Thoughts, as Star Wars strikes back...

And so today at long last, Star Wars: The Force Awakens gets released amidst a raging electrical storm of hype that, from a merchandising standpoint, has reached sort of a ridiculously fevered pitch. When I was a kid, it was mostly toys that got marketed alongside the movies, items geared almost exclusively toward children - action figures, puzzles, the odd lunch box. I had a pair of Darth Vader Underoos once (no, really...), and I seem to recall a breakfast cereal hitting store shelves just ahead of 1983's Return of the Jedi.  They were called C-3PO's.

They were disgusting.

But these days, adults are in on the action. Fiat and Nissan are both sponsors of the movie. I've seen Star Wars mascara, a Star Wars toaster, Star Wars spice rack, measuring cup set, high heel shoes, purses, key chains, bottle openers, bed linens and laptop sleeves. There is an R2-D2 tea pot available, a Death Star waffle iron, a Chewbacca tote bag, and something being sold at Wal-Mart that looks like an adult-sized Yoda Snuggie.

Clearly, there have been no holds barred in the merchandising arena, when it comes to this much anticipated Episode VII.

As I write this, news and social media outlets are ablaze with the chatter that has been slowly building ever since it was announced that George Lucas had sold the Star Wars universe to Disney, and local theaters are already seeing lines form. It's attack of the "super fans", the people who camp out early, dress up like their favorite characters, the ones willing to stand in an endless line for hours on end, a line leading only to the unbearably loud and cramped conditions of a fully packed movie theater, just to be able to say they were the first to see it.

No thank you. I'm a fan for sure, can't deny I've been anticipating this release like so many others. One of my earliest memories is going to see A New Hope (back when it was just called Star Wars) at the movie theater with my dad and older brother. I was four years old, and it was pouring rain, and the event led to a childhood pretty much immersed in a galaxy far, far away, then having the joy of revisiting a deeper, more expansive, more richly textured galaxy with my son years later.

But I'm waiting until January to see The Force Awakens, when the crowds have thinned out and the hype has died down. If, in that time, I stumble across an on-line spoiler (and given some of the rumors that have been floating around in the lead-up, I just might), then so be it.

And it goes without saying (er, at least I hope it does!) that I won't be dressing up. I've never been a fan of dressing up for anything, even Halloween, even as a kid. I'm certainly not about to pretend I'm a Sith Lord in public (or private). And anyway, because of the sick state of the world today, most theaters are banning movie-goers from wearing masks, so the question immediately becomes: what's the point?  

Without the mask, it's just someone in a dark robe holding a plastic light saber, and nobody wants to look at that, or, I'd venture, sit next to that person inside the theater.

When you really think about it, the Star Wars franchise is something beyond belief. In the last 40 years, it has grown steadily, surviving first a 16-year drought with no movies and virtually no new content at all, and then some serious backlash from a disappointed public when The Phantom Menace was released in 1999. This was followed by an only slightly less indignant response to 2002's Attack of the Clones.  2005's Revenge of the Sith smoothed ruffled feathers a little, but on balance, fans were left with a bad taste in their mouth from all three prequels, and yet the popularity of the franchise has only grown. It might be said that video game merchandising during this time, that is, the constant recruitment of new fans among the young (some stellar games were released: Shadows of the Empire, Battlefront, Jedi Outcast, Knights of the Old Republic among them...), went a long toward keeping Star Wars fresh.

Now, director J.J. Abrams has a chance to reinvigorate the entire machine, essentially by doing what he did with the Star Trek movies, or what Christopher Nolan did to Batman: leave the architecture of the story alone, but undergo a complete interior makeover.

That's what's everyone's saying, at least. But truth be told, I wasn't all that disappointed by the Star Wars prequels. I think the only difference between the old movies and the new movies is the acting. For example: Carrie Fisher is spunky and dynamic as Princess Leia, whereas Natalie Portman is a total dud as Padme. Mark Hamill's reaction when he learns that Darth Vader is his father is over-the-top, but he delivers the heaping helping of anguish convincingly, whereas similar shit fits thrown by Hayden Christensen in an effort to foreshadow his becoming Darth Vader just make you want to smack the sulky look off his face.

