At the Fundraiser

Darcy Burner fundraiser attended by Thomas Goldstein and Lauren Berkowitz
at the home of Maureen Judge on Mercer Island, Washington, July 9, 2008.
photo Jesse Wendel / Group News Blog.

All Politics is Local

A local fundraiser for Darcy Burner went well Wednesday evening.

People dropped in and out all evening, walking, driving, even biking.

The couple you see above -- Thomas is the Executive Director of Washington Bus, an awesomely cool program which goes all over Washington State registering young people to vote. Yes, it has a bus. Lauren is simply cool. -- showed up at Darcy's fundraiser on road bikes. ROAD BIKES.

Thomas was riding Shimano Dura-Ace group (around since 1973) on his road bike, which is nowhere near as cool as my Campagnolo Record group (Campy's been around since 1933). Campy -- When you care enough to send the very best.

Not doing another Coming of Age ride with my kids this year due to the demands of the political season. Still am managing to get out and tool around here and there on my Titanium-Carbon LeMond. I'd say probably 10-15 of the people who showed up for Darcy's fundraiser came on bicycles.

Perhaps 75 people came over the three and a half hours. State and local, as well as a few national bloggers. There were some elected folks and people who both had run for office and (I think) were running for office. I had a nice chat with about social networks, generational changes, poverty and class, with futurist and blogger Rob Salkowitz, the author of Generation Blend: Managing Across the Technology Age Gap.

A good time was had by all.

Darcy and family are doing well. She wasn't there, by the way. Wasn't intended to be. This was to raise funds for her, and it did that well. So far, with General Clark's request from earlier this week, we're at roughly $129K on a goal of $150K, $150,000 being Burner's entire fundraising goal for July.

I heard tonight one other mega-appeal should hit someone's network in the next day or so, and hopefully that will take her over the top. Then anything else raised will be a head-start on August.

Darcy IS planning to attend at least a day or so of Netroots. Last I heard that's still on. All this is complicated by the insane federal campaign laws which don't let people even buy her a meal or a drink, all the normal stuff one would do for someone whose home burned down. So we do what we can which is donate money to Darcy's campaign as an act of humanity -- to buy Darcy time off to put her life in order.

There's more...

Darcy Burner's Home Burns Down

Five Year Old Henry Saves Family

Tuesday July 1 at roughly 7 AM, Darcy Burner's home burned down.

The fire started in the room of 5-year-old Henry Burner, in his lamp. Henry rushed out of his room and told his Mom, who got everyone (but the family cat) out safely.

The fire spread quickly. It burned the home to the ground. Darcy, her husband Mike, and little Henry are all fine.

Seattle Times

Her 5-year-old son, Henry, came into her and her husband's bedroom around 7 a.m. screaming there was a fire in his room, Burner said.

"I scooped him up and got him out of the house," she said. Everyone, including the family's golden retriever Bruce Wayne, made it out uninjured, but their cat did not survive.

Burner said she hadn't yet considered whether the fire would impact her campaign.

"I am today focused on my family and just really grateful that my family is OK," she said. "Tomorrow I'll wake up and figure out what comes next."

SkyKING raw video.
News Chopper 7 raw video (No audio).

I spoke last night with Sandeep Kaushik, Burner's spokesman. He was with her most of the day. She, her husband, and little Henry are all doing well. Darcy is taking a few days off from the campaign to spend time with her family, and then will return.

Darcy Burner for Congress

I am also deeply grateful for the expressions of support from friends, supporters and others who have called to express their condolences and offer their generous and heartfelt assistance. I am so moved by all of the offers of a place to stay, or clothes to wear, or all of the other offers of help that have poured in throughout the day. While we are fine for now, your kind expressions of support and concern have helped to sustain me through what has been a long and difficult day.

For those who would like to do something to express their support, let me suggest making a contribution to your local humane society or animal shelter in memory of Charlotte, or to the Washington State Council of Firefighters Benevolent Fund.

Thank you all for being there for us in my family's time of need. It means so much to us.

In the meantime...

Today was going to be day two of GNB's first ever fundraiser. We're going to push that back till tomorrow, and here's why.

Darcy's one of us. She's a geek. Look at the shirt she was wearing when she rushed out of her home when it was on fire...

That's XML for Stop the War. It's what she was wearing around the house at 7 AM.

David Goldstein and Kos both have wonderful posts up, the bottom line of which is this: Darcy needs a few days off. Due to the demands of modern campaigning, the only way she can take time off to be with her family is if we raise funds for her.

I invite each of you to donate to Darcy. Because of federal campaign laws, we can't send Henry new toys or Darcy new clothes. But we can give her time with her family by letting her stay home a few extra days.

Please give generously to Darcy's campaign today. And don't worry. Our scheduled GNB fundraiser will return tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone.

Darcy Burner outside her home which has just burned down.
July 1, 2008. photo Ellen M. Banner/The Seattle Times.

Update: 2:45 PM.

GNB doesn't endorse candidates.

I like Darcy personally, but part of the job of politician's is to be likable.

What we're doing here is the humane thing, the modern equivalent of sending over some blankets, clothes, and plates of food -- which we legally can not do with a federal candidate for office. Well, maybe the plates of food, but that's about it. *sighs*

Anyway, I already chipped in $100 bucks, not because I'm endorsing anyone but because I think it's the right thing to do for someone who's just lost their home and damn near everything they own. Not out of GNB funds -- out of my personal account.

I encourage people to give generously. I know her. She truly is one of our own.

Update: 4:00 PM.


And the dog is saved too...

Markos at DailyKos has set the goal of raising $150,000 to take the burden off Darcy throughout all of July.

As of 3 PM we're at $50K and climbing.

Y'all are THE BEST.

There's more...

Campaign Trail Note #1

Met with many local bloggers here tonight. Too tired to list them all. Soon. With links. Good group of folks. Had fun. Plus, invited to go out with them again on Tuesday nights to Blogging Liberally. How fun.

Then off to the Clinton event where even though I was late, they were expecting and looking for me, took me in past the lines literally pressed up against the outside doors into the packed auditorium on Pier 30, led me up onto the national press riser, fed me donuts and brought me water when I needed to take my pain meds. Sucking up to the press... Good staff work Team Clinton. (Especially thank you to the wonderful Crystal Patterson who set everything in motion.)

I'll say this much, before moving on... the room was jumping. People were lit up. She not only had solid plans she worked in to what she said, but she inspired people. This isn't John Kerry's stump speech. People were turned on and cheering.

Kyle wants to see history made, so off to see Senator Obama in the morning. Will leave her at Key Arena to find her own way home.

One big consolidated post on both events, hopefully tonight. If not, Saturday morning while eating waffles.

Then tomorrow (Saturday), we caucus here in Washington State. Be there by 1 pm at the latest. Anyone arriving after 1:30 pm, your vote doesn't count. Be there early.

Oh... and if everyone would be so kind, please don't put into comments, anyone else's personal caucus locations. That's for email, not for what Google can archive forever. Thanks for understanding.

This is being written at 3:30 am, but I'm sticking it in at 2 am, so as not to jump on HS's post. Mine is just a note, and his is a real post.

That's it for tonight. You've been lovely. Lovely I say.

There's more...

Our Best Work of 2007

The Little Endless Storybook. by Jill Thompson.

