Jersey Girl Goes Home

For the first time in my life, I spent this last Thanksgiving with a stranger.

She was an old lady who, if I may be candid, was out of her mind.

Mostly she kept to herself (or was trapped inside herself), puttering and dithering about, nattering incoherently in lieu of engaging conversation head-on, behavior that almost seemed to pair with the pale sunlight of the day, complement the tiresome routine of a holiday get-together, rather than the special joy. Every once in a while, her confusion ignited into hostility, suggesting, at times, a desire to lash out physically, which just might have been possible, were she not so frail, so not a threat to anyone or anything, anymore.

The day wore on.  Macy's marched past. Detroit defeated Minnesota. Cowboys over the Redskins.

Sometimes the expression on her face would broadcast in no uncertain terms her mood, her state of mind, tapping into that unique way much younger women have of expressing displeasure, or disapproval, and erasing 60 years from her face in an instant: a sharp "As if...?" crinkling of her nose, a glottal huff accompanied by a "You can't be serious..." roll of her eyes, a long sigh of impatience, or indignation, each had a way of transforming her back into the 20-year-old girl she once was, long ago.

Not unlike girls I'd dated when I was that age, in fact. Back then, such behavior was a cue I best not miss and dare not ignore, revealing or signifying a desire, a need, for something to happen, something to change...maybe for a "better Jared" to appear and take care of things, or at least pay attention, sit up straight, prove that he's actually heard what has just been said to him.

But this was not a woman I was dating and expected to answer to (nor, for my part, am I the shiftless, selfish putz I was at 20). This was my mother on this last Thanksgiving, and her huffs, eyes rolls and protracted sighs were not responses to some gaffe or insensitivity on my part. They were not sly or acerbic, emblematic of the fairer/smarter sex in any way...nothing I could charm my way out of by throwing a little boyish levity into the mix. They were completely unwarranted...flashing pulses of anger, annoyance or frustration coming from someone, somewhere unknown, overwhelming the all-too-brief glimpses of my actual mother, the kind, gentle soul who'd raised me in a matter that might best be described as fair and balanced.

It was not only on Thanksgiving that these outbursts happened. They'd been going on all through the year (adding a glossy finish to what's universally regarded as the shittiest year in recent memory), and the year before that as well, becoming more frequent and pronounced as dementia slowly squeezed the life and light out of her, keeping her confused, unaware, unable, and eventually unwilling, in spite of herself. The "outbursts" were her attempts to fight back, I (choose to) think, to hang on...little battalions of frustration rising up in an effort to assert herself against the ruthlessly unconcerned personality of her disease.

So it was really nothing new, but this last Thanksgiving was a milestone nonetheless. It turned out to be the day I've been thinking about for a while - the day my mother no longer recognized me.

It always played out much more dramatically in my mind.  I look like my mother, inherited her fair complexion, freckles and nose...but I really look like her father; he's the progenitor of my countenance, for better or worse. And as I always imagined, I would one day walk into the room, my mother would look up with a bright but utterly confused smile, and chirp, "Hi Daddy!", and I would know that we'd turned a corner from which there would be no turning back. 

There is drama connected to that notion, but also humor...just a little bit of humor. You always need to laugh, or accept that something can be laughed about.  But there was neither drama nor humor present when the awful moment arrived (because life isn't a movie, or a chapter in a novel): as I helped her to the bathroom, my arm linked in hers, carefully watching that she not stumble, waiting patiently as each step brought a newly furbished need to reclaim her balance, she said, in a mildly blank voice, "I'm really sorry...who are you?"

"Jared, Mom...I'm Jared," I replied, italicizing my name for emphasis as tenderly (and calmly) as I could. For this carefully measured response, I received no recognition, no realization, no light flickering on.  Just, "Ohh, okay...hello."

I was right about one thing: in that moment, I knew we had turned a corner. Her disease had progressed to a new point, would require a new game plan, a new level of game play, in the new year.

But my mother would not make it to the new year. Exactly two weeks after that last Thanksgiving, she passed away. All the lights out. Power shut off.  Game over.

Death has been skulking around the last few years (a close friend of mine, another close friend's mother, my dad's best friend, my dad's sister, all since 2014), but until now, never struck a direct hit, never managed to catch an immediate family member in the face. The very flavor of the grief is different when it hits close to home. You'd think it would be more potent, but for me anyway, it isn't. I've cried, surely, mostly in those vulnerable late night hours trying to sleep, but I'm not wrecked. Mostly, I'm philosophical. My mother was 82, afforded a nice fair share of life, and had been ill for a while. Not physically ill so much as mentally, but either way, that fact makes her death as much a release - relief - as a tragedy.  Everyone in my family feels the same, even my father, who was married to the woman for 51 years, and whose sense of loss must be profound, to a depth one can't really imagine unless (until) it happens to them.

And for most of us, half of us at least, it will happen eventually.

What's most upsetting now is the aftermath. A pall has fallen over all of us, a little bit for remembering the past, but also anticipating the future: my father's solitude, the seismic shift in family dynamic, the relevance sucked out of every personal item my mother once called her own, the attendant grim task we now face of deciding what stays and what goes from a house that now is even more "too big" for my dad to be "rattling around in".

There is also the heart-breaking realization that my mother never had a chance to spend her final years in her beloved New Jersey, where she grew up, which she wanted probably more than anything. And for that matter, the unsettling acknowledgement of a new disease lurking in our family's bloodline. I got my mother's complexion and freckles...will I also one day be puttering around, forgetting every second of my life a second later and trying to fight the gathering darkness by lashing out at loved ones through fleeting portals of lucidity that collapse and wink out as suddenly as they appear?

Worst of all, I have to live with that last Thanksgiving being the final memory I have of her, a kind of dark swan song to a dark, difficult year. I cooked a duck, a new take (for me) on the waterfowl tradition of the Thanksgiving kitchen. Got to say, it was delicious, but there was little in the way of appreciation from my mother. She ate, smiled a little, said it was good, but was only partially there, partially aware that it was a duck she was eating, not a turkey. And the few lucid moments the fates allowed her were guaranteed to be forgotten.

When it's Dory in "Finding Nemo", forgetfulness is cute, not so in real life. It's an abomination, a motherfucking outrage, really. They say you have to cherish the little moments, gather your memories while you may and what not, and my mom did that throughout her life. She had lots of photos, kept them organized, in chronological order, and there were all sorts of totems from days past on display around the house, but none of it wound up mattering in the least. In an agonizingly slow grind to ground level, my mother was not only robbed of making new memories in her final years, but left unable to enjoy the old ones she'd spent her life "gathering". That sucks out loud.

I now find myself working backwards through time, from about 2012 (when signs of her disease were first upgraded from noticeable to concerning) all the way back to the first glimmers of daylight in my own consciousness, when my mother was fully there, fully aware...as close to that fussy 20-year-old girl as I could ever know her to be...and her lap was the high tower from which I surveyed my world, a world of bright morning sunlight, macrame pot holders and zucchini bread, AM radio, 8-tracks and PBS captured on rabbit ear antenna, with the theme song to The Bob Newhart Show, or the music of The Carpenters, playing softly in the background. Bleaching out the sick joke that was the last four years (culminating, more or less, on Thanksgiving), I need to remember the woman who raised me, and my brother, and helped raise my son, and my step-son, as she actually was --

The woman who gave me life also introduced me to death - literally - by explaining once when I was very young (among my earliest recollections) that the skeleton we were hanging up, a Halloween party decoration that had caught my young eye, was a person who had died.