Other than that, the first six movies are all exactly the same, in my opinion.  Same wooden dialogue, same clutzy scene changes, same patchwork of plot lines (I've never been at all convinced that Lucas had these stories mapped out in the early 1970s...), same annoying alien creatures. Fans and critics savaged Jar Jar Binks, but come on, were the Ewoks any less vomit inducing?

I think that when the first prequel came out, we were different, as a society. By 1999, we were expecting much, much more than people could have imagined in 1977. Those poor prequels were almost destined to not live up to the hype, destined to be hated, not just by the type of people who show up early and stand in line dressed as Darth Vader, but by casual movie-goers as well.

Hopefully that will not be the case now. Going by what Abrams was able to do with the Star Trek movies, I'm thinking it won't be. I'm thinking Episode VII will live up to the hype.

And suddenly I'm thinking I won't (can't) wait until January.

But I'm still not dressing up.

Those Darth Vader Underoos don't fit me anymore, anyway...;)

Jon Stewart

"The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls!" 

Soon-to-be-former Daily Show host Jon Stewart said this to Tucker Carlson and Paul Begala while making an appearance on Crossfire, during an increasingly heated discussion about the role television news plays in shaping - as opposed to reporting - what's going on in the world, the difference between what they do, and what Stewart does (or did, for sixteen years, until tonight...). Stewart was positioning himself behind the protective banner of 'fake news', and calling out the folks at "shows with names like Crossfire, and Hardball, and I'm Gonna Kick Your Ass..." for perpetuating division and contention in the American political narrative, rather than discussion and cooperation.

"Why do you argue...?" he asked them tiredly, seemingly rhetorically, and yet it was not at all rhetorical, really...rather, an indictment.

Carlson, from the right, didn't much care for Stewart's sanctimony.  Begala, from the left, was naturally more sympathetic, but Stewart was indicting them both as members of a news organization. They were CNN, he charged, not Comedy Central. They weren't supposed to be doing what he was doing, or coming across - inadvertently or otherwise - as though they were doing what he was doing: not contributing to the political dialogue of the times so much as making a mockery of it, or destroying it, through endless (and all-too-often carefully contrived) polarization.

That was in 2004, during the George W Bush v John Kerry campaign, an especially emotional election season on account of the Iraq war. Since then, all media in our midst has only gotten more ubiquitous and ridiculous, and The Daily Show has upped its game in response. Under Stewart's command, and surely with some very talented writers and 'correspondents' at his disposal, it has become much more than just 'fake news', more much than mere political satire. It has positioned itself as a critical watchdog, not only of politicians, but more importantly, the Fourth Estate, television news in particular.

And never mind what some say, Stewart has actually been remarkably fair in his watch-dogging over the years, in spite of the liberal bias he's never attempted to hide. He's called out Fox News and MSNBC alike, for their handling of everything from natural and man-made disaster to the alleged 'war on Christmas'; from the embedding of reporters in places they don't need to be to their attempts to stretch a story beyond what's necessary or logical; from their attempts to roust pre-hysteria from the depths of our psyche over stories that aren't newsworthy yet (like 'Hurricane Watch!' being enacted the minute the poot from a great white shark off the western coast of Africa causes a low pressure system to develop...), to their seeming need to turn everything - everything - into a left/right issue, as though American society no longer identifies itself in any way other than red state or blue state.

And maybe that's true; but if so, is television news reflecting this, or causing it?

