Top Ten Categories of Facebook Posts

10 - The "actively forcing you to question why we were ever friends."
9 - The "humble brag."
8 - The "I was a comedian in a previous life."
7 - The "blatantly passive-aggressive."
6 - The "someone ask why I'm in the emergency room." (also see #7)
5 - The "cryptic message to someone but you all get to read it." (also see #7)
4 - The "thinning my friend list." (fine they're probably ALL also #7)
3 - The "you probably won't share this."
2 - The "picture of _____, taken in front of something I REALLY wanted you to see."
1 - The "words that take the place of actually doing something meaningful."

A couple of honorable mentions - the oft-times vomit-inducing "look at my feet," the "I'm sharing an IQ test only as an excuse to share MY score," the "look at my injury, no really, LOOK AT IT," and finally, the "I haven't mastered grammar." (which could overlay any of the above)

The Carbondale Enigma

I just discovered that a rare celestial confluence of events is about to happen at a spot on the earth not too far from me. I've dubbed this event The Carbondale Enigma.

To be technically correct, I guess I should call it The Cedar Lake Enigma, but Cedar Lake isn't a huge landmark. In fact, I had never heard of it until tonight, as I was clicking around on Google Earth.

(Honestly, I'm not even sure this discovery qualifies as an enigma, but if not, the word has an awfully high bar.)

A caveat, I am not sure I discovered this phenomenon, but as of now, I haven't seen it mentioned anywhere else. I often google my ideas and thoughts, to see if anyone else is thinking them, too. On this night, I found nothing.

I'll start my explanation by giving you an interesting fact: If you're sitting at any given spot on the globe - for instance, your house - and a total solar eclipse happens, the average wait time for the next one to cross your house is around 400 years. That's a brief tick of the Great Celestial Clock but it's a fairly long time in human terms. 

In fact, let's map it onto a human lifetime. You'd be born, complete school, get a job, get married, raise 2.1 kids, survive 1.5 divorces, max out the mileage on 12 vehicles, retire, reluctantly take up pottery and bingo (because of course you will), and die at around age 80. Repeat that five times, and that's about how long before the next total solar eclipse would happen at your house.

I'm a data fiend so I love that statistic, but I also love to play the spoiler, so of course I immediately set out to find the exception. That's how I stumbled across The Carbondale Enigma.

If you pan way out, the cosmos and everything in it can seem very well-ordered. Planets form and revolve around stars, those stars interact with other stars in galaxies, those galaxies rotate with surprising regularity, and are bound gravitationally to other galaxies in clusters. It all feels like a well-oiled machine.

But if you zoom in and give things a little scrutiny, you will notice imperfections. For instance, the moon revolves around the earth in an irregular ellipse, not a perfect circle. Its orbit deviates 5 degrees from the solar plane, so it looks a bit crooked. Earth's axis is slanted, not straight, and features something called the Chandler Wobble. Our planet's rotation is gradually slowing. And, with each revolution, the moon is slowly slipping away from the earth at a rate of a little over an inch a year.*

These imperfections, deviations from 'the norm,' don't seem like a big deal, but through the amplification of time and distance, things start looking way less ordered, and far more chaotic.

Due to these imperfections, it's likely there are places on Earth that have never experienced a perfect dead-on total eclipse. Conversely, there are other places that have probably gotten way more than their share. Pondering the second category is what sent me down the rabbit hole.

Just a few miles southwest of Carbondale, Illinois there's an unassuming, wooded spot on the bank of a body of water called Cedar Lake. If you're bold, the spot can be reached via a short hike from S. Poplar Camp Road. The less intrepid among us may prefer to rent a boat at the marina and reach it by water. However you get there, the crosshairs at 37°38'30"N 89°16'16"W are in the exact center of the path of the August 21, 2017 North American solar eclipse.

Not such a big deal - it's a bi-coastal eclipse with literally countless similar spots along its path. But as I was scouring maps of future eclipses, it occurred to me that same lakeside spot is also in the exact center of the path of another eclipse, set to occur on April 8, 2024. Only seven years later.

That may not seem like a big deal to you, but it's the equivalent of an acid trip for geeks like me. Seven years, not four hundred. Coincidence? Of course. It's a random artifact of a non-symmetrical universe. However, I'm the kind of person who appreciates such things. Maybe you are, too.