My mother was great like that. A gentle soul, who wasn't afraid of frank talk, open discussion about anything. I would not have wanted her any other way. She read the childhood classics to me, like any good parent - "Clifford the Big Red Dog", "The Cat in the Hat", "Green Eggs and Ham", "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish", "James and the Giant Peach", "Websters Beginning Book of Facts"...okay, maybe not a classic, but a marvelous children's encyclopedia nevertheless. She wore that book's pages out, actually, reading whatever chapter I requested ("Dinosaurs" was my favorite, and "Time", which starts out with the heady line, "The sun was probably the world's first 'clock'...")...sometimes over and over. Sometimes past my bedtime. I still have the book. I read it to my sons when they were little, and one day maybe they'll read it to their children.

But she also sat down with me and read, "Where Did I Come From?" by Peter Mayle, the innovative (for its day...very "Seventies") sex-ed book for children. And then, with neither awkwardness nor righteousness nor secretiveness, answered every single question I had. I had a lot of them, and although I was young, I remember that she did not blench once, and that made a difference in a million incalculable, but profound, ways.

FAMILY TRADITION - "Webster's Beginning Book of Facts"...my mother read it to me, I read it to my sons, and one day maybe they'll read it to their children...lushly illustrated and pretty well written, it's an ideal 'first step' into the world.

The woman who gave me life and introduced me to death, and the birds and the bees, also introduced me to spirituality. She was Catholic, devout if not always practicing, and one afternoon, at the end of a week in summer during which our family cat had mysteriously disappeared without a trace, she consoled her distraught youngest son by suggesting we pray for the animal's return. We sat at the dining room table in silence for just a few moments. I followed her lead by closing my eyes and assuming a posture as close to "repose" as I could muster at seven, and begged God to bring my cat home.

And damned if Samantha didn't emerge from the woods across the road that very afternoon. No joke, no gilding the lily for dramatic effect, that cat returned from wherever she had been the last week within a few hours of our prayer session. I'm not saying God had anything to do with it, necessarily, but even if it was only a coincidence, it was a coincidence brokered by my mother.

The woman who gave her fruit salad and fruit pizza to two generations of neighborhood kids.

She was the hardest working person I have ever known...a machine really, the main bread winner in our house on account of a compulsive work ethic. My mother stayed busy, typing medical records at the hospital for eight hours, sometimes ten, never refusing an overtime opportunity, then bringing work home, typing late into the night. My dad worked too, but my mom worked so much, so continuously, it was my dad who did the household stuff, the cooking, the laundry, the dishes. I didn't think there was anything unusual about this growing up, and there wasn't. It was the kind of natural role reversal that can enrich, edify, sharpen and widen a child's worldview.

My mother oddly could be the "good cop" parent or the "bad cop" parent, depending on her mood and the nature of my infraction. But no matter what I did, and however harsh the punishment (and this was true of my father as well), I never felt unloved by her.

She was the woman who laughed completely, from the gut, when she thought something was funny. "Major League" and "Sister Act" were her two favorite movies, "Frasier" her favorite TV show, but she found humor in everyday life too. She wrote down funny things her children and grandchildren said, and for years tolerated a house full of boys (then men) brimming with off-color remarks, while handily holding her own against their unending stream of over-the-top opinions about everything under the sun, which at our small family gatherings sometimes reached a feverish pitch, and I'm sure got (can get) pretty annoying.

She was the woman who was never satisfied, meaning always thinking about something better. Wanting something better, and believing it was possible. She maintained the right attitude about what needed to get done, and when, and who was going to do it. In that vein, she encouraged my dreams, however fanciful (ridiculous), but at the same time was not overprotective, nor afraid to be honest with me. Her "frank talk" lasted well into my adulthood, and more than once involved some entirely warranted form of, "Jared, quit bitching and whining and do what needs to get done!"

Her favorite album was Chicago 17...not too surprising for a woman in her fifties who was a voracious reader of romance novels (swooning to "You're the Inspiration" and "Hard Habit to Break")...but she also bought a David Lee Roth cassette back then..."Crazy From the Heat", I think, which I thought was embarrassing as a kid, but now see as pretty amazing.  My mother wanted to stay youthful, in mind if not body, and this led her to having an open mind for just about everything. Some twenty years later, she would totally weird out my son when he stopped by their house and discovered her watching Eminem perform on television.

And this same woman went to see Brooks and Dunn perform live, dragged my dad along for this. He has no love for country music, and as I recall, referred to them as "The Brooks and Dunn". But he went with her, dutiful husband, and she scooted her boots, or pushed her tush, or something...in her mid sixties.

She never, never turned curmudgeonly, even in old age, until dementia yanked that youthful spirit clear out from under her and made off into the woods across the road, leaving her no choice but to head off into those woods to get it back, and never returning. (No matter how much I prayed.)

She was the woman who accepted my children - even when they came early in life, unexpectedly, and even if they weren't mine. There was no weird favoritism on her part. She was "Buma" to both my sons, lavishing them equally with toys and treats as they grew. Yes, that's how it should be in a mixed family, but sadly isn't always.

And yes, in many ways, she was the wellspring from which all other women in my life have flowed, and was welcoming and kind to all of them through the years (NOT like Ray Barone's mother on "Everybody Loves Raymond"...another of her favorites...😊).

As much as anything, she was a reliable one half of a solid parental set I could not have custom-ordered any better.

Back to Irvington you go, Mom, at long last.  Back to Irvington, just as you left it, and as you were.

Donald Trump is not only unqualified to be president, but an embarrassment to locker room banter everywhere

I admit it. I objectify women.

I like women, too. I respect them as the more perceptive, detail-oriented, and all around smarter of the sexes. And I have absolutely no problem with a woman in charge - of my department, or my country. I don't see any reason why a woman can't be a cop, or play contact sports, or drive a semi and get a tattoo of an anchor on her arm, if she so chooses. I don't blink twice at the woman who puts her career first, or doesn't want to get married, perhaps doesn't want to have children, or the woman who throws up in her mouth a little at the thought of wearing fuzzy mittens and Ugg boots. Nor do I think - or expect - all women should be petite. There are different shades of beauty, different ways to be sexy, for all of us, and it is really no woman on Earth's job to be beautiful or sexy if she doesn't want to.

These "truths" - that women should be able to do whatever they want in life and not be subjected to a) unfair scrutiny, b) less pay, c) less appreciation, or d) double standards that heap the onus of physical beauty on them pretty much from the moment the umbilical cord's cut - are self-evident. I never feel a need to speak them; I just assume everyone's on the same page.

I like Hillary Clinton. I think she'd make a fine president, all things considered. Untrustworthy? Maybe. But all politicians are untrustworthy to some extent. Insincere?  Again, maybe. But they certainly are all insincere. I think Hillary just isn't any good at putting on a show, not like her husband was, at least. And having nothing to do with her looks one way or another, it can't be denied that she's an awkward woman, with her fire engine red pants suits, smiling way too hard - wide eyed, almost maniacal looking - as she enthusiastically shucks both fists at her supporters.

But she's qualified to hold the office, with a long political history and deep knowledge of what's going on in the world, and more importantly, America's role in it. Just as Barack Obama isn't a secret Muslim, or a Hitler/Stalin chimera trying to force all Americans to memorize the Quran...(or Kenyan-born, for that matter)...so too Hillary is not a green-blooded liberal boogey monster looking to strip Americans of all their rights. LIKE her husband, she's too politically expedient for that. And she's also hawkish enough, in my opinion, to keep us safe. Maybe more hawkish than some of her supporters would like her to be.

But back to my point: as a red-blooded, heterosexual male, yes, I objectify women. If I'm standing on a street corner, and a physically beautiful woman walks past, I will look. Not leer, not think nasty thoughts, not believe there's only one thing she's good for, but look, and appreciate her for the lovely thing she is, to me, in that moment. It's with a certain reverence, an authentic appreciation for - sincerely - God's handiwork, that I objectify. And to be perfectly honest, it's the same with a good looking man. Beautiful people, in general, are hard to ignore.