And within the political arena, Jon Stewart has been equally consistent. Keith Olbermann and Glenn Beck alike have fallen into his cross hairs. Sean Hannity surely, but Hillary Clinton, too, and Nancy Pelosi. He was relentless in his lampooning of George W Bush, but has called out Barack Obama more than once. He mentioned this the other night as a matter of fact, defending his recent trip to the White House, but any regular viewer of the show already knows it. Yes, Jon Stewart is liberal; but he's nothing if not sensible, which is why he's buddied up to Bill O'Reilly, the 'skinny kid at fat camp' Stewart's called him (regarding the Fox News conservative bias), and for that matter why O'Reilly buddied up to him.

During his long tenure at the helm of the well-textured (to borrow a line from Stewart's predecessor, Craig Kilborn), Daily Show, Stewart has brilliantly woven humor with pathos, managing to make the uneasy society we live in - this strange porous borderland between opulent arrogance and apocalyptic self-loathing - somehow funny, and he's regularly preached - sometimes begged for - temperance in the language and the behavior of our news media.  His 2010 Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear (with fake adversary Stephen Colbert) was funny and entertaining and star-studded, but the purpose of the event, the very wording of the title, should never be forgotten: Restore Sanity. Whatever your views, it's harder and harder to stay reasonable, to stay level-headed, to stay sane, and this is because there is too much news media, too much bombardment, too many sound bites flung at us as though fired out of an M-16...from the left, from the right, from the fringe...forever threatening to cause our political narrative - our 'narrative' of any kind - to dissolve into an indiscernible and ineffectual pool of hot liquid rhetoric. Resisting it has been - I believe - Stewart's consistent, on-going narrative for a long time, and I think it - more than anything else - should be considered his legacy.

Of course, five years since the Rally to Restore Sanity... the message has for the most part been forgotten. On this last day of his 16-year run, those on the right are dismissing Stewart's departure or ignoring it all together, those on the left are lamenting it, smiling approvingly, cobbling together love letter-style send-offs, broadcasting 'funniest moments' compilation, of which there are many.

Groovy. Stewart deserves it. But it's clear that neither side has gotten the point. The television news blitzkrieg rages on, funnier, more entertaining and star-studded than ever, forced to generate sensationalism, misinformation and completely biased infotainment in industrial quantities just to fill pockets of dead air and satisfy advertisers in the monstrous 24-hour news cycle they created, and are now beholden to.

When the sun rises tomorrow morning, there will no longer be anyone asking that simple but potent question of this circus: Why do you argue?  Reasonable people across the country - the middle of the roaders, the new silent majority - should be gravely concerned about the void created by Stewart's departure, and pray that the new Daily Show host, or someone, somewhere, attempts to fill it.

On feeling impossible in my own skin (food allergies nothing to be taken lightly...)

I knew something wasn't right the moment the object was placed in my mouth.

It was a food item (at least...), I just didn't know what. I tasted chocolate, and that was somewhat reassuring. But it was more bitter than I was accustomed to, definitely not the chocolate I unwrapped at movie theaters, or even the type I sold door to door for school fundraisers. This was 'grownup' chocolate, almost tasted unsweetened, and had a rough, grooved texture that just running my tongue over (that is, before actually chewing) didn't feel right. It became clear that this chocolate was hiding something. Possibly something sinister.

Right away, there was a tingling in my mouth, like an alarm going off...although 'tingling' is not really accurate. 'Tingling' suggests something pleasant. A sour candy might make your mouth tingle, or the mere anticipation of a certain flavor, a certain food, something you really love to eat and can't wait to have. This sensation had nothing to do with taste; it was less a tingle, more of a trill, a tuneless vibration, like something an insect might do to ward off predators or attract a mate with which to engage in the most disgusting copulation imaginable (the kind that usually culminates in the male's head being bitten off).

"I don' thing I shu' be eaden thith..." I muttered aloud, after biting down and confirming beyond a doubt that something bad lay beneath the (allegedly) chocolate coating. Reluctant to swallow, I held the woody bolus in a precautionary cue at the top of my throat, and it was impeding my speech significantly.

"Oh these are wonderful," my den mother assured me. "I loved these at holiday time when I was a little girl."

