in truly recalibrating the tax burden to more equitably shift a higher tax on those who are positioned in our society to best afford it. I don’t believe, but I do hope.

I hope for integrity and strength of conviction in our political leaders to believe in the ingenuity of American leadership. I hope for the woman or man who will see the need for dynamic change in energy production and consumption in the United States to be tantamount with the need for security on our borders, at our ports and in our skies. I hope for leadership politically at all levels to point directly at debt - both personal and national - as a crushing burden that will cause this great nation to bend and bow to stronger economic powers overseas if nothing is done to reverse and reduce our obligations. That means you, that means me, that means government consisting of those we elect to serve. I hope for someone, many, to have the audacity to look down at our waistlines, and those of our children, and say “this is wrong, this is not excusable or acceptable, and we must change.”

I hope for these things, and so much more.

I’m no critic. I enjoy going to baseball games, and football games, and don’t really care who wins. I don’t follow sports in the press or watch games on television. For me, it’s about being there. It’s something to do. I enjoy a hotdog and a cold beer under the sun while a baseball game plays out in front of me. To go out, get beyond the same familiar walls and enjoy life is what is it’s all about. I enjoy movies for many of the same reasons.

Substitute popcorn and a soda and theater seating for bleachers and I am going to have a good time. Yesterday I took my son to see “Spider-Man 3.” I’ve heard critics on National Public Radio, Fox and in online print gauge the movie compared to the first two Spider-Man movies, or compare the flick to other action films, and serve up a dry and dismall appraisal of the latest Marvel character on the big screen. I don’t know.

As Ayezeyah and I walked into the theater, a few inset lights guiding the way up the carpeted stairs, my excitement grew at the same pace as his - an itchy anxiety coursing from his small hand into mine and back again - and we flashed grins at each other. Although it was a Sunday morning showtime the theater was packed. We edged and bumped our way past knees and tubs of popcorn to settle into two seats near the middle of the darkened theater. The lights dimmed, the screen shined, and we settled in for the next few hours with Spidy and cast for an absolutely wonderful time.

As the last scene faded and the credits began to roll applause rippled through the seats from people we had shared the past few hours with. Ayezeyah asked to see it again. It was a good time, and, a good movie. Comedian Billy Connolly said that critics are looking the wrong way. Instead of looking at the screen and sifting through their own sentiments, they should be looking at the people who are watching the film. Watch the watchers. Critics don’t make people enjoy a film or even force ticket buyers to have a miserable time if the show wasn’t what they anticipated. Critics simply, well, critique. And, they don’t do it very well. Perhaps they should lighten up, loosen up, and take a child to a movie. That’s really what it’s all about anyway, and don’t forget the popcorn.