The majority of all humans who have lived on this planet have never witnessed a solar eclipse in person. I've heard it's a life-changing experience. The winds go calm, the temperature drops, shadows sharpen, and then, suddenly, the sky goes dark and the stars come out. Crickets start singing, and birds roost. In every direction, low along the horizon, a 'sunset' appears. Above, as the moon blocks a raging inferno, the wispy, feathery ring of our local star's corona dances silently.

Everything feels calm and peaceful.

Moments later, the moon continues along its path and a crescent of sunshine appears. The crickets go quiet, birds again take flight, and the world slowly returns to normal, as if nothing ever happened.

Except, as I understand, those who witness it are changed somehow.

On August 21, 2017, my family will travel to Jefferson City, Missouri, which is also in the center of the path of totality. There, we will experience this incredible event together with friends, minus our toddler son, who is too young to appreciate it.

But after discovering the Carbondale Enigma, part of me wants to change our plans and go to that spot along the bank of Cedar Lake. To take it all in from that unique place. Maybe to stack some stones as a sort of makeshift monument to the rarity of the experience and the special perspective.

And then, seven years later, on April 8, 2024, to return to watch it all happen again, and stack a few more stones, hoping that sometime in the distant future, someone will find my monument and understand.

*Fun fact: At some point, the earth will experience her final total eclipse. As the moon slips further away from the earth, it will eventually be too small in the sky to completely cover the sun. Beyond that time, all eclipses will be 'annular,' or 'ring of fire.' You still have time to plan, NASA estimates our final total eclipse to be around 600-million years in the future.

The Things We've Handed Down

Since the death of my parents, I've been on a mission to find my roots. This song by Marc Cohn has been a catalyst, lyrics dancing in the background like Trevor tugging on my shirt sleeve. I'd be hard pressed to find more poignant words to describe to my children who and why and how they are.
___________

Don't know much about you
Don't know who you are
We've been doing fine without you
But, we could only go so far
Don't know why you chose us
Were you watching from above
Is there someone there that knows us
Said we'd give you all our love

Will you laugh just like your mother
Will you sigh like your old man
Will some things skip a generation
Like I've heard they often can
Are you a poet or a dancer
A devil or a clown
Or a strange new combination of
The things we've handed down

I wonder who you'll look like
Will your hair fall down and curl
Will you be a mama's boy
Or daddy's little girl
Will you be a sad reminder
Of what's been lost along the way
Maybe you can help me find her
In the things you do and say

And these things that we have given you
They are not so easily found
But you can thank us later
For the things we've handed down

You may not always be so grateful
For the way that you were made
Some feature of your father's
That you'd gladly sell or trade
And one day you may look at us
And say that you were cursed
But over time that line has been
Extremely well rehearsed
By our fathers, and their fathers
In some old and distant town
From places no one here remembers
Come the things we've handed down

Uncle Ronnie

In 1974, my uncle, Ronald James Dickson (His stage name was Jim Dickson, but friends called him Jamie), was part of the cast of a TV documentary called "Primal Man." On March 13, 1974, the cast and film crew had finished shooting at Mammoth Mountain Resort near Bishop CA, and boarded a Sierra Pacific Airlines Convair 440 aircraft for the flight back to Burbank. Seven minutes later, without warning or signs of trouble, the aircraft slammed into the side of a nearby mountain, killing all passengers and crew.

This makeshift memorial, made from actual wreckage, is near the crash site, on top of the mountain, with the airport in the background. The crash is one of only three which remain unsolved in the forty-year history of the NTSB.

I was living with uncle Ronnie and aunt Laura near Hollywood CA when it happened. I remember waking on a rainy Thursday morning to the sound of her crying in the living room after having seen news of the crash on television.

Aunt Laura, if you Google yourself and see this, email me. I would love to see you and catch up.

The CliffsNotes version of my relationship with Barry Morris (an adventure in self-therapy)

A search of the phrase 'unconventional parental relationships' might return a link to this blog. I've always marveled at (and been envious of) healthy, normal, consistent familial relationships.

My father died this week. My mother passed two years ago, so Dad was my last direct mooring to this planet, and my last-best-hope to truly understanding why I'm here. The unconventional aspect of our relationship stems from the fact I met him for the first time at age 31. The past 20+ years have literally been an attempt to catch up.