I swallowed. It wasn't easy. The skin inside my mouth was beginning to crawl as though there were insects in it. Putting this thing in motion down my throat was like shoving the last of my belongings into a closet and closing the door really fast to keep it all from spilling back out. The insect-like trill followed the object all the way down my ten-year-old gullet, painting the inside walls of my esophagus with the sickness. My throat began to clench. My lungs joined the rebellion, airways closing up.

Within two minutes, I was in my den mother's bathroom off the kitchen dry heaving, my face the color (and shape) of an eggplant, veins bulging, sweat pouring, barely able to breathe, racked by...not pain, but an almost indescribably acute discomfort that quickly spread throughout my entire body.

It was December 1982. My den mother was hosting a Christmas party for our Cub Scout pack. She had a nice home, and it was dressed to the nines for the Yuletide season. Outside snow was falling, inside Christmas lights were twinkling, music playing. We had done a gift exchange (my 'secret Santa' gave me a pack of marshmallow jack-o-lanterns, left over from Halloween), sung some carols (Bat Man smells...), learned a little about Hanukkah (though with my mixed heritage, I just might have been the closest thing to a Jew most of them would ever encounter), then played some games. The culmination of the game-playing, and the evening, was a (sorta weird...?) game where she blindfolded us, placed a small piece of food in our mouth, and by taste and smell alone asked us to identify it.

It all went perfectly fine at first. I remember a piece of banana being placed in my mouth, a slice of apple, a wedge of pepperoni...a peppermint. Perhaps the game was not weird so much as lame, not much of a challenge, an activity better suited for pre-schoolers still trying to wrap their minds around their burgeoning senses than 10-year-old boys, all of whom possessed wits sophisticated enough at least to obtain their Wolf badge. But we all played along, competed to be the first to blurt out what had been placed on our tongues. Smooth sailing, until I constricted my mouth around that mysterious object, bit down, then against my better judgment swallowed.

She had innocently fed me a chocolate covered pecan, which was - and is - on the short list of nuts that could (and can) kill me.

Actually, the more I think about it, the odder that game seems. Well meaning and innocent on her part, to be sure, but ill-advised. It would seem that in these overly litigious times, any den mother who played such a game with her Cubs and wound up with one of them retching violently in her bathroom could find herself on the receiving end of strenuous legal action, but nothing came of the incident thirty years ago. When the allergic reaction finally ceased, I sat alone at her dining room table, groaning and smacking my lips and hoping the sickness didn't return, until my dad came and picked me up.

To be honest, I really should have known better than to swallow. The insect-like trill in my mouth was nothing new. But I was blindfolded and disoriented, and impelled by the game's competition. My only recourse would have been to spit it out, but that would have been an indiscreet (and gross) rejection of my den mother's cherished holiday memory.

As a child, I was acutely allergic to tree nuts of all varieties, and I still am. To this day, there are three biggies I must avoid: walnuts, pecans and almonds. Walnuts especially. Just the sight of those brains in a half shell causes an adverse reaction in my mind, and even someone eating them around me can get the anaphylactic gears grinding. When I was a kid, I encountered them most often at birthday parties and special events, thoughtlessly (greedily) scarfing down cookies or brownies, only to be left running to the bathroom when I felt that tell-tale 'lump in my throat'...always within thirty seconds of consumption.

As an adult, I've found they lurk in odd and unexpected places, like sauces and hot dishes seasoned a certain way. One time, in my mid-20s, a store-bought 'Cajun'-flavored barbecue sauce made me sick, and from then on, I've always read ingredient labels thoroughly before proceeding. Another time, a restaurant flavored its chili with walnuts (only slightly more perverse than what they do to chili in Cincinnati), and said nothing about it in the menu. Within one minute of having consumed just a spoonful, I was outside the restaurant, behind my car in the parking lot, bent forward, hands on my knees, puking violently. Violently. And loudly.