Does anyone really disagree with that?

Treating this perfectly human impulse as though it is an automatic sign of predatory intent, or creepiness, or dirtiness, flows from the fetid headwaters of political correctness, and I will never capitulate to that noise. I fully believe appreciating someone's beauty, recognizing sexual desire as inherently normal, and at the same time respecting all people for the complex, capable, full-of-potential human beings they are, is an entirely reconcilable task.

Donald Trump proved this weekend that not everyone's so hot at that reconciliation, though, or even thinks that way. But all the Republicans now distancing themselves from his latest outbreak of "foot-in-mouth" disease have no reason, really no right, to be acting shocked. Nothing about the comments he made to Billy Bush for "Access Hollywood" a decade ago - only brought to light on Friday - are that out of line with countless other things he's said just since announcing his candidacy for president in Summer 2015. They're a little sharper than his public comments, a little more like, whoa..., because, it is said, he didn't realize his mic was on and recording at the time (which, in fairness, really should be a separate discussion).  But they still reveal the reality that has bloomed slowly but steadily over the last year: whatever else he is - business tycoon, great father, etc. - Trump may be all those things, but he is simply not presidential. He can't be a standard bearer, a representative of all of us, the great tapestry that is American society.  He doesn't have it in him. All he represents, all he can wrap his head around, is one demographic, and that's rich, white and powerful.

I don't begrudge him this at all. I'm white, and I would love to be rich and powerful as well (oh, would that it were...). But his privileged, successful life has left him with a myopic view of the world, which disqualifies him, in my opinion.

And having no political experience whatsoever doesn't help; it just means he can't even represent the best of politics, and would likely be helpless inside the Beltway trying to work with Congress. Newsflash: Donald Trump is NOT Ronald Reagan. He's just not. Whatever you thought of his politics, policies or philosophies, Reagan was a statesman, and had political experience enough by the time he ran for president in 1980 to know what to say and when to say it, and more importantly, what not to say, and when NOT to say it. My guess is he was also a gentleman.

I could be wrong about that, though.

And to be clear, my aversion to Donald Trump has nothing to do with liberal or conservative.  I'm one of those much sought-after "swing" voters. I have some staunchly conservative views, and I also have my own set of green-blooded liberal views. Once again, I feel I've been able to strike a nice balance in my life...although as time goes on, I'm left increasingly disillusioned with our increasingly polarized political system.

But the reason I can't vote for Trump, the reason I must vote for Hillary (and I assure you, that would NEVER have happened twenty years ago), is not only because Gary Johnson can't name any foreign leaders and doesn't know what Aleppo is, but because Donald Trump is not a conservative, he's not even a politician. He's just an entertainer, even more so, I'd say, than he is a business tycoon. Over the last fifteen/twenty years, he has become a drum majorette in the freak show cavalcade that has defined American "entertainment". His entire candidacy, I suspect, has been just another reality show. And if he loses the election, don't count out the possibility of a show premiering next fall that documents his entire campaign, a la "Keeping Up With the Kardashians".

I could be wrong about that, though.

And I'm not at all convinced he's entirely into the idea of being president. I do wonder sometimes, when he does or says something that directly impacts his own campaign negatively (and leaves everyone thinking, what the hell's the matter with him?), if he ran for president, got all his good, salt-of-the-Earth supporters (I did not like "basket of deplorables" either...) believing he is some kind of outsider poised to shake up the "Washington machine", merely to see if he could do it.

Well, he did it. Mission accomplished. His supporters definitely believe...and they've stuck with him. They're not budging.

But the point is, of course he's going to brag to Billy Bush about all the women he can get being a celebrity. He IS a celebrity! He's not a presidential-caliber politician! And mark my words, this is only the beginning of flashy, wholly unqualified, and/or sometimes woefully ignorant celebrities throwing their hats in the political ring. I don't mean after their careers have started to wane and they've transitioned into older, more mature adults looking at their lives and the world around them in a different way. I'm talking about when they're still celebrities, still feeling entitled to all the world, and thinking, why the fuck not? It's another feather in my cap. Being president would be fun! Being president would be cool!

That's what I wonder might have been the impetus for Trump's campaign: a mere lark, a new challenge. Can he do it? Can he pull it off? (And how cool would that be...???)  And as to his comments to Billy Bush, while they are certainly denigrating to women, I don't think he meant them in terms of sexual assault. I think he was just bragging about what a "player" his celebrity status allows him to be. And his clumsy, awkward choice of words doesn't make him look predatory, it actually makes him look pathetic, the opposite of a player.  Seriously: "you can grab their pussy?"...are you kidding me? Removing the shock value of that for a moment, just regarding it logically...am I the only one that thinks it reveals something else about Donald Trump? Like: the dude better have money, because he certainly doesn't have any game.

Trump apologized, calling it, "locker room banter", but that itself reveals a glaring ignorance. It's not really locker room banter at all. Normal guys don't talk like that. They talk about women surely, talk about sex in terms of conquests (at least more often than they might talk about it in terms of love), they objectify left and right, and yes, sometimes crudely. But there are things you say when you're with guys and things you don't say, and furthermore, there are ways you don't say the things you say...(wait, isn't that from a George Michael song....??).

Bottom line: any group of normal, everyday guys, who are over the age of, say, twelve, and are actively engaged in a conversation where the words, "you can grab their pussy" are being uttered, probably have never been allowed to "grab" anything.

I get that's not what people are outraged about. I just think it's significant; suggests the private Donald Trump might in fact be antithetical to the glistening brand of manliness and success he's attempted to stamp on his public persona (Trump Steaks, indeed...).  And while, no, I don't think he's actually describing sexual assault in his "Access Hollywood" comments (or meaning to, that is...), there is certainly still an underlying hostility and presumption in the way he's speaking. He's not just objectifying women, he's talking with blunt certainty, declaring all women to be fair game, his for the taking. And not once in that entire exchange with Billy Bush does there seem to be even a whisper of appreciation, or reverence, for any of the women he can't help "kissing"...only his bloated, and jaded, sense of entitlement. Not even (at the very least): "I'm telling you man, it's great being a celebrity, because beautiful women are all over me."

No, he says, in no uncertain terms, that he's all over them.  And what I hear, listening to that recording, is Billy Bush laughing nervously, not sure quite how to respond, but knowing he better say something. So he plays along.

And then to point to Bill Clinton as having said "worse" things "on the golf course"?  That's his defense!? I don't know, Mr. Trump, maybe you ought to own this a little more, not be so quick to deflect. And somehow, I don't think that's even true.  "Bubba" may have been a cad, a philanderer, but my guess is, with men and women alike, he knew what to say and what not to say. And how to say it, or not.  After all, Hillary Clinton has stuck with him all these years. And whatever else you want to say or think about her, outside of raising their daughter, I don't think it could be said that she has ever needed to keep Bubba around for any reason.

I could be wrong about that, though.

What I don't think I'm wrong about, is that Trump's lack of a filter, and subtly, and discretion, is not refreshing honesty, not keeping it real. It's not going to "shake up" the "Washington machine" if he gets to the White House. It's just reckless, and in this day and age, with the world how it is, it could be downright dangerous.

From the desk of a hopelessly "out-of-market" fan: the end of Turner Field another example of faceless corporatism forging an overwhelming presence in sports...

So for any Atlanta Braves fan, this is a season to be forgotten. Their worst start in club history has led to a summer spent struggling even to get within flirting distance of .500. I went to see them take on the Milwaukee Brewers at Miller Park at the beginning of August, and they lost. It was close, at least, but a loss just the same. There's been a lot of them this year, which is why as of this writing, Atlanta is 28 games out of first place in the National League East.