Absent the day-to-day mental history most people co-author with their parents (as divergent from reality as they often are), I've managed to learn in bursts everything I know about my Dad and family. We exchanged letters at first, in which I described the first three decades of my life, and he gave me a peek into his world. He also described the circumstances which influenced decisions my parents made about their relationship and its fate.

I was heartened by the similarities in my parents' stories. Both admitted to playing a part, and accepted their roles in their relationship's demise.

Upon our first face-to-face meeting I witnessed the profound impact of genetics. As much stock as we place in the formative influence of environment, I am convinced more than ever our primary constitution is based on DNA. Facial expressions, body motions, stride, all were uncannily similar. If there was any reason to be suspicious of our genetic commonality, our matching smiles removed all doubt.

My new connection to Dad also came with bonus connections to other family members. I have a half-sister and step-brother, both of whom have children and families who are now part of my life. I have a great uncle who is quite an extraordinary and even historic figure, who has also been very kind and welcoming. Dad's wife, who had every right to treat me with skepticism, has done the opposite. I consider her a great blessing, and look forward to maintaining a relationship with her as long as she'll have me.

Unfortunately, the act of building a bridge to my father also served to build a wall between my mother and me. Her life was very difficult and the work of raising a child alone was often more than she could handle. She had a very tumultuous childhood which ill-prepared her for challenges ahead. She did the best she could and was lucky to have a father she could depend on for help. I spent about half of my childhood with my grandparents, who I credit greatly with my personal balance. (Many would say the word 'balance' is a gross mischaracterization.)

On the other hand, my father's life was more traditional and comfortable. He had the benefit of both parents, was involved with their family business, and had a healthy childhood and head start. My mother couldn't help feeling bitter about that. Despite my attempts to balance my attention, the more time I spent with Dad, the more she pulled away from me. When she died we hadn't spoken for several months. Needless to say, I was devastated.

My mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer a short time before her death. She made the decision that she lacked the will to fight the disease, and took her own life. She consulted no one, she allowed no attempts at dissuasion.

Dad had always considered suicide an act of cowardice and an affront to god, and when I told him of Mom's death he made no effort to conceal those feelings. Although he had softened his stance recently, his original reaction made a mark on me that would never fully heal.

Similar marks exist in every relationship. We had less of a foundation than most, but over time we managed to work through it. In the end, things were better. Over the past 20 years we had both invested much time and effort in building family bonds. Given another 20 years, who knows...

I do know this. I'm thankful for the family I inherited through meeting my father. I'm thankful for my wife's extraordinary family, which has become a loving and important part of my life. But yesterday I opened my phone and saw Dad on my 'frequent calls' list, and the thought of not having him, and those calls, made me feel profoundly lonely.

President-Elect Trump: The Complicit Press

For the purpose of this piece, I will allow the press this caveat: I think their slack-jawed acquiescence to position-driven journalism was propelled by the rise of a very unusual candidate. He said things nobody who hoped to grace the most powerful office on earth had ever said, about the very people he hoped to lead.

I have no idea how to even begin defending the press. In their zeal to focus on the (truly offensive) things this candidate has said, and in an admitted vacuum of an actual plan or position on many of the issues with which voters were concerned, the press tried to fulfill their quota of clicks, and provide

24-hour-a-day coverage, with conjecture, outrage, and their own vacuum of quality journalism.

I will cut them some slack because there aren't many outlets providing a budget for deep journalism. The kind of reporting we saw during Watergate was expensive, and today's business model for most newsrooms has changed greatly. Most truly motivated journalists today are forced to use their own time and money to chase a story. Been there, done that.

I also think the press rightly assigned a certain weight to a fact not in dispute: a US president has the unique position of being the sole arbiter of the most dangerous weaponry on the planet, a fraction of which could eliminate all life.

The landscape is different today in the news business. With lowered budgets and raised expectations, they aren't able to deliver the same journalistic integrity required of a diligent, responsible press. You might construe this as another feeble attempt at a defense. I watched hours of coverage featuring an anchor allowing a pundit to lie provably and extensively. It wouldn’t cost a dime for the anchor to drill deeper for the truth. Unfortunately the two are bedfellows, as the anchor needed the pundit to be back next hour, and the next day, and next week.