Words can't adequately describe what a food allergy reaction is like. Imagine your whole body feeling nauseous, not just your stomach, a kind of concentrated discomfort. And yet the word 'nausea' also falls short, because it suggests mere sickness - a tummy ache that will pass in time, or be alleviated by vomiting.

Vomiting isn't going to help. Reacting to a perceived threat, your body shoots to DEFCON 1 in an instant, and you feel impossible in your own skin. I'd give anything to be actually puking up something in moments like that - some assurance that I'm being cleansed of the offending material, that there's a reason for all this to be happening. And even if something does come up, the vomiting continues, like a child throwing a tantrum for not getting any attention. The whole of my skin feels like its puckering and unpuckering. Breathing becomes difficult...for a while unnervingly so.

Interestingly, I can eat peanuts. Love me some peanuts, as a matter of fact. The reason for this is that peanuts are not true nuts, they are legumes. I'm glad I don't have a peanut allergy. It seems to be the most virulent of all food allergies. Happily, I can't say I've ever had a reaction where my life has been in peril. Never needed a hospital visit, or felt the need to carry an epinephrine pen. But if I consumed enough walnuts or pecans, and didn't get help fast enough, I think I'd meet my end. And I don't think 'enough' to kill me would be all that much, given how severe my reaction to just a little is.

The vigilance I've kept on account of my food allergy sometimes makes me self-conscious. I prefer to fly under the radar in just about any situation, I don't want to be singled out; I don't want to special order at restaurants, or worse, have people special plan dinners or potluck around me...and yet, I have to. To be safe, I have to...at least in some measure.

But in this day and age, when it's not out of the realm of possibility for lawsuits to fire off at the drop of a hat, some restaurants are crazy vigilant. I made the mistake of mentioning my allergy at Coldstone Creamery once. I didn't make a big deal about it, just asked (nicely, and discreetly) if they could make sure to completely wipe down the board (the trademark 'cold stone' on which their product is prepared...) before preparing my sundae on it, just to ensure any and all remnants (however minuscule) of the walnut extravaganza the customer before me (may have) ordered was completely removed.

The kid behind the counter went ballistic. Suddenly he was preparing my order in a separate container, in a separate part of the kitchen, away from the cold stone all together. I appreciated his vigilance, I suppose...but on account of it, I was handed a Peanut Butter Cup Perfection I could have drank through a straw.

Generally, I believe we are all just a little too quick to feel victimized in this society, and that the threat of lawsuit around every corner has made us all a bit paranoid. And yet, being- in this case - on the side of 'victimhood', I'm inclined to make sure everyone knows that food allergy is a real thing: an uncontrollable reaction can occur, and turn deadly pretty quickly. Not everyone knows this, or believes it, even those who should. To this day, my dad (God bless him) is surprised to learn I never outgrew what he thinks was merely a childhood aversion to nuts the way I outgrew my childhood aversion to vegetables. That can be dangerous thinking. If someone has a reaction, never assume everything is all right, or that it will pass. That reaction can kill.

At the very least, it can make the victim wish it would kill.

Donald Trump

If I cared about politics the way I used to (and trust me, I don't...), my reaction to Donald Trump's entrance into the Republican presidential field might be quite different. Twenty years ago, I'd have heralded his ability to make deals, get things done, as a much-needed change of pace in Washington, and probably viewed his big mouth and ignorant remarks as refreshing candor.

I was more conservative then, and may have viewed Trump as the best way to beat Bill Clinton. But I've evolved politically, over time. Make no mistake, in general I've always heartily believed in the middle of the road, will say to anyone whose attention I can grab for twenty seconds (Rachel Maddow and Ted Nugent alike...) that the best of liberal and conservative thinking conspire to form the average American, and I see evidence every single day that I'm not alone in this thinking. But back then, yes, it's true: I was just to the right of center.  These days, middle age has found me just to the left of center.

Doesn't it usually go the other way? Doesn't time kick our asses a little, causing us to become cynical, less idealistic, less accepting (and desirous) of change? For me, the opposite's been true.