Dreaming of You

On New Year's Day, I asked each of the four of us to self-select our own best piece of the year.

We call ourselves a political blog. And we are, mostly. But our very best work, in terms of what we like and what you like, has a decidedly personal flavor.

We're proud of our first six months. We've genuinely enjoyed settling in. And we look forward to spending 2008 with you.

Here, alphabetically, are what we consider our best of 2007. Please feel free to tell us which posts you would have selected, and why.


Hubris Sonic
Camp Followers and PTSD Fakers

So, apparently I am faking my PTSD. Apparently the twenty fucking years its taken me to stop figuring out whether the person who is walking past me is going to try and kill and how can I kill them is all fake because my mother breast fed me or something. The years of insomnia and flared tempers to the point of violence is all faked because I am not macho enough. I guess I didnt drink enough tequila, shoot enough people or screw enough prostitutes in central America to be called 'a man' in these keyboard cowards eyes.

Jesse Wendel
“I'll Make You Love Me... Bitch.”

Warning: People triggered by stalking or cutting, this likely isn't for you.

I sent repeated drunken emails telling _____ _____ I was in my car, bleeding, both arms sliced wide fucking open with whatever I had handy -- knife, razor, multi-tool -- in the late spring/early summer of 2002, after my suicide attempt. The first month I even drove by her place a few times in traffic flow.

Lower Manhattanite
“Do you understand where you are?”

There was a note about the local nightspots. Namely, that there were none. Save for the juke joint down the road a piece across from the “Fish Shack”, and of course, the few spots some 35 minutes away in Wilmington. But one of the note's points of interest got some of the young people going. It stated, that after 8:00 P.M., NO ONE WAS TO GO DOWN ACROSS THE RAILROAD TRACKS, PAST THE GREEN HOUSE (an actual green-colored house), AS THAT WAS THE DEMARCATION LINE BETWEEN FREE-GOING COUNTRY, AND KLAN TERRITORY.

Sara Robinson
My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys

My dad, who died five years ago Wednesday, was a cowboy. A real one, complete with beat-up Stetson and muddy ropers and a Ford pickup and an ancient blanket-lined Levi's jean jacket that smelled of manure, leather, horse sweat, and tobacco -- the distinctive aroma of all cowboys, the one that's rubbed so deep into their sunburned hides that it doesn't come out no matter how long they spend in the shower or how much Old Spice they try to mask it with. Dad's been on my mind a lot this week -- well, Dad, Jefferson, and George W. Bush.

There's more...

Family Comes First

diagram Wikipedia.

My Dad Is Having Open-Heart Surgery Today

My father, John Wendel, Ph.D., emeritus from The University of Arizona (German Studies), is having open heart surgery this morning at Denton Regional Medical Center in Denton, Texas, about 30 miles north of Dallas.

Yes, this is the Dad I didn't speak to but once in nine years. Whatever.

Family comes first.

Dad's mitral valve is leaking.

The mitral valve is on the left side of the heart, between the left atrium and the left ventricle. It's shown on the right of the above diagram, as if you were looking at a person directly across from you.

How blood flows through the human body:


Santa Barbara City College, diagram McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc.

1. De-oxygenated blood from the body flows through the veins into the right heart (into the right atrium through the tricuspid valve into the right ventricle) where the right ventricle PUSHES it out the pulmonary valve into the lungs.

2. At the lungs, carbon-dioxide (CO2) goes out, and oxygen (O2) passes in to the blood, in the capillaries as the blood passes next to the warm moist lungs.

3. The oxygenated blood flows to the left heart (into the left atrium, through the mitral valve, into the left ventricle) where the left ventricle PUSHES it out the aortic valve into the body.

4. Once in the body, oxygen (O2) goes out and carbon-dioxide passes in to the blood in the capillaries as they pass next to and through the tissues and organs of the body.

And we start all over again. (Go to #1 above as de-oxygenated blood...)

Because Dad's mitral valve is leaking, there are some issues which follow:

• Not as much oxygenated blood is getting to the rest of his body as should. Therefore
• his left heart has to pump harder to get enough oxygen out to his body. Therefore
• like any muscle, his left heart grew a bit bigger with the extra use. This isn't good. An enlarged heart needs more oxygen itself and is more prone to failure. But it didn't get too big, as it was caught fairly early.
• The leak spilled backwards, causing 'fluid in the lungs' or 'Pulmonary Edema.' This has been mostly fixed with oxygen and reducing his overall fluid level.

After taking a look-see Wednesday (a cardiac catheterization), the docs are happy that his arteries are nice and clean and the rest of his heart looks good. All there is to deal with seems to be the leaky valve. But they can't quite tell how badly damaged it is till he's opened up on the table. If it isn't too badly damaged, they'll just repair the mitral valve. That would be best.

If the valve is too damaged, they'll replace it with a porcine (pig) valve. These valves typically last 10-15 years, meaning my 72 year old father would probably need another round of open-heart surgery at 82-87 years old, assuming they haven't figured a new way to handle this better by then, or assuming his naturopathic physician can't help extend the life of the valve.

The alternative replacement was a metal valve and daily blood-thinners for life plus an increased risk of stroke. Dad decided (and I agree) that a porcine valve is the better choice. Plus his own valve may be able to be repaired, which is what we're hoping.

Dad is in amazing physical condition. He hikes all over the mountains ranges of Utah for days at a time, year after year after year. Every other physical sign he has is that of a man in his mid 40s to early 50s.

While there is always the possibility of stroke, sudden cardiac death, and infection -- as with any open heart event (less than 10% chance of morbidity for this procedure, and that includes the really sick people) -- this is as much of a routine surgery as one gets during open heart work.

Dad's spirits are good. He trusts his surgeon (who does this procedure very often) and his cardiologist, both the best in the region, according to friends and colleagues. Dad is optimistic about the outcome, as am I.

I'll talk to him again first thing this morning. His operation is scheduled for 11 am Central Time. It will likely take a while, plus then he'll be in recovery before going to the CICU, and I may well not know anything till after all of that.

As soon as I know something, I'll update this post.

In advance, thank you for your thoughts, prayers, and best wishes for my father.


Update 11:30 AM PT/1:30 PM CT:

Dad's doing fine in surgery; no major issues so far.

His mitral valve was not repairable.

Dad is still on the heart-lung machine as the surgeons put in a porcine valve. He should be on the pump for about another 30 minutes. Then the surgical team will restart his heart, close up his chest, move him to recovery, and then to the CICU.

Next update roughly in three hours.


Update 2:45 PM PT/4:45 PM CT:

Dad is out of surgery and in the ICU. Post-op, he's damn near perfect. *grins*

He'll remain sedated on a ventilator with the breathing tube in, probably overnight. Will come off the vent tomorrow and start doing breathing exercises. Getting his lungs back into full working order is a big part of rehab for post-pump patients.

Should leave the ICU in a day or so to the step-down unit, where he'll go with other cardiac cases into a monitored bed, for about 4-5 days. Lots of breathing exercises and the start of his rehab work, so he can exercise his lungs and his chest, getting up and moving about, get everything working properly again, and the docs can make certain everything is put together properly and very important, that no infections spring up.