The press might also be somewhat forgiven if, in fact, they were determined to add a counterbalance to the criminal theft and release of one of the major campaign's planning and strategy emails. That seems to run counter to reality, as they aided and abetted that very act of international espionage by self-servingly propagating it, with no concern for fact-checking and no ability to validate authenticity. Hey, why not, it's news, right? Then came the alligator tears as they lamented a political system that had been hacked by a foreign government. Journalistic principles? None.

No doubt, Trump is his own worst enemy. He gave the press plenty of fodder for bad journalism. Garbage in, garbage out. Even the press’ portrayal of some sort of major groundswell is false, Trump’s popular vote count totaled barely 25% of the voting population, well short of Obama’s totals and nothing even close to the level required to condemn the entire United States as a nativist, racist country.

But I’m convinced the press’ obsession with Trump’s personal shortcomings, the failure to push him on real policy positions, and their abject failure to dig deeper into why Americans were willing to vote for him, caused those voters to be re-entrenched. They had reasons for their votes, but the press took the easy route and assigned simple labels instead of doing their job.

The Unbearable Smugness of the Press - from CBS News

Orlando

The social media meme of the day is in full force. Being respectful to the dead means you can't discuss preventing future mass killings. 'Thoughts and prayers' or quiet introspection are the only appropriate responses. Anything else is disrespectful.

Yes, it is comforting when we all come together for a moment, set aside our differences, and feel the camaraderie of shared pain. We post rainbows and hashtags. Sing Kumbaya. But don't you get a little tired of THIS kind of camaraderie?

So, how long shall we wait? What is the magic moment when it's OK to discuss curbing the slaughter of fellow humans? After the pain of the moment has faded? After Trump, Clinton, Wayne LaPierre and others have made political hay and further entrenched their followers?

The 'heat of the moment' is a poor time to make decisions, that's true. But is this really the heat of the moment? We've had plenty of time to collect evidence from the last 1,000 mass shootings, and still have not had meaningful discussions. Americans have very short memories.

Those who insist "this isn't the time" should carefully consider my question: When IS the time? Don't give me some generic schtick that intelligent people can see through, don't defend faith, don't defend guns, don't defend blind allegiance. Just tell me when we should begin.

Because we still haven't begun from the last time.

Mom

It's been over a year since my mother left the world on her own terms. I found a piece this morning, written by Rev. Safire Rose, and was very moved. I wanted to share it here so I can find it later, and in case it might help someone else cope or understand.

Dave Morris · She Let Go

She Let Go

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear.

She let go of the judgments.

She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.

She let go of the committee of indecision within her.

She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.

Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn’t ask anyone for advice.

She didn’t read a book on how to let go.

She didn’t search the scriptures.

She just let go.

She let go of all of the memories that held her back.

She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.

She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn’t promise to let go.

She didn’t journal about it.

She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.

She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.

She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.

She just let go.

She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.

She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.

She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.

She didn’t call the prayer line.

She didn’t utter one word.

She just let go.

No one was around when it happened.

There was no applause or congratulations.

No one thanked her or praised her.

No one noticed a thing.

Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort.

There was no struggle.

It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.

It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be.

A small smile came over her face.

A light breeze blew through her.

And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…

~ Rev. Safire Rose

Flurries

After an early morning flurry of activity, the kids are out the door to a summer camp.

Flurry is hardly appropriate. For my family, it's a squall. Some mornings, a raging storm or a high pressure dome. Yesterday was a level 3 typhoon. (It had a distinctly Asian, almost Samurai feel.) Almost never a flurry.

I am a gentle waker. I am the type who lingers in bed, and might be awake 10 minutes before I open my eyes. I'm usually awakened by a thought, or a dream's plot twist that seems a little too unlikely. These days, maybe a pain somewhere.

I like for the kids to sneak in and slip beneath the covers with my wife and me. In fact, that is the one thing I really want for Father's Day-an early morning, peaceful, easy kid nap. That's some of the best sleep.

I'd like a coffee bar in our bedroom. I can hardly accomplish a thing 'BC.' I've lived most of my life addicted to a substance, utterly incapable of productivity without it, yet haven't been carted off to a clinic. Isn't one debilitating addiction as harmful as the next? (I know, I know. No emails, please.)

My wife is an up-and-at-'em type. For wake up music, she likes jams, I like jazz. We compromise with something I call jamzz. (a weird mix ranging from Jay Z to Phoebe Snow) She's also a morning gym person. That's something I'll never understand. I mean, what the fuck? And, she does it all sans coffee. I find that abhorrent and reckless.