I'm still a fan though, as I have been for more than three decades. That will never change, no matter how deep they sink (no matter how many "rebuilding" years they have). Unlike my love for the Pittsburgh Steelers (the reason for which is hidden in vaguer childhood memories), I know exactly how my Braves fandom happened: I was on the Little League Braves in my hometown around the time that the cable channel now known as TBS was WTBS, a "superstation" out of Atlanta, Georgia, owned by Ted Turner, who also owned the Major League Braves. Shrewdly billed as "America's Team" back then, every game was broadcast every season, all summer long.

What memories I have of being ten, eleven and twelve, nothing to do but lay splayed out on the living room couch, fan pointed toward me, Faygo Rock-n-Rye in hand, watching the Braves, hoping my older brother didn't saunter in and abruptly change the channel. What a way to while away a summer afternoon. I still remember the players on the roster - Dale Murphy, Chris Chambliss, Glenn Hubbard, Phil Niekro, Bob Horner, Rafael Ramirez...they weren't a playoff team (this was almost a decade before the start of the glorious (and second) Bobby Cox era...Joe Torre was the skipper during the height of my interest), but I followed them, year after year, until high school, when - for a little while at least - I grew my hair long and decided everything sucked.

I cut my hair and came back in 1991, the year I graduated. It was a "worst to first" season for Atlanta that saw them playing the Minnesota Twins in the World Series...and losing.

The next year, 1992, they made it to the Fall Classic again, this time playing Toronto...and losing. But the highlight of that season wasn't the World Series, it was Game 7 of the National League Championship against Pittsburgh, and this incredible finish:




I had the good fortune of watching that game live, was doing the sports cobra dance (hands clasped anxiously behind my head) for pretty much all of the 7th inning stretch, right up until slow-footed Sid Bream got in just under the tag with - seriously - two outs in the bottom of the ninth. It was one of those moments that clarifies why people love sports, and love to love their teams. It was the moment you wait for...sometimes for a lifetime...your team coming back against all odds, pulling off a miracle. And when it happens, you feel part of it, like you got in just under the tag.

Cox retired in 2010, and that was definitely the end of an era. This year sees another passage: starting in 2017, the Braves will leave Turner Field (The Ted, as it's known locally), and move to the new 41,000-capacity SunTrust Park, in Cobb County, outside the city a ways.

Constructed for Atlanta's hosting of the 1996 Olympics, it seems people were never really happy with Turner Field, which replaced Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. Traffic congestion, limited parking facilities, and urban problems have all been cited as reasons to abandon it after less than twenty years. If you consider how long some parks last, The Ted is barely out of diapers.

But the new park is significant, I think, for its new name. SunTrust Park is the namesake of a large bank, and it occurred to me that corporate names and logos slapped on the side of sports arenas has become the norm in recent years, to a point where it seems there are precious few sports arenas left that are named after people, or locations connected to people, or some past event involving people worth commemorating.

Well, okay...maybe not "precious few". Maybe it's more accurate to say that the list of U.S. stadiums sporting names of gigantic corporations is growing at a notable rate, and that this surely reflects the times we live in. SunTrust is an $8.2 billion dollar financial holding company. Headquartered in Atlanta, to be sure, with bank locations throughout the southeast, but still a corporate entity too enormous to really have a discernible face....just a logo.

This has been happening a lot in pro sports over the last thirty years. MetLife Stadium replaced Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands.

FedEx Field replaced the Capital Centre (which was USAir Arena for a while).

AT&T Stadium replaced Texas Stadium.

Heinz Field replaced Three Rivers Stadium. (yes, Heinz ketchup...;-)

Bank of America Stadium.

Mercedes Benz Superdome.

Qualcomm.  M&T Bank.  CenturyLink.  Gillette.  Nissan.  Levi's. Tropicana. Petco. FirstEnergy.

All of these corporations have paid to have their names on major stadiums somewhere in the United States.

SunLife.  Ford.  U.S. Bank...

There are others.

Now, to be sure, naming rights as a promotional tool took place in the old days too. Boston's Fenway Park was named after a real estate company. Chicago's Wrigley Field is named after the guy who made Wrigley's gum.  But Fenway is also the neighborhood in Boston where the park is located. And "Wrigley" was a real person - William Wrigley, Jr. - who, like Ted Turner with the Braves, actually owned the Cubs. I think it's fair to say - to suggest, at least - that in an age in which corporate sponsorship has run amok in all areas of our lives, most of the venues our favorite teams call home are not any sort of "house that Ruth built", so much as nameplates for sterile corporations with global, rather than local, priorities. Often (not always, but often) they have no particular (at least no organic) connection to the team, players or fans they welcome to the games...that is, other than trying to sell them something.

And yes, it might be argued that the millions of dollars these corporations pay for naming rights helps pay for the stadiums - maintenance, utilities, taxes - not to mention player and staff salaries. I get it; sports is a business, like anything else.

But these days, the teams are often revealed to be little more than corporate entities themselves, with the bottom line being the most important thing. While they're squeezing tens of millions of dollars out of companies for naming rights, they're also squeezing tens of thousands of dollars out of fans each season, with outrageous parking fees ($20 and up, just to park!), $10 beers, a blitzkrieg of merchandise so outrageously priced it just isn't an option for a lot of people, to speak nothing of the sky-high cost of tickets.

Worst of all (in my opinion), is the jealous guarding of their content - that is, game broadcasts - which makes it impossible for "out of market" fans to watch their favorite teams without paying through the nose. Full disclosure: I am definitely an out-of-market fan, and I understand most people will be unsympathetic to this grievance. "Forget the Steelers and Braves," people have actually said to me, "be a Packers fan and you'll never miss a game."

That's what was so uniquely great about the Braves in the 1980s. I just happened to play on the Little League Braves (first base, all-star, thank you very much...) while WTBS just happened to be carried on our cable system, and just happened to broadcast all the Atlanta games. I admire Ted Turner for many reasons, but God bless him, he made me a Braves fan when I was a kid with his decision to present his team to the entire nation. WGN-Chicago was carried on our cable system too; I remember watching the Cubbies now and then, remember Harry Caray's 7th Inning sing-along, and 'day games only' at Wrigley Field. But I didn't play for the Cubs. On that little diamond across from the elementary school I attended, I played for the Braves. When I tried out for Little League, and survived the cut, I just happened to be placed on the Braves.

It was serendipity.

These days, that organic touch is but a distant memory. Turner sold the Braves to Time-Warner when he sold them his entire media empire, and Time-Warner has since sold the team to Liberty Media Group, which itself is a major stock holder in Time-Warner. Ted Turner's business savvy made him a mega-fortune, but left the Atlanta Braves one of three MLB teams under corporate ownership. And now, I'm lucky to catch a Braves games on ESPN every now and then (which sucks, because I KNOW my brother's not going to walk in and turn the channel!).

Same with the Steelers. They're not corporately owned at all, but I live in Wisconsin, so I'm definitely "out-of-market". And I think it's sad that out-of-market NFL games are more or less buried deep within DirectTV's pricey Sunday Ticket.

It's a tall order, because the rules and regulations governing all this (the sight-blurring nexus of ad revenue, brand ownership, broadcast rights, copyrights, etc.) are notoriously complicated, but I think the NFL (all pro sports leagues) should rethink the current model and follow the trend happening in other areas of television: make individual games available on-demand for live streaming to fans anywhere, buffet-style, without having to sign up for a package. Let people cherry pick whatever game they feel like watching...and only that game. You want to see Cincinnati at Pittsburgh, it's not being carried on a network and you live in North Dakota (or Wisconsin)?  $10.99 please, and it will stream LIVE right on your television, right through your Roku, or some other streaming device or service.