In any case, that Donald Trump is conservative doesn't bother me, as such. As conservatives go, he's on the liberal side, at least socially, would seem to be primarily a fiscal conservative. At the very least, he's not as strident and uncompromising as some on the right; likely because he knows being totally rigid doesn't lead anywhere good, knows nothing if not the art of the deal. (I do acknowledge, however, that being a white, heterosexual male might blind me from where Trump stands on social issues..).

But there's something about all this Trump noise that bothers me. Something about Trump that bothers me. All his movie cameos over the years, hobnobbing with celebs, skirting the periphery of entertainment as a blue-suited hanger-on, his wealth and privilege enabling him to amass an extensive collection of  photos with actors and athletes to display on his office wall, makes it difficult to take him seriously, at least as leader of the free world. Then there's his past involvement in WWE wrestling, and of course, The Apprentice....which made him a bonafide celebrity. I've never watched The Apprentice. You know why? Because I don't like the catchphrase.  I don't think there's anything funny, or entertaining, about the words You're fired, no matter how they're said, and have always been surprised, in this age of corporate scandal, that viewers took to it the way they did.

True, Ronald Reagan was a former actor, a 'celeb' of sorts who went on to become nothing less than the conservative Dalai Lama. But say what you will about his policies, Reagan entered politics, first as governor of California, then the presidential field (at about the same age as Trump), in a dignified manner. He was, from the beginning, 'presidential', and all that that implies (or should...). Trump is no Reagan. He's entered the arena as a side show clown alienating people with what, again, we're all supposed to consider candor.  But calling people names, throwing around words like 'pig', 'loser' and 'disgusting', getting into feuds with everyone from Bill Maher to Mark Cuban to Barbara Walters to Rosie O'Donnell, is not candor, instead smacks of a distasteful immaturity (which Trump is way too old for), and dismissing John McCain's status as a war hero because 'he was captured' is just plain asinine, demonstrating an acute lack of awareness - of everyone around him, and himself.

His recent remarks about Mexican immigrants were equally as ridiculous. I don't think he's racist or hateful; he just strikes me as kind of a dolt, possessing no clue as to how or why what he says will affect people, and seemingly unable to wrap his head around the fact that the further his words travel now that he's an official candidate, the more intensely they're going to be scrutinized.

And lest anyone forget what I believe to be the most damning component of his history (as in, 'really The Donald?...Seriously...?'): in 2011 he was big into the 'birther' movement, calling out President Obama's citizenship, and refusing to let it go, even with overwhelmng evidence that the whole thing was horse manure.

And as to his 'getting things done', the notion that his success in business might somehow be applied to his term(s) in the White House...meh, he still falls short in my mind. I do not view Donald Trump as a Rockefeller, or Carnegie....no Jobs or Gates or even Zuckerberg, for that matter. He didn't innovate; there was no grand thinking, no sublime conceptualizing lighting the path to his success. He was the son of a successful real estate mogul; he was born into money and had that money to work with, or at least the privilege that money brought (and bought), from the beginning. Whether he successfully parlayed that into something much greater (and it surely can be argued that he did), he hasn't strayed too far from his father's foot prints, and didn't build something out of nothing. Donald Trump likes people who weren't captured? I like people who are truly self-made.

Rich or poor, conservative or not-so-much, self-made or otherwise, it's obvious to me Donald Trump the man lacks the nuance necessary for the job. And this speaks not at all to his knowledge (or lack) of world affairs, and America's place in those affairs. He seems to have a very black-and-white worldview, which isn't necessarily a bad thing in some cases, but can be disastrous in others if left unchecked. I'd really like to see someone (besides Bill O'Reilly) interview him, and grill him on certain points of the complex geo-political landscape. The Republican debates should be revealing...entertaining, at least.

To be perfectly honest, I don't doubt Trump has the nation's best interest at heart.  I'm just not convinced he knows quite what that best interest is. And the situation America is in currently is too precarious, too precipitous, to be okay with a clown show merely because it's entertaining.