If every day started like this one, I'd be fine. The squall happened, but it ended and I'm on the deck with a cup of Mama Carmen's Guatamalan reason-to-live. Clients are nipping at my heels, so I'll head down to my recording studio in a few minutes. At the moment, a nice breeze is blowing, and if it weren't for the trash truck down the street, it would be completely peaceful.

That driver could probably use a kid nap and cup of coffee.

Have a catch

I watched the Cardinals‬ drop one to Cleveland yesterday and it was disappointing, but the Indians' Corey Kluber was throwing a no-hitter against us until the 8th. As much as I wanted the win, it was still a thrill to enjoy the pitching performance. That's baseball.

I love to "have a catch" with Grayson.

Laws or hoods: things you can hide behind

This kerfuffle over the Indiana Religious Freedom Restoration Act makes me wonder - why is religion a protected class? It's is clearly a choice, like Hawaiian shirts, or riding a llama to work. Here's the thing: I want my future Hawaiian shirt purchases to be tax free. And I want rules relaxed on where I can feed my llama. Why not?

Regarding this article, some states, such as Illinois, have added sexual orientation as a protected class, so the drum beat by Governor Pence that then-Senator Barack Obama supported the same law in Illinois is disingenuous.

Bibi got backing

Today, traitorous scalawags, drunk with power, diminished their own country in a grotesque breach of diplomatic norms.

Members of our own Congress invited a foreign leader to speak against our own President, and applauded him for doing it. Bibi Netanyahu, who apparently considers peaceful negotiations folly, and who is bent on war at our expense, was gifted the attention of our entire Legislative branch, his message delivered over a chorus of grotesque, congratulatory bleating.

That's not to disagree with his stance, nor even consider it. This was about a Congress of rednecks shooting their guns in the air. A power move designed to convey a message to the American people: we won't sit idly by while this President sullies the good name of 'Murika.

Mr. Netanyahu fell for it, hook, line and sinker. He made the best of the opportunity, and bullied the President over his negotiations with Iran. He pilloried our Middle East foreign policy, to a cacophony of hoots and hollers. He questioned the decisions of his most ardent ally, who finances a large percentage of his own defense budget.

What of his position on the prospects for peace in general, and talks with Iran specifically? To ascertain his record of gauging threats, we only need remember when his bellicose rhetoric helped seal the fates of thousands of young American men and women, and trillions of American dollars.

"If you take out Saddam, Saddam's regime, I guarantee you that it will have enormous positive reverberations on the region." ~ Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu urging the US to invade Iraq in 2002.

He wasn't the only one who got Iraq wrong. Still, he's being compared by some to Winston Churchill. I'd say to bear up to that comparison, he'd need to be right about at least one of the Hitlers he has manufactured. Do some wish harm on Israel? Certainly. Will remaining in a constant state of war with those entities build bridges? Certainly not.

That's beside the point. Diplomatic protocol was breached. The President, charged with developing and executing our foreign policy, was bypassed. It is a defining day when the hatred of one man can overpower centuries of tradition and precedent. But John Boehner managed.

Baseball

If there is anything that comes close to bringing an atheist into the 'flock', it's baseball.

First, let's agree that it's a game of physics. If you're looking for a way to teach physics to a kid, use baseball. It's a game of millimeters. With a pretty small bat and that tiny ball, the slightest adjustment of aim results in a vast change in elevation. The smallest adjustment of force makes the difference between the ball finding the glove of the shortstop, or the bleachers in the outfield.

Two people come to mind who can vouch for that tiny margin of error: Neil Armstrong and Clayton Kershaw.

Today, as the Los Angeles Dodgers fly home, the victims of what from the outside seems like the 'team of destiny' St. Louis Cardinals, they are undoubtedly overlooking those physical laws. They are more likely thinking of a superstar named Puig, and the biggest meltdown of his career. They are considering the inability of Cy Young winner Clayton Kershaw to fool men named Matt. The befuddled Dodgers are thinking of goats, curses, and gods.