Games ARE offered for streaming as soon as they're over, within half an hour actually, but naw, I've never availed myself of any "day-old" games. Really, what's the point?  It's not the same as watching live. It just isn't. Might as well keep my $10.99 (or whatever it costs...) and watch highlights on Sportscenter.

I would never remember Sid Bream's game-winning slide home, or my explosive reaction to it (the excitement of the moment actually causing me to jump across furniture, as if I was being directed for some future Atlanta Braves promotional video), if I hadn't been watching it live.  Live makes all the difference.

Sports live matters.

Fans of all types, whether it's the semi-casual viewer like myself, or the rabid fans wearing team color underwear, LOVE their teams. But sadly, nothing about the whole business makes me believe the leagues or teams love the fans back.

Any more than SunTrust "loves" the people who bank with them.

Thoughts on the Cincinnati Zoo incident...and zoos in general...and whether bears living on feces-smeared cement need hugs

As is often the case, especially these days, the incident at the Cincinnati Zoo last month, in which a 3-year-old boy manged to find his way into the gorilla enclosure and wound up face-to-face with a 450-pound silverback named Harambe, led to more questions than answers. While it was obvious from the amateur video that Harambe did not mean to do harm (or the boy simply would not have gotten out of the situation alive), it seemed equally apparent the animal didn't know quite what to make of the hairless interloper, and when he suddenly grabbed the child by the leg and dragged him through the moat separating the enclosure from visitors (backwards through the water, as if being waterboarded), zoo officials made the reluctant decision to kill the great ape, in the interest of saving the hapless boy's life.

This was unfortunate, but a no-brainer. Of course Harambe had to be put down. The boy's life was potentially threatened, and human life must always take precedence over animal life.

Following the incident, vigils for Harambe were held by animal rights groups and animal lovers, many of whom raised questions about the decision to kill the animal. A tranquilizer might have proven a suitable alternative to lethal force, they argued. But the zoo has stood by its decision. Harambe had physical possession of the child, and what he might have done in the agonizing seconds between having a painful dart shot into his rump and that dart taking effect is anyone's guess.

For a while, there were people pointing blame at the mother, for losing track of her child long enough for him to find his way into the enclosure in the first place. But naw, that complaint came straight from the helicopter parent crowd - the nosy kind of people who are all too quick to "call social services!" if they see anything amiss in their neighborhood, who can't sleep at night knowing all the world doesn't live and think like they do. Their purported vigilance is actually scrutiny, of a harsh variety that has always done damage, but in the age of social media can turn downright devastating in an instant. The welfare of children is everyone's concern, no question, but often there is a fine line between what constitutes poor parenting, and what 'parent police' THINK constitutes poor parenting. I was relieved when it was announced no charges would be brought against the mother. She's got to live with this near-miss tragedy, and her role in it, for the rest of her life. I truly don't think she'll be losing track of any of her children again. I hope not, anyway.

In my opinion, blame should be directed first and foremost at the Cincinnati Zoo. Really, how the hell did a 3-year-old child FIND his way into the enclosure? How was that even possible? How was a fence or guard rail ever put in place to separate humans from apes that a toddler could overcome? Who the hell designed it?

But I'll take things a step further. Maybe, just maybe, a 450 pound Western Lowland gorilla, native to Africa, shouldn't be living in an enclosure in Cincinnati, Ohio.

In the past, I've been sympathetic to zoos. It's been primarily circuses, parks that use animals for entertainment, and (especially) exotic pet ownership that I've had a problem with. But whenever something like this happens, it's hard for me not to wonder if the situation might have stemmed merely from the fact that the zoo exists at all. I understand the attraction of zoos, believe it IS a sense of wonderment, and of appreciation for animals (rather than exploitation) that gets us flocking to them. And while most zoos do (or claim to) put the best interest of their residents first, does any of it need to be happening in this day and age?

To be clear, I'm not an animal rights kook. I eat meat, support hunting and fishing rights, because as human beings we are supposed to eat other animals. We are part of the food chain, part of an evolutionary infrastructure developed over the last 100,000 years that has led our species to becoming the planet's top predator. I expect that 'infrastructure' to be kept as humane as possible always, and yes, I know sometimes it isn't. But fundamentally speaking, I have no problem with the fact that it exists, or my participation in it.

While it's possible that (most) zoos are humane, none of them are natural. None of them are supposed to exist. And in this day and age, they simply don't need to. There are myriad sources of information available on-line to learn about and view any animal on Earth, and countless webcams set up in incredibly remote places offering magnificent (and real time) looks at the very same animals you'd find in a zoo. Only unlike a zoo, these hidden cameras offer a revealing glimpse into the actual lives of the animals. How they behave when there are no humans around, and they're not being forced to while away their days beneath a grotesquely artificial waterfall splashing down onto feces-smeared cement.

I was watching one just the other night, a camera set up on Round Island, Alaska, showing a group of walruses gathered on a rock-strewn beach. The animals had no idea they were being watched, no interest in the existence of the camera whatsoever, and were therefore acting completely naturally, acting as they would, and do, and have, for as long as they've been around on this planet. It was amazing, at moments mesmerizing, to sit and watch them dozing in the long Arctic summer light, the white noise rush of waves in the background broken only by the periodic call of sea birds. The only thing missing I realized, that is, the only thing I might have experienced in a zoo that I couldn't by watching the webcam, was the smell...and the cost of admission...and the crowds.  And do I really want that?

GOO GOO G'JOOB - Still shot captured from a webcam showing walruses lounging on a rocky beach on Round Island, AK. Without the motion and sound, this static picture really doesn't do the webcam experience justice. This and numerous other animal webcams can be found at: Explore.org

But even if you do want or need that, even if watching a webcam is NOT the same as being truly up close and personal, then travel to Alaska, or travel to the Serengeti...earn your right to see these animals in person by going out of your way to make it happen. Travel to their land, their home court, view them on their terms. Having them shipped to us in crates and placed in cages, or 'exhibits' we adorn with ferns and running water in an attempt to delude ourselves into believing we've re-created their natural habitat, really is perverse.

And it might be said that zoos actually inhibit education, rather than promote it. I believe I saw this firsthand during a visit to a zoo a few years ago. At this facility, there was an (admittedly) impressive grizzly bear exhibit, where visitors could walk through a tunnel and watch the bears frolicking in and out of the water, separated from the powerful beasts by a safety glass just a few inches thick.  An adorable little girl - dressed for a day at the zoo in a pink dress and hat - approached the glass tentatively. A truly mammoth grizzly, whose head alone was the size of a small filing cabinet, swam up to the glass and began pawing at it. It kept circling around in the water over and over, keeping its gaze on the girl, obviously looking for a way through.

The mother, safe in the knowledge that her daughter was safe, had taken a step back and raised up her phone. With video rolling, she cried, "Look Courtney! The bear wants to give you a hug! He wants to give you a hug! Give the bear a hug, Courtney!"

Still shy, but emboldened by her mother's reassuring words, Courtney walked up to the glass and 'hugged' the animal by pressing her face and arms against it. I got to hand it to her, I don't know that I would have been so brave when I was three or four. One of my earliest childhood recollections involves running into the house screaming because there was a skunk crossing our driveway...but that's another post. ;-)

The bear responded to the little girl's "show of affection" by pawing at the glass even more fearsomely, baring its teeth, cocking its head sideways and gnawing, determined to find a way through the invisible barrier.

Now, I get it...I do. The mother was just setting up a cute picture to cherish one day (that's good parenting). And to be sure, I'm not at all suggesting her response should have been, "Don't get too close Courtney! That bear could KILL YOU!!!!"

But I'm sorry, there was something about her anthropomorphizing that really bothered me. No, Courtney, that bear did not want to give you a hug. The bear wanted to get at you, and clearly was confused as to why it couldn't.