Then it's home and about a month of out-patient and then several months of in-home rehab -- increasingly longer walks, continuing the breathing exercises (very important), and at the end of it all, back to a normal life.

All is going well right now. Dad is resting comfortably and in as good a shape as anyone can in an ICU.

I talked directly to his personal ICU nurse. She has been on shift since he came out of the recovery room. He came out precisely on time -- indicating the surgery went as planned -- and there have been absolutely no issues since. I could recite a long list of negatives the nurse and I went over, including that his lungs are clear and he has urine output, both important given what he had going on with him -- but really, there's nothing to say except he's recovering properly and well from surgery and everything is fine, no issues.

*does happy dance*

Another update tomorrow.

However I can't leave for the day, without thanking all of you.

All day long I've felt the enormity of having all of you waiting with me.

Thank you, each of you, for your outpouring of love and support. It has made an enormous difference to me, and to my father.

Thank you. Thank you so very much.


Updated Saturday 12:45 pm PT/2:45 CT:

Dad's in wonderful shape.

Being transfered from CICU out to a monitored bed as I post this.

Middle of last night, I spoke with his night-shift nurse. She took him off the vent, took the tube out of his lungs, got him up and walking around. He was doing good then, even better now.

Just now, spoke again with his day-shift nurse, the same one he had yesterday. She's blown away with his progress. He's all active, talking up a storm, terrific progress.

His temporary pacemaker is hardly being used anymore, and most of the tubes and stuff are already disconnected. I should be able to talk with him later today or tomorrow, once he's in his new room.

Dad will likely be at the hospital another 4-5 days, and then head home for a month or more of rehab.

This is my last update. It's been a text-book case.

Thank you everyone for your care, concern, and for having been there.

There's more...

The Family Deal

Dr. Joseph Wheat of Des Moines, IA with his family, 1901. The young woman with intense eyes and a black collar on the right end, middle row is my great-grandmother Bessie.


Jesse engages in a dialog with Digby below about how little we progressives understand about what motivates fundamentalists, and how poorly we've sold our own values to the American people generally.

I could write a book on this very subject (and maybe someday I will) -- but for today, I'd like to point y'all to one of the more perceptive articles addressing this that I've ever read. Unitarian minister Doug Muder wrote Red Family, Blue Family in the aftermath of the 2004 election -- and his explanation for the huge disconnect between right and left in America is simply the most sensible and useful one I've ever seen.

The core of Muder's argument starts with George Lakoff's well-known split between the strict father and nurturant parent family metaphors. Muder picks up this idea and fleshes out far more completely than Lakoff dared to, looking at the far-reaching implications and underlying worldview that support this metaphor. The core of his argument is that that the "strict father" conservative model might more accurately be described as the "inherited obligation family." Fully realized, this is the traditional agrarian family structure that underlies almost every other conservative value and policy:

Life is defined by roles and relationships that are given, not chosen. One has parents, grandparents, siblings, cousins, and eventually a spouse, children, and grandchildren of one's own. Each of those relationships defines a set of mutual obligations. Your well-being depends on the faithfulness of others in meeting their obligations to you, and your character is judged on how well you meet your obligations to them. Choice and freedom are fine in the economic sphere, but in family life they undermine obligation and put everyone at risk. Fulfilling your obligations is not always pleasant and may even at times be thankless, but in the long run such faithfulness leads to deep satisfaction.

In difficult times, you depend on those who are obliged to help you: First, on your extended family, and on the larger community if necessary.

Continuing and extending the family by having children is a duty, not an option. This entails men taking on the roles of husband and father, and women taking on the roles of wife and mother. These roles are timeless and not up for negotiation. Although the obligations of these roles become primary, obligations to other family members do not go away, nor do theirs to you. Parents and children remain linked for life in a special relationship. Grandparents, if they are able, have a major role in the child-rearing project. And when they become feeble, the grown child is obliged to care for them.

It's in this network of obligations, Muder argues, that we find the true unifying thread between all the apparently unrelated conservative political positions. IOFs are found in most non-industrialized areas of the world. Before the Enlightenment, a family that didn't operate within this tight network of commitment was vulnerable to economic, social, and physical disaster. In much of the world -- including the rural parts of the US -- they still are.

But that's not how modern, enlightened, progressive people run their families. The liberal alternative is the Negotiated Commitment Family, which evolved as a response to the economic necessities of industrial and urban life, and has gradually been coming to dominate as America becomes more urban with every generation. In NCFs:

Your responsibilities come from the commitments you have chosen to make, and not from congenital obligations. Voluntary commitments form the substance of life; a life without them is superficial and empty.

Adult relationships are negotiated to be mutually acceptable. Although traditional forms of relationship have stood the test of time and contain much folk wisdom, people are not free to amend them as needed.

Because young children are incapable of meaningful consent, you can't attach strings to your nurturance of them -- is it a gift, which they may or may not reciprocate when they are grown. Only those who feel that they have the psychological and material resources to fulfill that basic commitment should take it on. As long as children's basic needs are being met, the members of a household are free to distribute child-raising responsibilities in whatever way seems best to them.

You depend on a social safety net to catch you if you are unable to support yourself: Social Security when you are old, disability and unemployment insurance if you are unable to work. While you may maintain relationships with your parents and other family members, you are not obliged to do so if they do not treat you well. If they are unable to support themselves, they rely on the social safety net just as you do.

Looking at these two models, a lot of other things start to make sense. An IOF member is going to be against abortion and birth control, because these things interfere with the family's imperative to produce new members to strengthen the network. S/he will oppose equal rights for women -- and gay rights entirely -- because these changes allow people to shirk their fundamental responsibility as fathers and mothers. The social net is seen as weakening the absolute obligations that family members have to take care of each other. Taxes take money away from the family network, which makes it harder for it to fulfill its primary obligations.

And, says Muder, this explains why the Republicans have done such a thorough job of making liberals scary. The policies we promote are seen as not only an existential threat to "their way of life" (which the Fundamentalist Project found was usually reason enough for people to fight and die); it's also a directly concrete threat to their own personal well-being. If my daughter goes to college, and my gay son moves to the city, who's going to look after me when my job finally wrecks my back and I can't work any more? I raised those kids, and they owe me -- but those liberals are telling them they're "free" to "choose." Likewise, if my sister leaves her abusive husband, the family's going to have to look after her and their kids. It's a burden we'll bear, but it's better for everyone in the long run if they can stick to their vows, do right by the kids, and work it out. If the county opens a shelter and gives her an out, she won't have the incentive to suck up and do right.

Given that the rural areas of the country see far more of almost every social ill you can name, the perception that the liberals want to knock out what few supports remain to them packs a visceral and deeply personal punch. And, says Muder, the GOP fed this fear, fashioning it into the main wedge that cleaved apart the yawning gap now separating red and blue America:

Republican propagandists take advantage of that misunderstanding by projecting a shadow frame onto us. Their demonic liberal is a person with no moral depth or seriousness. Convenience is his only true value. Words that we revere, such as freedom and choice, rebound against us: We like these words because we want to be free of our obligations and choose the easy way out.

Just as married people sometimes imagine the single life as far more licentious and libidinous than it ever actually is, so people born into life-defining obligations imagine a life free from such obligations. The truth about liberals – that we more often than not choose to commit ourselves to marriage, children, church, and most of the other things conservatives feel obligated to, and that we stick by those commitments every bit as faithfully, if not more so – easily gets lost.