They fail to consider that the air was still warm when Matt Adams came to bat - a ball carries further in warm air than cool. They are not thinking about the trajectory of the bat, or the exact position of the pitch, or the force of the swing. They are thinking that Matt Adams has Kershaw's number, or that Kershaw is somehow vexed by Busch Stadium. Maybe there is some kind of seventh inning curse, a point at which it becomes impossible to rein in the Cardinals. Maybe they think the Cardinals, with the fewest homers in the National League, was due to somehow right a cosmic imbalance.

Surely that's all wrong, because there's no circumventing natural law. The Los Angeles Dodgers lost plain and simple, because of physics. Right?

Maybe. There is a compelling argument that most Cardinals fans (the most hated in baseball) understand well. It goes something like this: When September rolls around, in the House that Stan Built, laws of physics take a back seat to things like heart, hope, teamwork, and destiny. That men like Big City can swing bats in a special way and move the ball with more than just physics. That a strange bond extends between players, lending support... unseen and mysterious.

Fans of the Cardinals know that on cold nights far away from home, before an unfriendly crowd, with backs against the wall, down to a final out, even a final strike, and against all known laws of physics, something more is afoot. Something that pushes the ball a little farther and deeper than physics would dictate. It's almost as if a piece of Curt Flood, Stan Musial, Ozzie Smith, "Mad Dash" Slaughter, Dizzy Dean, Bob Gibson and others become transplanted into whatever ragtag hero stands at the plate.

The Cardinals have had plenty of failures, but in the most unlikely of circumstances, and against the greatest of odds, they've surprised, shocked, and silenced their most ardent critics. They have rendered speechless the Brewers faithful, fans of the Cubs, and haters who are just gonna hate. They dig deep and find a way. One might think it's more than physics. It's soul.

Another set of natural rules that gets tossed aside this time of year - mathematics. Sometimes 235 million dollars in payroll means nothing. Baseball's post-season stage is the great equalizer, where players like David Freese, Clayton Kershaw, David Eckstein, Albert Pujols, Kolten Wong, Adrian Gonzales, and pick-any-KC-Royal, stand on even ground. Where a soul, a spirit, and an attitude surpass any and all monetary advantage.

Natural laws are real, there's no debate. But, on one warm night at Busch Stadium, with Big City's mighty swing of the bat, maybe the temperature didn't matter. Maybe the bat's trajectory wasn't so important. Maybe grit won out over gravity. Intuition beat inertia. Spirit overcame substance.

Maybe that inch beyond the wall was as good as a mile. It's enough to make you wonder.

Michael Brown, Military Police, and Politics

When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.

It only took a few hours for the shooting in Ferguson to become a political football, to those who tend to make everything political. After all, Michael Brown, a black man, was killed by Darren Wilson, a white cop. To some, cops are always right, and since he's a white, male cop, he must be Republican. The dead man was black, so obviously he was in the wrong, and of course, a Democrat.

To others, all cops tend to distrust black people. Michael Brown was black, minding his own business, not hurting anyone, an easy target. Clearly the opportunity officer Wilson had been waiting for.

Apparently the facts of the case are clear. Stop the investigation and man the torpedoes!

America's most disgusting new trend is on display here, the politicization of everything. The root of this metaphorical weed is the media. Having taken a scorched earth approach to their own industry, they are now looking for a way - any way - to gain back listeners and viewers. They utilize a cheap method that requires no effort at all: shouting and finger pointing. If you can pit people against each other, all that's left is to fan the flames and feign disgust with the results. You know who you are. You are to blame.

A local television station broadcast video of officer Wilson's home. Whoever made that decision should be fired immediately. The broadcast media has a responsibility to the public, and they've completely forgotten that. The public owns the channel on which they broadcast, and upholding community standards trumps the few extra dollars they may earn for their stockholders.

This case really breaks down into two questions: Was the death of Michael Brown necessary? And, was the military-like reaction of the police reasonable and necessary? In simple terms, there is nothing political about these questions. They are questions we should all be asking, whether Democrat or Republican, NPR or commercial radio consumer, Fox or MSNBC viewer.

This is not about the President, and not about a political party. This is about a dead man and a police officer, so we can put away the political bullshit. We can put away predetermined notions about average black people, or average police officers.

Are there deeper questions that eventually need to be asked? Of course. Will there be political implications? Yep. As a society, we should always question authority. We should always self-analyze. When the dust settles, lessons should always be learned. Do we have the facts of this case yet? No. Has the dust settled? It has not.