Acknowledging this, acknowledging the animal's awesome power to kill, and more to the point its inability to view us as anything other than one of two things - a threat, or dinner - and that it is not the least bit interested in giving or receiving hugs, does not perpetuate irrational fear. I think quite the opposite: it nurtures a realistic appreciation of Mother Nature and her many impressive appointments, which might allow Courtney to grow up with a healthy respect for, and in peaceful co-existence with, these animals.

In any case, "Give the bear a hug" was the last thing she should have been hearing.

Maybe I should have called social services! ;-)

Remembering "Dotto", keeper of my family's legacy...

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do: walk into my aunt Dorothy’s vacant room at the nursing home – just two days after she’d passed away - and go through her things.

Deciding what was worth keeping and what could be (had to be) thrown away in the immediate aftermath of her existence was bad enough, but knowing most of it would end up in the trash made it extra heart-breaking. We are a small clan, this family; there isn’t a lot of “posterity” out there for whom things must be saved, handed down, kept for the sake of anything or anyone. My aunt never married, had no children. I’ve been told there were a few marriage proposals in her younger days, but she never accepted. She liked her privacy. She was a sweet woman with tremendous empathy she offered to the people around her on a daily basis, but she was just salty enough to where it might be said that at the end of the day, in her personal life at least, she preferred to be left the fuck alone.

I’m not a crier, for the most part, and I had already coped with her death before it came, already made my peace – as I think she had – with the finality of her diagnosis and the futility of her prognosis. She was 80, and had made the decision not to seek treatment, opted out of waging an unwinnable war, and while she was not entirely unmoved by this decision – none of us were – it seemed, by the breathlessly labored words she spoke those last couple of times I saw her, that she stood by it. There is much solace to be drawn from a resolve of that magnitude, facing that level of consequences.

So I had prepared myself for the inevitability of her death. I even wished, privately, for it to come quickly, a merciful release from her now broken mortal coil long before the three months the doctors had given her. I got my wish. Barely three weeks from diagnosis to death, and relatively little physical pain. A few of those breathless words, of love and support - from all of us - then nothing.

Which, when you think about it, kind of sums up life.

But walking into her room that afternoon, I was hit with a wind blast of sadness that stole my breath and weakened my knees. For a moment, just a short moment, I felt I could not move, lest I fall. There before me was a final snapshot of her life, like ancient ruins mysteriously abandoned in a flash by a forgotten civilization: her little packages of candy waiting to be eaten (one of them started, never to be finished), a small pile of bills waiting to be paid, a calendar planner with appointments penciled in on several dates in March. But no Dorothy. Just five cardboard boxes graciously provided by the nursing home for her belongings, set in a row on the bed that would soon be someone else's. My son, accompanying me for this grim task and similarly coping with the loss internally, in small, measured doses, felt the same thing at the exact same moment.

“This just turned really shitty really fast,” he muttered, his voice noticeably agitated.

The room itself was no help for the task at hand. It was kept warm and stuffy, presumably to protect residents from chill, and heavily perfumed, a floral odor so sickeningly thick it was practically condensing on the edge of the furniture. The anemic sunlight of this February afternoon – leap day, no less – drizzled through the window and positioned itself cleanly on the linoleum floor. Through that window I could see a small courtyard, crusted over with late-season snow, and a bird feeder. No visitors this afternoon. Fastened to the glass, some religious window clings, those infantilized-looking Christian images of Jesus, lambs and crosses that normally adorn the walls and windows of the children of the faithful at Easter. My aunt was Jewish, but I think at the end, she was just extremely faithful.

I had only visited her three times in the four years she lived at this nursing home. Two of those visits were in the last week, coming home after receiving word of her illness, and both were kept short. She was weak, noticeably more so the second time, had difficulty speaking and breathing, difficulty sitting up. She was facing physical challenges that, in hindsight, may have been the beginning of her body relinquishing its command of her essence.

The other visit was three years earlier, when she first moved in. At that time, she was still the aunt Dorothy I’d always known, the sweet and salty woman with the tremendous empathy and sharp tongue. We spent some time in the commons area talking, and although a move to a nursing home is never cause for celebration, the news was not all bad...sort of encouraging actually. She’d only been there a week or two, and was already rocking bingo and the Wii Bowling competition, had met some people and taken to being concerned for their well-being, as was her way.

It became clear that life in this nursing home, like life anywhere, at any age, was what you made it. Yes, this was an aggregation of people living with hardship, in their twilight years, and more or less at the mercy of much younger people you could only assume - and hope - were kind, patient and empathetic as they did their jobs. But if you were social, relaxed a little, tried to walk on the sunny side of the street, and lucky enough to a) still have your faculties, b) not have constant physical pain, then you didn’t have to be alone, didn't have to be lonely, and in that moment, the thought of growing old wasn't so upsetting to me, and the oft-quoted words of Tennyson's "Ulysses" flashed into my mind:

“It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles, and see the great Achilles whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…”

Obviously, Aunt Dorothy had placed herself well within her new community and circumstances. She appreciated my visit; we had a nice chat, traded some memories from my childhood, of which I have many that involve her. I updated her on my new life three hours away, on my children (almost grown), and she was happy to hear that, for the most part, the news was good there too.

But when I brought her back to her room, helped her out of the wheel chair, she began to cry - wet, long sobs that perhaps had been on the horizon the whole day.

“I’m sorry,” she wept, looking up at me with blurry wet eyes full of guilt, because we are raised to be ashamed of our tears, to peg those who cry as “criers”, even though each and every one of us is outfitted at birth with the impulse. “I’m sorry…!”

“Dorothy no, please, don’t be…” I stammered, completely at a loss for how I might go about comforting her, helping her cope with this sudden emotional switch. I realized quickly that I couldn’t. She was dealing with an implacable enemy; a larger, unmanageable (and totally inconvenient) truth, the kind that makes criers out of us all, suddenly was in the room with us: the child Dorothy had once lavished attention on, delighted in showering with gifts and taking on mini-road trips (in lieu of having her own children, I would one day realize…), was now a 40-year-old man who just had wheeled her back to the last place she would ever call home.

It was a heady moment. For both of us.

Sifting through her belongings now was not just an emotional roller coaster, but a physical challenge. There was a lot of stuff in that room. She was a pack rat, delighted in sharing and receiving magazine and newspaper clippings, inspirational quotes, cute little cartoons, and saving all of it. I wanted to honor this vigilance by keeping every scrap, believing that if they had moved her enough so to save, they were in some way a part of her, and should be remembered.

But that simply isn’t practical, and that alone is a discouraging thought. As I write this, I'm sitting in my office, where I have my own collection of keepsakes and mementos, an entire room's worth of shit on the walls, in fact, that I've decided tells a story about me, a kind of intellectual man cave I keep with the vigilance of a museum curator. It's lovely. I like being in here, like writing in here, like the way the light looks on the walls as the afternoons become evenings. But I know that for all the thought I've put into what goes on these walls, or on display on these shelves, when my time comes, most of it will cease to matter, and someone will have no choice but to dispose of it.

But my aunt Dorothy was a writer, like everyone in our family, and among her magazine clippings and greeting cards, her subjective collection of other people’s words and sentiment, were countless stories she herself had penned. And this was a horse of an entirely different color.

Her writing style was simple – testament to her years as a newspaper reporter - her stories sweet parables with lessons she felt a compulsion to share, without intending to preach. And as I went through them, took a moment to read a few, I realized to my amazement that she was writing them right up until the end.