The virtue of the Negotiated Commitment model is that it is flexible and efficient. The negative framing of those qualities is slippery and slick. Democrats cooperate with their own demonization when they talk about “moving to the center.” Such tactical moves emphasize our slipperiness: We feel free to re-choose our positions whenever they become inconvenient to our quest for power.

This explains why Democrats never seem to get to the center, no matter how far they move. Swing voters aren’t waiting for us to say something different, they just doubt that we mean what we say. The more we change our message to court them, the more our slickness turns them off.

The most important fact that conservatives don’t know about liberals is this: We believe that a life without commitments is superficial and empty. Unlike the demonic liberals you hear about on Fox News, real liberals are morally serious people who are not looking to take the easy way out when there are greater issues at stake.

Unfortunately, the feckless performance of Democratic politicians does nothing to convince morally serious people of either group that they're capable of taking a stand and sticking to it on principle. The GOP understood from the get that even when they lost (and they lost a lot of legislative and political battles in the late 60s through the 70s), they assured themselves a moral victory every time they refused to compromise. Even in defeat, they affirmed their dedication to principle and reinforced, one more time, a potent message about who they were and what they stood for. In time, voters came to respect that -- particularly voters from IOF families that place a high value on sticking to your commitments at all costs.

Until Democrats find their core values and start sticking to them in exactly this way, win or loss be damned, our efforts at taking back the country will be dead in the water.

Muder makes the point that IOFs are not naturally fundamentalist -- though many of them have become so because fundamentalism speaks directly to their ideas about family, obligation, and commitment. He also notes that the right has no monopoly on that kind of language. We can use it very credibly when we start framing our arguments in terms of supporting the family with living wages; passing laws that enable people to spend time at home where they belong with their families; and passing budgets that respect the limits of our national family's resources. We used to be able to speak the language of commitment and principle -- FDR was a master at it, and IOF families lined up behind him for four elections as a result.

The reason we don't is that we have a bunch of people in Washington, both Republican and Democrat, who don't care about either kind of family. They're proudly serving their corporate masters, and will never ever pass a bill that doesn't sell us all out if it profits their financial backers. And there are a great many families of both types who are ready to hear a real family-first message, strong on values and principle. The day the progressive movement can clearly articulate that message is the day we begin to win.

There's more...

On Dressing—One: Things My Father Taught Me

“Ascots and tie-bars, and rich foulard cravats,
Cufflinks and watches and high-fashion habits...”

(PART ONE of a two-part essay on fashion and style—inspired by you, the readers.)

It was just a few weeks after my father passed away fifteen years ago. I sat in the attic of my parents house on an unnaturally warm October afternoon, cataloguing his things. The beautiful Penn and Garcia fishing rods and reels...posters and sheet music from years gone by...and of course, his precious, and working vintage stereo equipment—a boomy, old Panasonic four-channel receiver, a heavy, enameled Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder, and those huge, military-grade walkie-talkies.

I moved slowly, putting those things off to the side on their own. Mama wanted it organized...I guess so if she wanted to get at a a piece of “him” she wouldn't have to go scuffling about to find whatever it was she fancied. I came across boxes of shoes...beautiful shoes in felt bags within. A pair of deep chocolate and butter colored summer spectator shoes he'd bought in the seventies. They were impeccable. Lightly creased Gucci-loafer styled, with a brass chain across the vamp. Not a speck of dust on 'em. God, those shoes were beautiful.

I couldn't wear them. There's something about a man's shoes...a father's shoes, and following in them and all that freight, that was simply a red flag to me. And we wore the same size—a 12D, but I couldn't put his shoes on, no. I put them aside, and stacked them with the other superficial pieces of him.

And then, I happened upon a trunk...a large trunk that I opened, and found within— a wooden shoe-shine box with soft, horse-hair brushes and sweet, dye-scented “shammys” he used to buff a shoe to a high shine. But there was a mystery box in the trunk as well. It looked like an odd case for instruments of some sort, with an accordioning hinge—the box itself, wooden and deep butterscotch in color. I flipped open the hasp on it and opened it up.

It folded out like a fishing tackle box with three shelves_a top, a middle, and the bottom.

In the top was a treasure trove of vintage cufflinks, and brass collar stays. There were tie bars and a bunch of watches too—a wind-up watch from the fifties that I hadn't seen him wear since I was maybe five years old, and his trusty Omega Seamasters, the soft gold dress one, and the hefty steel workhorse he wore to work for years. In the middle box was a couple of unopened “safety” razors, with boxes of blades next to them. There was a straight razor there too, with a black marbled horn handle that I couldn't open without fear of accidentally cutting my hand to ribbons.

And then, in the bottom of the box, lay a soft nest of rich fabrics. Big, fat swaths of silk with delicate patterns and pleating at their middles.

What kinds of ties were these?

I picked one up. It was cut like a grossly overweight untied bow tie—what the hell was it? And then I remembered the pattern—the merlot background with raspberry and blueberry-hued diamonds...I remember this!

These were the ascots my father used to sport when I was a small boy. They were leftovers of his show-biz days before settling down with a family, and he wore them occasionally just to freak people out in the late sixties and early seventies. He'd rock a cardigan or a blue blazer with a white Hathaway shirt—button-down of course, and drop an ascot into the mix. This look he'd sport whenever he and Mama were entertaining on weekend nights, or if he was out for a relaxed function with his friends and knew he was going to run into a bunch of particularly annoying idiots while out. Real status hounds. “What the fuck right did this dude who was busting his ass with seven kids have wearing a Goddamned ascot?!”, they'd be thinking.

But they'd ask, “Hey W______, where'd you get that?”

“Place ain't around no more. Phil Kornfeld's on West 57th Street. Duke and Billy used to shop there.”

“Duke and Billy. Duke and...Billy?!”

“Yeah...but Kornfeld's is gone now.”, he'd chuckle, and then sigh— “Just like Duke and Billy.”

There were five of 'em in the bottom of that case. Two were worn and frayed at the edges. They might have been eaten at by some sort of bug, as there were faint silky wisps on the case's floor. Gorgeous pieces they were, but too far gone. Three however, were in excellent shape. I put the box aside. I would NOT forget where it was, and what it held—those beautiful pieces I'd never seen sold anywhere else in my life. Cummerbunds and bow ties I'd seen sold here and there. I'd even remembered seeing sock garters sold down on the Lower East Side...but ascots? These were special. Mental note taken.

Later that week, I would find myself in his closet at my mother's request. That stuff she wanted out of the bedroom. Those articles specifically reminded her of all the places they'd been together when he wore them, and frankly, they depressed her. I was put in charge of disbursing the items to my three brothers. I stood there with that door open, looking at the row of suits, and shirts and overcoats. I leaned back on the door and suddenly found myself cradled in a lush blanket of his ties hanging there on the rack—rich, embroidered Bert Pulitzer and Countess Mara cravats.

I leaned there and took in the remnants of his colognes in the ties. “4711” and Kiehl's “Rain”. I closed my eyes, and for a minute...Daddy was back.

I opened my eyes though, and realized that in fact...he was gone. My face flushed and tingled with tears. His fur felt Borsalino hat—a medium-brimmed fedora hung above the ties.