In the end, police officers are charged with one duty: protecting citizens. That includes Michael Brown, a citizen, and those around Mr. Brown. Decisions are sometimes made in a split second. Those decisions can sometimes be wrong. Nobody is perfect. Officer Wilson and Mr. Brown are both human.

Was Michael Brown's death avoidable? It's not a political question, it's a question about a life. Nothing else matters here. Life is the only real thing of value that we own. The rest is window dressing.

So for everyone's sake, stop the name calling, stop the finger pointing, stop the politics. Let's figure out what happened.

--------

Interesting background/perspective on the militarization of the police.

A perspective about black neighborhoods.

Background on the Michael Brown case.

The state of our political conversation

I can't help but think this guy knows what he's protecting and/or excluding in his position. He's being paid by the very entities who help to perpetuate the world's current economic state. I'm a bit disappointed that Mr. Moyers didn't ask about proposals beyond earned income tax credits. He mentioned several times that he had multiple ideas, I would have liked to hear them. But let's not forget that some companies are paying a living wage and still producing record profits, which flies in the face of his position that employers like Wal Mart can't make a profit and pay a living wage. That is preposterous and has been debunked myriad times.

In a perfect world, a reasonable mind understands that the government is us, and government regulation simply reflects a marketplace The People choose. Government is necessary because the desire of the desperately poor to buy the cheapest product (many times to their own demise, a la Wal Mart and other self-absorbed criminals) will trump doing the right thing almost every time.

Notice I said "in a perfect world", because in its current state, the government has become an inefficient, corrupt entity, beholden to those who fund re-election campaigns, and who can afford to grease palms in return for face time. It's evident in the lack of response to the financial meltdown of 2008. Reform has been lukewarm. The rules have changed some, but not enough to prevent greed from toppling the market again and again. Bailouts were offered with no strings attached. Common sense has taken its leave in the Capital, and the everyman is too busy worrying about his next meal to pay attention or understand.

So that is where we are. The right hates government because it traditionally places limits on rampant greed in favor of the good of The Many. The left hates government because it is failing in those duties right now, and to expect representatives to vote themselves less power, money, or influence, is like asking Albert Pujols to get base hits instead of home runs. Home runs are fun and fire up the fans, but base hits win the game.

We're fucked.

Disgrace.

The value of a life

"May 20th marks the one-year anniversary of the Moore, OK tornado, which killed 7 children in a school building with no storm shelter. But that's OK, we can't afford storm shelters because we insist on paying the lowest tax rate among industrialized nations, and billionaires get away with paying 15% on most of their income (cap gains). Besides, those parents can just have replacement children." - Today's America

How they blew how I met your mother

I've heard a veritable cornucopia of reasons viewers were offended by the series finale of How I Met Your Mother. The mother didn't get enough screen time to get to know her. The last season drug out too long. If you were a regular viewer, you have an opinion. Some thought it was perfect. I did not.

But I was offended by something entirely different that most people overlooked. Throughout the series, the story was narrated by Bob Saget, because they felt he had a voice that would sound a lot like Ted-of-the-future. Good call, no problem, it makes perfect sense. Most voices change as they age, and there's no way to get around that.

So when the final scene arrived, and it was Ted talking directly to his kids in the same room, it wasn't Bob Saget's voice, it was Josh Radnor's. WTH?

Bullshit! I mean, c'mon. The entire life of the show, Ted has been this slightly huskier, older-sounding guy, telling his kids the story of meeting their mother. Now, at the end, they couldn't think of a way to bring it all together? This is nine years of my life here. I needed something different. Dub the voice. Wear a mask. Something.

I'm not happy. As a voice over guy, I'm just pissed, and there's nothing you can say to make it better. Oh, what's that? Modern Family is coming on soon? Never mind, later gators.

Letterman, Colbert, and Col-BEAR

The Letterman era will soon come to a close, and nobody loved that period of late night brilliance
as much as me.

In the 1980's, I recorded Letterman's show every night, then dubbed the sweetest material onto a 'best of' tape I would later use, as needed, for inspiration. There was nobody like Letterman. He was fresh, edgy, and irreverent. People loved him, people hated him, and most didn't understand that those emotions are pretty much the same. Letterman elicited passion from his audience.