I was already impressed that after retirement, after leaving the newspaper where she had worked for thirty years, and then moving into the nursing home, she kept writing. In fact, she wrote for the facility’s monthly newsletter, had a little column that had a little readership. But here, sorting out her things, I discovered that she was writing even after her diagnosis. There was one still in the works, a St. Patrick's Day fable planned for publication in the newsletter in March, which my brother had the honor of reading aloud during our last visit with her.

I was profoundly moved by that. It's what being a writer is all about. It’s easy to write when you’re young and healthy and full of time and opinions and still feel a largely unqualified sense of relevance, part of the stories you’re telling. It’s quite another matter to know you're living your final years, able to see the rocky shoreline of your existence appearing through the mist, and still write.

And it's quite ANOTHER matter, still, to realize you're about to crash onto the rocks of that shoreline, potentially in a matter of days not months, and still write. Write straight through to your last moment. Your last breath.

For better or worse, it is my small family’s legacy. My father, my son, my brother, even my mother, in days past, we all write. Seeing as writing is the only thing a) I’ve ever cared about, b) the good Lord deigned to make me any good at, I can only hope that I am as tenacious as my aunt Dorothy when my time comes.

I like to think I will be. As I navigate these stormy waters of transition - of my family, my body, my face, my priorities - I’m reminded of another line from Tennyson.

“Death closes all: but something ere the end, some work of noble note, may yet be done…”

My aunt Dorothy was proof of this. And she was, before all else, the best auntie anybody could ask for.

This picture, the expression on her face, says it all. Sweet and salty.

Not everything could be saved, Dorothy, but you will never be forgotten.

A word from "President Glovsky", on the Flint, Michigan water crisis and the importance of infrastructure

So, to my amazement, disquiet, and frustration, nobody seems to be all that upset about the water crisis in Flint, Michigan.

Yes, politicians are talking about it, and the news media is covering the story (somewhat), but that's only because it's an election year. Make no mistake, this is not just a crisis, but a scandal of monumental significance. The people of Flint are stuck having to deal with the repercussions of a level of government negligence, incompetence and malfeasance that borders on - if not resides in - criminal. They are outraged. They have a right to be.

But so do we all.

For years now, I've been saying (jokingly) that if I ever held the highest office in the land, I would be known in the annals of history as the "Infrastructure President."

My slogan for a GLOVSKY 2020! campaign: "Infrastructure, First and Foremost."

That wouldn't get me many votes, I don't think...not with so many problems and threats in our world today, and an electorate that lately seems to respond mostly to crazytown rhetoric and low comedy...and not just from Donald Trump.

But my mock slogan isn't really a joke. I believe it wholeheartedly. There is absolutely nothing more important to the preservation and perpetuation of an ordered, civilized, stable and strong society (not to mention that society's ability to cope with all those problems and threats) than infrastructure, specifically hard infrastructure. If we can't provide potable water, electricity, and safe places to drive and move product at all times, then nothing - nothing - else matters. Not our belief in a higher power, not our desire to enjoy art, read more, learn how to cook, make money or make love in the sun.

ONE MORE TIME: If we can't get to and from places safely and efficiently, at any time of the day or night, and always with clean water to drink and some method of lighting our way, we might as well just close up shop. And it's no secret that infrastructure in our country is aging, and aging fast.

On that point, it should not just outrage, but terrify every American citizen - black, white or purple, left wing, right wing, chicken wing or wing nut - that something so catastrophic was allowed to happen in Flint. It could be happening right now in any city or town in America, and really, how sure are any of us about any of the things we take for granted every single day, starting with our elected officials actually being competent, and hiring competent people?

The reason that the Flint, Michigan crisis is so shocking to me is two-fold: number one, all models point to potable (drinkable) water becoming increasingly precious in coming decades as the Earth warms and climates change, which more and more mainstream scientists are acknowledging has been and will continue to be the case.

Number two, I grew up on the shores of Lake Superior, among the largest freshwater lakes in the world, and in spite of the post-industrial mess that served as my playground growing up (which I've written about on these pages), the water there has remained clean and fresh. That's because, for better or worse, Lake Superior dumps itself into the other four Great Lakes. I'm not saying that doesn't suck for residents down under, but it simply is what it is. Growing up I assumed everyone had the kind of drinking water I did. Sadly, that's not the case.

I now live well within the Mississippi River basin, where water, even that flowing out of faucets, often has a green odor and/or taste to it. It's subtle but undeniable in some locations, and not at all what I've been used to most of my life.  But people just accept it. Yes, it's kind of gross, they admit, but it's not harmful. You just plug your nose and close your eyes (if you're really squeamish) and take a drink, or buy a water filter (the latter being what most people do). And fact is, there are other places in this country where people would rejoice if the only thing wrong with their drinking water was a "green" smell.  The simplest YouTube search will reveal that people in some areas have to deal with something much worse flowing out of their faucets.

Now this video is part of an anti-fracking documentary; in other words, it has an agenda. By no means am I pro-fracking, but in this instance, I'm not interested in being anti-fracking either...I just know the lady in this video is lighting her tap water on fire...and whether fracking is causing this or it's occurring naturally (as claimed by the fracking company here), the lady in the video is LIGHTING HER FUCKING TAP WATER ON FIRE!   8-/

Granted, she might be a rural resident, not part of any town's water "infrastructure", and this would probably make her especially vulnerable to exploits and irresponsibility on the part of the fracking industry, not to mention instances of methane occurring naturally. But the quality of the drinking water around any home where what is flowing out of a man-made faucet is creating fire balls in a man-made sink must be examined! It doesn't matter what's causing it or whether it's coming from a city water main or someone's country well.

This lady simply should not be able to light her tap water on fire.

Equal vigilance must be practiced with our roads, tunnels and bridges.  Any bridge showing signs of distress must be examined and fixed, if and as necessary, and as quickly as possible. Roads leading up to these bridges need to be kept in working order, smooth and passable at all times. If there are little or no funds on the local level to get this done, it doesn't much matter. Funds have to be acquired somehow, from somewhere.

In other words, it must be treated as a priority, all the way up to the federal level. In 2007, the I-35W Bridge in Minneapolis (which I'd traveled across countless times) collapsed during rush hour, killing 13 and injuring over 100, and that tragedy certainly sparked a renewed interest in what I'm talking about.  But it can't just be big bridges carrying a lot of traffic getting the attention. It has to be the little bridges too, spanning tiny cricks on county trunks in out of the way places. And the vigilance cannot start AFTER a tragedy takes place.  Moreover, response time beforehand is a big issue: if some structural defect is discovered during an inspection, that can't launch a five-year comprehensive study on how best to deal with it. It should be more like one year...really a matter of months until action is taken, the problem taken care of.

Ditto for our electrical grid. How safe are we, exactly, from major blackouts? Are there fail safes in place, any kind of Plan B ready to go, should a coronal mass ejection slam into the sun-facing side of our planet? Are there ways to keep the outage local, to ensure that whole geographic areas are never plunged into darkness all at once?

I do not know the answers to these questions (fine president I'd make...;-), but it would seem they always need to be getting asked, and asked again. A 2003 blackout in the northeast affected over 50 million people, and was found to have been caused by a computer glitch. In light of that, the question becomes: okay, if the power grid has entered the digital age like everyone and everything else, what steps are being taken to KEEP those computers running and communicating? I would bet it's a more complicated process than just running a McAfee scan.

And is it happening? Regularly?

At least the woman in the video above knows there's a problem, and seems to have a clear idea who is responsible. The people of Flint, Michigan weren't even fully aware of what was going on, and got bullshitted into complacency. They went on using and drinking their orange, foul-tasting tap water, sensing something wasn't right but placing their trust in repeated assurances from state officials who failed to communicate the extent of the problem and (again) failed to act quickly when it became clear something wasn't right.