I took it down and smelled it.

Wafts of cologne, and Wildroot tonic, and Royal Crown Pomade drifted off the soft, leather band. It was that odd, comforting blend of smells that was his hair. A tangible sense memory of Daddy. I would keep this hat for myself. I tear up typing about it now. I still have that hat in a box I bought for it. I haven't taken it out in about three years. I'd probably have a “moment”— a deep sense menory that would be very intense and mess me up for a few days. I haven't been able to afford being messed up for a few days for quite some time. Maybe soon.

Until then...I'd rather think about all the things he—the most fashionable man I've ever known—taught me about clothes and style.

A couple of posts on the blog recently got me thinking about all the things he taught me, and my brothers and sisters. The post on Apple Computers where in comments, the discussion turned to the “Mac vs. PC” ads and how those characters presented themselves sartorially and how one presents one's self can change everything—was one reminder. The other was the WGA post where I took the Times' writer to task for a blanket fashionista bit of stereotyping the striking writers—“Arty glasses and fancy scarves”. In both of those comment threads, commenters recounted previous discussions at The News Blog where I'd discussed fashion, and how my father was not a dedicated follower but rather, a style leader, not just for me and my siblings—but his circle of friends. The way we present ourselves physically is a big deal. It creates perceptions—and alters them. It's performance art, and we're the actors...every day.

We dress the roles of “Jock”, or “Nerd”, or Wall Street”, or “Artiste”. Some work so hard at anti-style that it becomes style anyway. My father came from a different time, when there were “rules” you followed for “style” in general. It's a sense of “style” that has seemingly returned in a superficial way, but without attention to the details that hammer it home.

But the devil is in those details of course. It's what makes George Clooney stand out amongst his peers...that easy savoir faire with everything in its place. There are other “pretty faces” out there, but that classic, almost perfect style he exudes? It jumps out at you like a flying knife in a 3-D flick. What are the“rules”? How to pull that off?

My father's voice rings in my ears as he laid down the “Commandments”.

”Your textures, son. Textures.”

“You work the gabardine with your silks and light worsteds. That's your Fall and Spring. Come summer, linen and cotton. Lighter grade silks. In the shirts and ties. Nothin' smoother than a silk shirt when you're goin' out on a summer night. Fuck what you've heard—seersucker works, but it can't be stiff. You've gotta break it in, so it's yours. So it drapes instead of sits...you know what I mean?”

“The heavy worsteds, the tweeds and corduroy—that's your late Fall and Winter stuff. Heavier ties...shit, some are like brocade. Work some knits in there. Gotta match weights. Light silk and heavy wool? Uh-uh. Seasonal, son. The jackets you get fitted half a size looser so you can wear a sweater under 'em without bein' all bound up. Fine gauge wool. Cashmere's real expensive, you only need one or maybe two of those. The rest? Light gauge or small ribbed. Merinos. You can live in Merinos. Can't have too many of 'em, either.

“You find a pair of pants that fits you just right—get three of 'em. You'll kick yourself later when you wear that one pair out and that season's run is done. Maybe they won't be out again next year, and then you've got nothin. If it really works— get three of 'em. Two in one color, the third in al alternate. Same with your shirts, 'cept if a style is perfect for you, get five or six. Four white—two colors. make one of the white ones a french cuff—for the day or night you really wanna dress up.”

“Match your leathers. If you're wearing brown shoes, wear a brown belt. Black shoes, black belt. Tan or oxblood (burgundy) shoes? You know the rest. Match your metals too. Gold watch, gold tie bar. Silver watch silver tie bar. You really wanna show somethin'? Match your watch-band leather with your other leathers. Think people won't notice that shit? They do!”

“Steam the wrinkles outta your suits. hang 'em in the bathroom over the tub and let the hot water hit the tub from the shower—the wrinkles'll fall out in five minutes from the steam. Store your light colored stuff—your linen stuff in a dark garment bag. Leave 'em in the closet without a bag and the light that hits the exposed part'll turn it a different color than the rest. Trust me on this.”

“And don't scrimp on your suits! Get real good quality stuff. If the sale suit that's quality is $30 more than the cheaper one that's not a good name suit—SPEND THE $30! OR THE $50 MORE. You'll notice the difference when the cheap suit starts bubbling at the lapel seams and break. That's called the fusing. Good suits sew it in. Cheap suits iron it in. Two passes at the dry cleaners and that fucking chemical tears it apart. the air gets in it. Then you got bubbles.”

“Walkin' round lookin' like a piece of bacon...all bubbled and twisted. You don't want that.

“You're better off with three GOOD suits than six cheap ones. Get a black one, a grey one, and a blue one to start. One can be pinstriped—just to break up all that solid color. A gray pinstripe is always nice to have. That “Thin Man” look. Whooooooo! He was always dapp in those grey pinstipes...”

“Get some hankies—white, light blue and gold always work, but get mostly white ones. hankies give people little extras to look at. Pow-pow-pow! That's how you wanna get 'em!

“Now about those sweaters—get a coupla vests. Maybe a gray and a camel. Get a cardigan—black. Simple. Can't go wrong with that—over a white shirt, a blue shirt, any shirt. Works over turtlenecks, too! You can't have enough Merinos. Get a buncha black ones. You wear the same one all winter long and you'll ruin the neck stretching it out. Alternate 'em. And get a brown one, and a grey one too. You can't have too many of 'em. They'll save your ass in a pinch. Throw one on with a suit—black turtleneck/grey suit. Grey suit/black turtleneck. Blue suit/camel turtleneck...you get it? Yeeaaaah! See how it works? They're simple, and smooth!“

“They look great leading up to your face.”

“Don't wear the same pair of shoes two days in a row. They need to breathe. Switch to a different pair the next day. They'll last longer, and it's better for your feet. You need five pairs minimum. Two black, a brown, a tan and an oxblood. Lace-ups with suits—slip ons with blazes and “outfits”. If fhey get wet in the rain, give 'em two days off if you can. Don't dry 'em near the radiator, it cracks the leather”

“And remember..,'cause I see fellas forget all the time—match your leathers!”

We'd stroll the streets of Manhattan—he, my brothers and me, as he pointed out faux pas' and then examples of real style walking down the street or in a store window.

We learned how a supple gabardine wool breathes, while poly-wool blends trap heat. he showed us about pants lined to the knee with a suit marked it as quality, just like a softly rolled jacket lapel did as well—as opposed to a creased, pressed one. Wide wale (warmer...more surface area) and narrow wale (lighter and less thermal) corduroy—we learned about both varieties.

He took me to his tailor, Mr. Mills and his haberdasher, Mr. Sid, or Uncle Sid as we were to call him. Mr. Mills taught Daddy and me about fusing in jackets, as he also ran a dry cleaners. He stood before us and fingered a horribly pucker-lapeled jacket.

“This is a piece of shit.” Mills would say. “And the son-of-a-bitch is gonna blame me for it. Two cleanings, and it's garbage. Now this...”, he'd say while fondling a three-piece glen plaid suit of Daddy's, “...I've handled this piece at least five times...and look at it! Not a single separation. The roll (on the lapel) holds up. But this guy...” He looked at the “bacon strip” suit jacket, “this guy, won't understand about that, and I'm gonna be arguing with him for an hour about me buying him a new coat. Goddamn.”