Baltimore burns, and once again the television news media reveals itself to be more a part of the problem than the solution

Like many Americans, I watched with dismay what went on in Baltimore over the weekend. But as dismaying as it was, as much difficulty as I had trying to reconcile my support of cops and the difficult job they do with the undeniable fact that their relationship with the black community (and all communities, really) needs some serious attention, as averse as I am to any kind of violence and unrest (even that which I get to watch from the comfort of my living room a thousand miles away), I think I found the news media's coverage of the whole mess the most dismaying of all.

The worst of it was not even Monday night, when things came unglued. Tuesday was much worse, I think. In the hours leading up to Baltimore's imposed 10 p.m. curfew, as cops held a line against protesters at a particular intersection, the way the television media lurked around waiting for the curfew to arrive, and also, it seemed, for something to happen, was borderline disgraceful.

The problem was not that they were covering the story. Obviously the story needs to be covered. In fact, that's an understatement. What happened to Freddie Gray - exactly what happened - needs to be divulged, and the obvious anger over his death and more importantly the circumstances in which his short life played out, need to be recognized. That's not to say I condone what happened in Baltimore. I don't. And I think the viral video of the mother slapping her riotous 16-year-old son upside the head should not be considered amusing, but instead an inspiration - reassurance in an uneasy time that common sense and restraint are still out there.




Her name is Toya Graham, and she deserves a Parent of the Year award...no joke. A national round of applause, please...!!

But there is a root cause to the trouble in Baltimore that lies deeper than Freddie Gray. Unrest like this doesn't happen on its own. It's almost never a single flash point, but rather the result of something that's been building, and allowed to sit around, for a while. It's kind of like old cans of paint and soiled rags sharing space on the basement floor next to the furnace. Just because another day goes by without a fire doesn't mean combustion is not a distinct possibility at some point in the future if something is not done to change the situation.

So Tuesday night, it made perfect sense that America would be watching, and that it should be watching. There is a subtext of race relations - and police relations - at play here that reaches the lives of all Americans, clear out to the furthest rural regions, to that lonely intersection out on the edge of some tiny little town, that sees a car pass maybe once every half hour. It's critical that the people out there understand what's going on in Baltimore, and what went on in Ferguson last year, and Cincinnati in 2001 and Los Angeles in '92, and Watts in '65...and Baltimore in '68.  And perhaps start wondering why it keeps happening, periodically, in the same way, for largely the same reason, 50 years on.

By that reckoning, TV media needed to be in Baltimore, telling the story. They did NOT, however, need to be in the middle of it, as though they were part of it. As though every newscaster present was suddenly a Baltimore resident or native, with a personal stake in what was going down. They did not need to be so embedded that protesters were disrupting their broadcasts, cops were asking them to get out of the way, and city officials (Baltimore council people, etc...ACTUAL Baltimore residents...) were telling them, on camera, that their presence was agitating the crowd as much as the cops were.

They didn't need to be directly on the street, coughing from what they thought was tear gas (but turned out to be smoke bombs), moving with the crowd, trying to interview people who were in no mind set - no mood - to be interviewed.  Fox News was the absolute worst.  Geraldo Rivera was jammed right in there, right in the middle of the crowd (with Sean Hannity back in the studio, sickeningly UNABLE to keep from turning the whole thing into a liberal/conservative debate, because that's all he knows how to do...:-/...), shouldering his way through the torqued up masses, confronting people, directing his camera man to go here or there. And wherever the cameraman turned, his bright, glaring camera light swept across another agitated face in the tense Baltimore night. It was exploitative and utterly pointless, did not contribute anything to the dialogue.

Those are the moments when there's no doubt that what television news does in this day and age rarely contributes to any dialogue about anything, but instead mostly gets in the way...

Gets in the way, and often gets it wrong, in its never-ending quest to help sell as many cars, cases of beer and bags of tortilla chips as possible, which lamentably has become its primary charge in the last twenty years.