For those of us who love the Letterman of the 80's and 90's, the Late Show with David Letterman is kind of sad to watch today. After 32 years, and at age 67, I'm sure Dave is tapped for ideas and getting tired, but most of his interviews show it. He has had some amazing moments, but you don't see them as often today. He's doing the right thing. Late night television is transitioning to a fresh, young crop of entertainers, and Dave isn't motivated to compete with "the Jimmies", Seth and Conan.

But what a run. I'm sure Dave never thought he'd be as legendary as Johnny Carson, but he is. The Letterman era managed to move the goal posts. It will be difficult to beat, but that's the good part, nobody has to. Like Johnny Carson, nobody will fill the shoes of Letterman. It simply cannot be done.

Stephen Colbert will move into Mr. Letterman's Ed Sullivan Theater (I assume), and will bring a new dynamic to the show. It would be tempting to maintain his right-wing character persona, since his audience has become comfortable with it, but we must remember who Colbert really is. He's not the Bill O'Reilly wanna-be he portrays on The Colbert Report. (He refers to O'Reilly as "Papa Bear".) It's a shtick, a caricature of itself. Colbert is a real guy, a fantastic talent, an incredibly creative comedian, and a very good interviewer. His show will need to follow a more traditional late-night formula, and to me, that's precisely why it doesn't have to end.

As Carson did with Carnac, and as Jimmy Fallon does with thank you notes, Colbert can keep his persona alive. On Late Show with Stephen Colbert, he can do The Colbert Report as its own segment. His monologue, interviews, other bits and performances can follow the more formulaic talk show modus operandi. But the Colbert Report needn't be lost. It can remain as funny and relevant as ever within its new format.

See? No need to fret. Colbert can still be Col-BEAR and do the re-PORE. You're welcome. Now come in from the ledge.

The Waffle Matrix?

Let me preface this by saying I've never made waffles using Krusteaz. By virtue of the name, I trusted that it would be, you know, eaz-y. In hindsight, my mistake may have been changing the recipe. Instead of 'just adding water', I added milk. I can only assume that was the cause of the explosion.

As I poured the milky batter into the waffle iron, I was careful to fill all of the gaps. You know, the gaps that, when unfilled, cause the final product to be misshapen instead of square. I once ended up with a waffle shaped like Hitler, but that's a story for another time.

As I poured, I noticed that the batter was rising quickly, so I hastened my efforts and snapped the iron closed. Immediately, the batter began oozing out of the sides, which wasn't troubling at all, considering it happens every time I make waffles. The sheer volume of batter-ooze was my only hint that something could be awry. Unshaken and unsuspecting, I returned my attention to the bacon, which was nearing the perfect crispiness. It's a crying shame to allow bacon to overcook.

About 2 minutes later, when 'it' happened, the sound was unique, and it was more surprising than loud. Nobody was looking directly at the waffle iron when it went off. Following the 'boom', we heard the sound of a ricocheting plastic latch-turned-projectile, and an odd sounding thud. It all happened so quickly, none of the witnesses - my wife, daughter, son, Cooper the Dog and me - were able to tell which direction things were flying. As we turned to face the waffle iron, this is what we saw:

The latch, under immense pressure, had given way, and the appliance had blown open. One of the waffles had been violently expelled (the 'thud'), and the lid was hyper-extended. The remaining waffles were smoking like Kirsty Alley's Mini Cooper.

But here's the troubling part. At the time of this writing, our hunt for the missing waffle remains fruitless.

The breakfast pastry is, for lack of a better word, gone. It's not under the table, on the counter, above the cabinets, or on top of the fridge. It's not on the floor. It's not in anything. It's not stuck to the wall somewhere. For all intents and purposes, it has completely disappeared.

Perhaps the waffle is now with the socks. Maybe it shot through a time vortex and now exists sometime in the future. I suppose it could have burst into individual molecules, which are now floating about the house, propelled by ceiling fans. Or, maybe it is now feeding the passengers on flight MH370, the Malaysian Airlines jet that mysteriously disappeared into thin air recently.

Other things we can't find include the blown latch, and anything on the Internet that says milk is combustible, except this one article.

The good news is, we can toss the waffle iron, instead of going through the trouble of washing it. So there's that. Maybe the cleaning lady will find the waffle when she comes Tuesday. Until then, the story is that, on this date, in this house, a perfectly aimed breakfast appliance exploded, at the same moment a waffle-sized slit formed in the fabric of the universe.

I hope whoever is on the other side has syrup.