Now Uncle Sid got Daddy suits for wholesale—which is the only way he could afford 'em. Seven kids'll do that. Plus, Daddy was getting a discount on top because he brought all his friends—a floating posse of ten to fifteen guys to Sid's for clothes. Daddy got badass Hart, Schaffner & Marx, Three G's and Kuppenheimer gear—not to mention the occasional Pierre Cardin and Burberry pieces for cheap, cheap, super-cheap when they came in.

Sid knew Daddy from his days when he supplied show biz gear to the old shop Academy Clothiers that used to be next to the Ed Sullivan Theatre on 54th and Broadway. We'd drive by there and my father would look at that old rheumy neon sigh, and always tell me the same, crazy story about the cream-colored dinner jacket Sid had made for him when he was up at Academy.

“It was a beautiful piece”, Daddy would always say, following up with what he always said. “And it nearly got my ass killed.”

Seems Daddy was performing with his group somewhere in the mid-south in a still-segregated theatre in a still-segregated town. White folks rockin' and rollin' in the orchestra—Black folks up in the high balcony. The group was working the hell out of a song when Daddy, along with his fellow group members dipped low in unison along the lip of the stage for a dance move. Either Daddy dipped too low, or the crowd was too close at his area, but either way, a young girl had managed to grab the lapel of that cream-colored dinner jacket. of his, in a classic case of rock-and-roll proximity ecstasy.

Daddy moved up on the two with the group, keeping in step—but the girl held fast, and r-i-i-i-i-i-ippppp!—the lapel tore away from that prized jacket. Of course, him being a clothes horse, he had a natural reaction...

“What the FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!!!”, he screamed in the ruined coat as the stunned crowd fell silent.

He had leaned down into the orchestra area...where the White folks sat, and where his jacket had just gotten totaled. And...he had just cursed a young White girl in front of hundreds of people.

The last thing he always said he remembered seeing was the balcony emptying as those Black folks were fleeing for their lives—because every Black face in the place was now a target, based on Daddy's vanity-fueled outburst. A fellow group member grabbed him and rushed him from the stage as chairs and pop bottles filled the air. The group bolted from the stage, and right through the dressing room— leaving amps and anything that couldn't be grabbed easily in about 25 seconds as they leaped into their little caravan of Cadillacs and Chrysler 300s and drove out of town like bats out of a potential flaming-cross hell.

All for want of a precious cream-colored dinner jacket.

I'd laugh every time he told it, picturing my otherwise “on-the-ball”/“everything in its time” dad just lose it when it came down to someone messing with his clothes.

Little thoughts now. Him teaching us boys how to iron a shirt, or shine our shoes. The tie tying primer—“Stick with the half-windsor. I doubt any of you are gonna be great, big monsters like Lewis (His man-mountain friend). Big man, big head, big knot. But you won't be schoolboys (what he called the more common “four-in-hand” knot) forever either, this is a man's knot.” His passion for outerwear—“different jackets for different times”. He had long overcoats, dressy “car” coats and three-quarter jackets. And a trench. “The trenchcoat is your linebacker”, he'd say. “Stuffs the run, doing the dirty work when the weather's bad, but it's got cool written all over it when you sport it on a day with a nip in it. With a turtleneck? It steps out of coverage for 'the pick' and scores.”

I leaned back against that closet door and held the sleeve of the plush cashmere and wool blend Pierre Cardin car coat he used to let me wear when I started really wanting to dress. It was the color of sand. with a double stitch at the cuffs and 'round the lapels which sat up in “mod” style. Slash pockets with the same double stitch. I remembered the night at Studio 54 when an older man in a tuxedo and white scarf saw me getting it out of the coat check and breathlessly asked me “Where did you get that coat? It's beautiful! Cardin?”

“Yes sir.”, I answered.

“Where?”

“My father gave it to me.”

“What is your father...an Ambassador?”

And in that moment, I felt as if I was on a cloud. “My father...the Ambassador.”

“No”, I replied—and then feinted, “He knows a diplomat or two, though.”

And I walked away, laughing to myself. A coat...a coat Daddy'd gotten from Uncle Sid down on Ludlow Street, for way less than wholesale. Daddy, a father of seven, just getting by due to all those kids who he lavished love, and a love of looking good on. He worked with his hands—a chef, a baker/struggling entrepreneur to whom looking good was a little bit of living, breathing art every day. An expression of pride.

Whatever you think of me as a man, you're gonna remember me from how I presented myself. I'm gonna make you think.

“What is your father...an Ambassador?”

He laughed his ass off when I told him about that. “Whooooo-hooooo! Shit, and not have to worry about a parking ticket ever again?!”

He laughed long and loud. And the echoes shook me from my reverie there leaned against that closet door. I let the coat sleeve fall, and looked again upon all the raiments. Opulent. Stately. Beautiful armor, all. But armor nonetheless. The outer shell of a man—a helluva man who suited up every day to ride into the battle that is life, and won far more battles than he lost, often aided by how people reacted to that armor.

He taught four boys. And a group of grown men—James, Clarence, Cleophas, Benjamin, and Barry. Lewis and Joseph too.—they looked to him as well. A son of Carolina sharecroppers had refashioned himself as a little fashion guru—small in his reach, but powerful in his knowledge.

I learned so much from him. About life. About work. Women and survival in the world, too. I learned all of that. But it was that simple, bursting pleasure he shared—that of how to put yourself together—and how it all held up, that makes me smile whenever I see a well-turned out guy like a Clooney.

That's what daddy was getting at. Confidence. Cool. The hell with what they think. Not only do you belong...but baby, you lead.

“You...lead.”

This is but part one of the conversation. Part two will go into the basics of a solid men's wardrobe—the building blocks and defining a style that works for you. (And yes, I'm in contact with a female friend of mine of 25 years who is a fashion industry professional to get her thoughts for a follow-up on Women's fashion as well!)

And if you want to read a brilliant piece on the same subject—a father's lessons on “style” to his son, this piece from GQ in 1996 is a wonder. I thought for years that I was alone in that odd and thorough handing down of the sword and kingdom keys from my father. I was not. Tom Junod's father was also an inveterate sharer of the secrets of the armor.

Armor...supple, .yet strong. Plush and powerful.

Clothes don't make the man. They just make him look special. And who doesn't want to be special? :)

There's more...

Maori Haka

Male Teenagers, Young Adults, & Protracted Teenagers Engage In Overt Sexual Displays In Order To Compensate... For Not Knowing, Especially Sexually

Sara Robinson addresses this in her article The Real Deal versus PoserWorld.

LowerManhattanite hits at it in Do NOT Mess With An Original Gangsta.

Hubris Sonic makes the point clear and all you need do is look at the pictures in Blackwaters' Mercenary Navy?. He spells it out explicitly in Putin tells Cheney to go fuck himself, so if you didn't get the point already or if the Red Sox pitching Curt Shilling in Game Six has you drinking heavily, there's still hope.

Because here it is yet again. (The full article is an absolute must read.)