That it was government that dropped the ball is what makes this crisis a scandal. Think about it: the Flint, Michigan water crisis wasn't actually the result, at least not directly, of big bad industry poisoning our land and water. It was government failure, government deception, government passing of the buck and shrugging of shoulders, which left countless families having to deal with a host of terrible illnesses, or the fear, at least, that these illnesses might beset their children sometime in the future.

And that same government - our collective government, and all its attendant agencies, organizations and "officials", whom we assume each and every day of our lives are on the ball and have our best interest at heart - oversees and regulates our water, our power and our roads and bridges in all 50 states. That should make us uneasy, to say the very least.

Without safe, reliable infrastructure, nothing else matters. 

I'm Jared Glovsky, and I approved this message.

Thoughts on Wednesday's Powerball jackpot, and how "millionaire Jared" might differ from "average everyday Jared"

It got cold this week, an arctic blast slicing clean through what had been winter's soft warm belly up until now. Should have known it was too good to last, all that wet, London-style gray over the holidays. Now it's back to cold nose and numb toes, dry hands and heating bills through the roof.

Winters can be tough anywhere, but I've always thought the inhuman cold that defines your average January day where I live is augmented by a sense of isolation that is uniquely Midwestern. Driving home in a frigidly clear dusk at the end of a day where the otherwise bright, glaring sun couldn't manage to heave the mercury above zero, I always get to thinking about heading somewhere warm, and staying there. That's still (and always will be) the plan for retirement, but the sooner I can shuffle off this wintry coil, the better.

Ideally, I'd love to be a snowbird, have the means to stick around for what are generally splendid summers and autumns in the Midwest, absorb a little flutter of white for Christmas, then head south for the winter, hopping on a plane around January 2. But for now, that's just a dream. I remain a non-migratory animal, eeking out an existence on the tundra (er, so to speak).

In places like this, where dark, cold days groan uncomfortably as they dissolve into really dark and really cold nights, things like the impending Powerball jackpot, a record, have an inflated significance. They're more than just the chance for a monumental lifestyle change, they are, potentially, a means of escape.

The numbers surrounding this drawing are beyond belief. So astronomical that merely "running" them in the interest of putting it all into perspective is itself a pleasure:

As I write this, the jackpot for Wednesday's drawing is 1.5 billion dollars, the highest ever, and that is sure to grow even higher as ticket sales surge over the next 24 hours. I'm amazed, given the sheer volume of ticket sales for Saturday's $900 million jackpot, that nobody won. I'd have thought that at some point it becomes statistically unlikely for there not to be a winning ticket among the millions and millions sold.

But in any case, if you take the 29-year annuity option (the jackpot paid out in 29 equal annual payments), that would be about 50 million dollars per year, roughly 30 million after taxes for the next three decades. If you choose the cash option, which most people, including myself, are inclined to, then depending on what your state income tax is (if at all), you'd be left with between 400 - 500 million dollars, free and clear.

Honestly, the jackpot is SO big right now, I'd consider taking the annuity. I'll be in my seventies at the end of it, but why not take the entire prize money, if at all possible? I'm pretty sure I can make 30 million a year work. The only thing that would affect that notion is I heard once that you can't bequeath a structured lottery payment plan, that it dies with you. I'm not positive that's true, just something I heard once, which lamentably I've never had any reason to investigate further.

SIMPLY NOT ENOUGH ROOM - The current Powerball jackpot is SO big, there simply isn't enough digits to represent billions, so a clerk at a local grocery store had to write it in.

But either way, I don't even know where I would begin trying to manage that much money. I'd do what they tell us we should do: I would immediately retain a lawyer, and an accountant, and I would be sure that the T's and the I's are crossed and dotted, a specific plan in place, before I even claimed the ticket. I'd prefer to claim it anonymously, I think most people would. As far as I can tell, Wisconsin is not one of the states where lottery winners are allowed to do this. I want to think this is BS, but the truth is, there's really no anonymity to be had. The minute someone saw me slide behind the wheel of a Mercedes S Coupe, the jig would be up. They'd know. I'd have some 'splainin' to do.

Once the ticket was claimed, anonymously or otherwise, I would surely do what everyone does: I would pay off all my debt, take care of loved ones and family members, spurn the inevitable and unavoidable overtures of woodwork dwellers, then yes, treat myself to a certain complement of luxury.

To that end, I don't think I'd go overboard. I would afford myself one classic American muscle, probably a 1968 Mustang....maybe a '77 Corvette Stingray (man how I'd love to be a middle aged stereotype behind the wheel...;-), one marvelous road machine (I don't mind admitting there is a Mercedes S Class model that gets me a little physically aroused), one pick-up (for fishing), and an RV for my big road trip.

Once that road trip was over, once I'd gotten it and any other restlessness out of my system, I would fully embrace that much talked and fantasized-about 'snowbird' existence. I would spend my summers fishing, growing tomatoes and drinking craft beer somewhere deep in the woods of northern Wisconsin or Minnesota. Winters would be spent in the close company of the sun, probably in the American southwest.

How soft the nights must be in Albuquerque.

I'd have my things, my few indulgences, but I'm certain I would not pursue some bizarro life of excess, even if I could, with perhaps one notable exception: I would never wear used socks again. I'd have a brand new pair for every single day of the week, year in and year out. This wasn't my idea; I heard it from someone else, but I think it's brilliant. And I wouldn't be wasteful, no sir. Each of my very gently used pairs would be donated to Saver's or Goodwill. They'd take them, right? My feet are pretty clean, I like to think...and I've seen used men's underwear hanging on endcap displays at Saver's...so I'd hope a pair of Jglo's socks would be considered relatively safe for resale.

Truth be told, I don't need to win the jackpot. There is absolutely nothing wrong in my life that a few extra grand wouldn't cure. I'd love to have all the means in the world (and a fresh pair of socks each morning), and I would bravely and enthusiastically face the "dilemma" of what to do with all that money, but it's not necessary. If I could just live through my middle and old ages debt free, I'd be happy as a frigging clam. So how about 5 numbers out of the 6, lottery gods? You can keep the Powerball, if you want.

What I do wonder about is how winning this current jackpot would change me, as a person.  Because it would change me, no question. Overnight millionaire Jared Glovsky would be a very different animal from the Struggling But Mostly Doing Okay version.

I don't think I'd turn into a jerk. I'm in my 40s, pretty much hard-wired to be how I will be. I'm confident I wouldn't become arrogant or full of myself, or entitled in any way, wouldn't treat other people or 'the help' any differently than I do now. In fact, the opposite will mostly likely be true. Memories of my paycheck-to-paycheck years, the many of them, will remain fresh in my mind. I've been there, man. Abject poverty? No. But I know all too well the drudgery of barely staying afloat, of having to settle, having to make choices between paying this bill or that bill, because there never seems to be enough for everything. I don't think riches - sudden or otherwise - will make me forget that.

I do, however, wonder what I will care about if I win Wednesday night. I have always been a creative person; it's been what's driven me, defined me. Writing has been, first or foremost, the mainstay of my existence, with the potential prize at the end of all my hard work being two-fold; an enthusiastic readership, and a certain financial payoff.

Will Overnight Millionaire Jared still write? Will he want to bother? Will the fact that it doesn't really matter if he ever writes anything again, or sells books, or garners a readership, change the process? Will a fortune of unimaginable proportions, lending him unbridled freedom, neuter the impulse? Dismantle the discipline?

Will that unbridled freedom impel him to disengage, to want to disappear into the sun rather than merely keep its company?

It's a depressing thought. But money of that magnitude can do strange things to people. Sometimes it's revealed that the architecture of our lives is held in place by our struggle. I may not turn evil, but will I turn jaded, lazy, because it no longer matters whatsoever if I do or I don't?  Hope not.

I surely welcome the opportunity to test myself.