Thoughts on the Final Four, and college hoops, and what I tried to pass off as 'hoops' in middle school

I played competitive basketball (such as it was...) for just over a month when I was in sixth grade. I've always loved shooting...there's really no better way to spend a morning (one of the greatest moments of my young life was helping my dad install a net above our garage), and I gotta say, I'm pretty accurate from downtown, to this day.

Unfortunately, I possess not even close to the level of coordination required to excel at the sport, and this was evidenced throughout those six weeks back in middle school by the way I plodded down the court, managing to hold onto the ball only because I was the tallest kid on the team (positioned at center, usually...), and keeping myself viable only because I made the shot (usually).

Problem was, in between making that shot, I traveled, and double dribbled, and stumbled and fumbled, turning over way too often. There were physical fundamentals to the game my clutzy self simply could not capture. Any under-the-leg or behind-the-back voodoo on my part (discouraged by the coach but practiced by most of us whenever we thought we might get away with it) invariably resulted in losing the ball, and once, maybe twice, accidentally kicking it out of bounds. And then one night, we were scheduled to play during half time at a high school game, a pretty big deal for 11-year-old boys. I had the misfortune of forgetting my sneakers, and had to play the ten minute exhibition in fucking winter boots, in front of a crowd of what probably amounted to 200, but to me seemed like 20,000. That was some serious plodding, like Frankenstein, big rubber-soled shit kickers scuffing up the hardwood (looking back, I'm surprised I was allowed to play) and putting a hefty strain on my shins. I took heat from my teammates for a long time after.

They called me Bootsky.

It was clear the success I'd had playing Little League baseball would not translate to basketball. Best to keep my hoops strictly recreational, I decided.

I've been following March Madness more closely than usual this year. I'm an Iowa fan, on account of an experience I had nearly 20 years ago, visiting a buddy in Des Moines during a successful Iowa season. He was an alumni, and for the few days I was there, I got swept up in it all - hanging out, watching the game...the wings, the beer, those flash point moments of excitement when games come down to the final seconds...those were nice memories, and for that reason I developed a devotion to the Hawkeyes that's lasted.

I'm also a Wisconsin fan, however...and this is definitely the year to be a Wisconsin fan. Iowa was vanquished early, but Wisconsin is now in the Final Four for the second year in a row. They'll have their hands full with Kentucky, but it could easily happen. They are a seamless team, I think...and they are more than worthy of taking the National Championship, getting to it at least, which would be fantastic, since that hasn't happened in 74 years.

My buddy back in the day said something I've never forgotten. He said he'd rather watch college hoops than the NBA, really any college sport over the pros, because these kids play just for titles and glory, not money and fame, and that fact enhances the experience of watching.

I'd say it also enhances the experience of playing. Most college players will not go on to the NBA or WNBA; their basketball career, which probably started in middle school, or before, will end when their college days do. That's a solid decade, or more, of intense dedication to practice, to the forging of talent into craft - to, literally, eating, drinking and sleeping the sport - that gets abruptly and jarringly terminated by the final buzzer in that final game their senior year.

I imagine that's tough to take: what was once their lifeblood suddenly becomes just another pastime, strictly recreational, for fun...never again to feel any closer to meaningful competition than the intramural league at the local Y. Some individuals might go on to coach (but like the pros, it's safe to say most won't), and many are likely to take an interest in fostering their children's careers one day. And that's great; that's how you keep the spirit alive. But when that final buzzer in that final game comes and goes, and the stands clear out for the last time, I'd bet it starts feeling really quiet, really quick, and the game, in whatever manner they embrace it in the future, never again carries the same urgency.

That means every victory, whether it's just beating a conference rival during regular season, surviving Selection Sunday, or making it to the Sweet 16, Elite 8, Final Four, or the Championship itself, is of the utmost importance.

But also, for the seniors anyway, a little bittersweet.