Orcinus (Sara Robinson)

Which brings me around to my point, which is that the over-the-top behavior around masculine gender roles Digby and Dave are noticing is pretty classic early primary behavior, too. The games boys play at this age often involve extreme masculine archetypes -- cowboys, cops, soldiers, sports heroes, spacemen, and so on. (It's interesting that Little Boots has, at one time or another, tried to cast himself in all of these roles -- and that the male Kewl Kids just swooned over it, every time. Remember the fuss over Jet Pilot Action Figure Bush's "package"? Damn fool didn't loosen his straps before getting out of the jet. Nobody else on the deck had his crotch trussed up like a Christmas goose; and to them, he looked like a rookie idiot. But Chris Matthews practically had an orgasm on-air while watching him prance and strut.) The fact that so many mainstream and conservative media guys are suckered by this posturing shows that they don't really have a clue about what a Real Man looks like -- though, somewhere deep down inside, they're pretty sure they don't qualify. That's why they're so easily wowed by men who can put on the costume and make it look good.

But they're even more easily cowed by men who can actually fill the boots. John Kerry. John McCain. Colin Powell. Bill Clinton. (You don't have to agree with their politics; but nobody can say these men haven't comfortably worn the full measure of male power and responsibility for some critical stretch of their lives.) Like little boys, the media guys are so awed by the outward forms of masculinity that they eagerly make a fetish out of them; but they also actively fear and resent men who display the authentic internal goods that make an honest-to-God man. These guys' very presence incites such a strong sense of personal inadequacy that the Boys On The Bus can only resort to attacking them in ways that are openly calculated to feminize them -- that is, to bring them down to their own level. He look French. He's whipped by his powerful wife. He's preoccupied with his hair. Translation: This guy has more balls and more maturity than we do -- and we need to take him down before everybody figures out how inadequate that makes us feel.

Whatever the "real" content of manhood is (that's a whole separate discussion), sexual agency and virility lie somewhere near the core of it. It takes a sexually mature and capable man to find and woo a partner, father children, sustain the relationships that make a home, and take his place among the valuable men of the community. When you're a kid, Dad's sexual competence is the very heart of what makes him the alpha male in your family pack. At five or six, the physical attributes that make him a man are magical stuff -- and not only do you not have those attributes, your childish sense of time is such that it's easy to fear that you never will. The whole issue, as Freud knew, is fraught and uncomfortable. The only way little boys can deal with this deep and mysterious discomfort is to make giggly jokes about it. It's either that, or stand in dumbstruck awe about the power that your young life utterly depends on, yet you simply cannot comprehend -- and that's not an option on prime time TV.

The howling conservative and MSM men we're seeing on the air these seem to be stuck in some early sexual stage -- a stage where manliness and sexuality are scary adult mysteries, the obsessive stuff of wild curiosity, rampant misunderstandings, crude jokes, dress-up play-acting, and bizarre fetishes. For all their media power, these guys have sexually scarcely moved beyond playing doctor-- and, at this late stage, probably never will. Scratch any leering old man, and you'll expose a scared kid who, fifty years on, still hasn't come to terms with his own uncontrollable wet dreams, let alone the challenge of engaging productively with his own adult sexuality and that of the real-life adult women he shares the world with.

There's more...

Hmmmm.

Just a few sentences of that again please, and let's tighten. Lots.

(While the sentences, well, the words anyway, remain sequential, I'm tightening up bunches, playing fast and loose with Sara's words as I delete stuff to make my meaning, throwing in extra periods, commas, and such, changing a bit of the grammar [in brackets] to pull four long paras down to three damn short ones.

I believe the heart of what I'm saying out of Sara's words is consistent with her post, but what is below is absolutely no longer what she said. It's me, using her words massively edited, to make my point. I take full responsibility for what is being said.

Why didn't I just make my own damn point then? I did. Just needed her words to do it. Sara's original piece was so good she clearly owned the space. Said differently, I couldn't get her magnificent turn of words and sequence (which is often much more important than the words) out of my head fast enough for anything else to show up before deadline. So I borrowed it (with attribution), edited it, and played word-collage without taking a single word out of sequence or adding any words except clarifying grammar. Go me! The result is... Well, judge for yourself...)

The games boys play at this age often involve extreme masculine archetypes. The fact so many guys are suckered by this shows they don't really have a clue what a Real Man looks like -- though, somewhere deep down inside, they're pretty sure they don't qualify. They're easily cowed by men who actually fill the boots comfortably, [have] worn the full measure of male power and responsibility for some critical stretch of their lives.

Virility and Dad's sexual competence is the very heart of what makes him the alpha male. The physical attributes that make him a man are magical stuff -- and not only do [they] not have those attributes, [their] sense of time is such it's easy to fear [they] never will. The issue is uncomfortable deep mysterious power [their] life utterly depends on, yet simply cannot comprehend.

The howling men seem stuck in some early sexual stage -- a stage where manliness and sexuality are scary adult mysteries, the obsessive stuff of wild curiosity, rampant misunderstandings, crude jokes, dress-up play-acting, and bizarre fetishes. These guys have sexually scarcely moved beyond playing doctor-- scared kid[s] who still [haven't] come to terms with [their] own uncontrollable wet dreams.

Maori Haka

Standing in the distinction of howling men (boys, teenagers, protracted teenagers, and young adults) imitating adult virility and competence, most often not by distinguishing the actual competence of being a grown adult competent at seduction and sexual behavior with another consenting grown adult -- which likely as not may have absolutely nothing to do with sexual archetypes, our children imitate that which can be imitated, and of course as children do, they take it to the extreme -- they imitate the outer archetypal displays, AND MISTAKE THE MAP FOR THE TERRITORY.

The children then proceed to defend this misidentified territory as if it were the Church of the Sacred Gato herself with libidinous worship services proceeding in full public view on the altar during Mass.

(Come early for best viewing of the sacrifice of the Sacred Virgin. (Virgins sacrificed at noon and 7 pm Mass; to apply to be a virgin submit an application to Sacrificial Mass Virgins or Altar Boys in Kilts. Please include experience & photo.)

Once you realize these children in youngster's bodies, brimming with hormones, are simply imitating their misunderstanding of what they believe is the magic power their father has -- why their Dad has always been so scary, so smart, so big, so tough, so able to TAKE Mother and make her cry, laugh, and make that strange face no one else can, and those funny noises Mommy makes which these boy-child-men only think about in the remote recesses of their thoughts and hands, jacking off hard in their bedroom at night, feeling dirty for imaging their best friend's mother that way (and with rare exceptions, not tracking the source of it back to their own mom.) These kids need somehow to become their Dads.

"Who do you want to be when you grow up, little man?" The only true answers are, "My Daddy" or "My mommy". Or in this multi-generational distributed world, an authentically appropriate replacement; accept NO substitutes.

Until we have fulfilled our destiny as boys and become our fathers, we are not grown men. We are incomplete. A similar dynamic takes place between daughters and mothers, although theirs is not as driven by an incomplete understanding of sexuality, and a need to prove oneself in the same way the male dynamic is. The biological and historical triggers are radically different, thus the mother-child relationship is different.

With this background, now the displays of Republican and non-feminist men make sense.

About six hours ago I started to write this post. Frankly, it was because I needed to balance a silly something I knew almost immediately I wasn't going to post, the Japanese Girl Bikini Rodeo Fight. It was cute, but just too porny for GNB. Which if it has been 60 seconds, fine. But it runs for seven minutes. Seven minutes of these girls in bikinis bouncing on sex machines throwing whipped cream pies at each other.

No, it really didn't take a lot of restraint not to post it. But for a minute there before I figured out it was just porn with whipped cream in bikinis, I figured I'd need some men to balance it or I'd have our female contingent screaming for Man with Ham. Which we're never going to post, no actual Man with Ham, (the lame photoshopping alone fills me with dread). But I looooove putting up Intern George, men in kilts, and (oh yeah you betcha) starlets.

I went looking for some men in kilts on YouTube me to post up. And found the one below about Maroi Haka v. Kilts. Which led me into this whole quest to figure out what the hell Maroi Haka was. Which led me into SIX HOURS now, no, damn, it's been EIGHT hours I've been up all freaking night! Aaaaargh. Eight.Freaking.Hours, taking Sara's beautiful post apart -- first I had to find it -- piece by bit by piece, and then putting it back together just the way I wanted it. This is all your fault too. Or my fathers.

Anyway, what we have below is video of this really cool thing these guys do at Rugby games. They challenge the other team using a Maroi ritual dance, which gets their team and fans ALL riled up. It's pretty groovy. You've no doubt seen similar displays when American Football or soccer teams take the field. The ritual pounding of the chests as the teams come together, and so on.

After having read the above, and seeing it acted out below, you're never going to see what's going on the same way again. Or, I suspect, participate in one of these rituals with quite the same degree of blind enthusiasm. *smiles*

Some of these repeat, sort of, as I show different aspects of the ritual. Some is historical. And some is just fun. It continues to build. You won't want to miss the two last ones. *grins*

Enjoy.

Kamate avec les paroles


Haka


Behind The All Blacks Haka


Maori Haka Competition in New Zealand


Maori Haka v Kilts


Kamate kamate! (The Haka, Gingerbread Remix)

There's more...

The Mom Song

Yep.

This is how it is. For single dads too.

A bravissimo hat tip to Meta Watershed.

There's more...

Have Some Common Sense With That?

Girl, 4, Asked To Remove Hoodie

BBC News

A four-year-old girl was asked to take down the hood of her cardigan while visiting a seaside amusement arcade.

Karen Lewis's mother Cheryl, from Shrewsbury, said her daughter was upset following the incident at Les Harker's Amusements in Rhyl during a holiday.

She said Karen was with her granddad playing on the 2p machine when a worker made the request because of "security".

The arcade owner has defended the decision saying that his employee was only following instructions.

What was that last bit again?

The arcade owner has defended the decision saying that his employee was only following instructions.

One more time please.

The arcade owner has defended the decision saying that his employee was only following instructions.

I can hear my mother now...

"And if all the other children ran over the edge of a cliff, would you follow them?

Then get your self home on time for dinner and don't give me any lip, or I'll break this spoon on your be-hind. Now MOVE!"

Great Ovaries of Penelope, when will people learn to think for themselves?!

There's more...

We MUST Take Care Of Ourselves.

You might have noticed that I have been a little scarce lately. I haven't burned out, run away to join the Foreign Legion, or gotten sick.

Rather, a family member has taken ill. My mother-in-law to be precise. She took ill a couple of weeks ago, experiencing a TIA, falling and injuring her hip—not breaking it thankfully—but winding up in the hospital, where she was in rough shape for several days. She has since been transferred to a short-term nursing home for rehab for a few weeks until she can return home, until the nagging vertigo that stops her from walking on her own, ceases.

My absence was prompted by it being the run-up to school's return for the kids, and taking up the slack for my verrrry worried, and verrry frazzled wife with all the preparation. And all families have issues—especially during crisis times, and my wife's is no exception. They're stressing her out, so I've had to step up—doing more cooking, cleaning and tending to the tasks she'd normallly be doing. Her job is putting her through changes as well, this being an unfortunately busy time there.

So, I've had to operate as her proxy in many ways, including visiting her mom—my mother-in-law—during those times when she cannot break away from work.

And those visits have quite bluntly, laid me low.

The nursing home itself is quite nice. But it is a nursing home. And nursing homes...well...

There is the smell of the place. Of old skin. And sickness. Liniments and medicines, rubber gloves and tubing. Alcohol, urine and tears.

And there are the sights. Of wizened people sitting out front in the blinding sun, blinking at the light while struggling to move their wheelchairs to shade. There was the woman who was quite literally gray of skin, slumped in her wheelchair. Her chest seemed not to move. I watched her for a long minute, fearfully. And then, a loud truck rumbled past, and she slowly opened a rheumy eye and shrugged, signaling life—as it were.

Then in the building, there were worse sights. The people lying in beds with mouths gapped open, eyes ceiling-locked. The old man sitting in the dining room leaned against the window, quietly whimpering like a wounded dog. And the woman...the woman curled on the bed in a corner of the dining hall, contracted in a fetal ball and quivering, with knees to chin, as an attendant held a spoonful of pureéd something to her mouth, cajoling her to eat. She did not.

I've been there six times. Twice with my wife, and four times by myself. And it gnaws at me every time. Mom is fine. Getting better every day. But the place messes with her head. Sparks those thoughts of mortality, which echoes in her talk. She hates the place. You can hear it in her voice, the desperation. The anxiety. Again, the mortality.

Which messes with me, too. It's clichéd, but all I could hear as I slowly walked the halls there, was Roger Daltrey fairly screeching “Hope I die before I get old!”

And lately it seems, too many of us have.

My mind landed on Steve. And the late Jim Capozolla of Rittenhouse. And Lindsay of Majikthise's dad, the latter death which hit me very hard, because I met Lindsay at Steve's funeral, and was struck with how incredibly nice she is, and thought to myself that she must've had good parents. All of these people—gone in a month's span this summer.

I have issues with death. Especially premature death. I had a childhood friend die days after breaking his arm. During the re-set of the break, he was over-anesthetized, suffered brain damage and died shortly therafter.

He was nine. I was eight. Irrational as it may be, thoughts of death have upset me ever since that day.

Those visits to my mother-in-law, those thoughts of Steve, and Jim and Lindsay's dad, and my childhood friend have weighed on my mind heavily, and move me to say simply:

We must take care of ourselves.

That means you, the readers, and us the bloggers, and all of those we hold near and dear. In the end, fuck money, fuck prestige—fuck it all...all we have really, is our health.

I think of Steve often. Every day I post or read this blog. And I think of his health, and how it failed so spectacularly, with him so young. I think of myself a year and a half ago, when I was 45 lbs. heavier. Stress and a sedentary life had thickened me, and sickened me. My cholesterol was stratospheric. Steps tortured me. I suffered from sleep apnea, and my clothes didn't fit anymore.

I looked terrible.

And then one day, I shook the hand of a friend who volunteered at a place along with me. He held my hand for a long while, like he was somehow patching into me—reading me, and then said while looking me dead in my eyes, “You aren't healthy. I can feel it in your pulse. You know what you have to do. Take care of yourself. You're taking years off your life.”

I looked at him for a long while, wanting to say “Aaaah, you're crazy!” But as he gripped my hand, I knew he was right. I was doubly sensitized because at this place he and I worked, there was a “wall of the dead”, featuring memorial pictures of all the people who had worked there who had died over the recent years—a slew of them men, who are the age I am