A friend of mine told me he was watching the Tonight Show last night when Jay Leno commented about Deputy Press Secretary, Brian Doyle, of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security being arrested on charges of trying to seduce a fourteen year old girl.  Leno stated that he longed for the moral character of the Clinton administration.  Hilarious.  Most women and conservatives I have talked to will never forgive President Clinton for his transgressions in office.  I can forgive the guy if Hillary can.  In a recent discussion with a fellow smoker outside my office we agreed that if holding the position of the most powerful man on the planet doesn’t provide the opportunity for an occasional hummer it hardly seems worth all the work it took to secure such a position. 

          A co-worker recently brought in a copy of The Whole Earth Catalog.  The catalog had a publication date of November 1967.  The purpose statement: “We are as gods and might as well get good at it.  So far remotely done power and glory—as via government, big business, formal education, church—has succeeded to the point where gross defects obscure actual gains.  In response to this dilemma and to these gains a realm of intimate, personal power is developing—power of the individual to conduct his own education, find his own inspiration, shape his own environment, and share his adventure with whoever is interested.  Tools that aid this process are sought and promoted by the “whole Earth Catalog.”  Items were listed in the catalog if deemed: useful as a tool, relevant to independent education, high quality or low cost and easily available by mail.  Sheesh, ironic that those in the 60’s really didn’t do crap about the dilemma of defects associated with government, big business, education or church.  As a child in the 60’s I remember those times and when I look around today it would seem we have significantly regressed from those simpler times. 

          Technology and wealth accumulation have exponentially enhanced corruptible influences in the institutions that shape this world.  Where have all the idealists gone?  Were the principles of peace and love that were so prevalent in the 60’s a pretense to be hidden behind while the advocates positioned themselves for their shot at becoming “the man”?  I am not jaded to the point of despair over the current condition of man and his role on the planet but I can not help but feel betrayed.  Compassionate and decent people are everywhere but lack a voice and a leader with the courage and credibility necessary to provide leadership that is meaningful.  This mighty nation is starving for competent, courageous and ethical leadership.  At this point in time it would seem less significant that a candidate have a liberal or conservative agenda.  What we need is a charismatic guide who is willing to serve the people of America.  We need an individual who will protect with equal determination our national security and civil rights.  A champion of opportunity for all Americans regardless of heritage, creed, sexual preference, or socio economic status is paramount.  Does that man or woman exist?  Can they overcome the entrenched power structure which has come to rule the land?  Where are you?

          I know this guy who works in the IT department of a large Midwestern credit union.  Okay, it’s me.  One of my favorite things about the job is when I get those, “Something is wrong with my computer” calls.  When I get one of those calls a grin comes across my face and I lean back in my chair.  A call which begins with the “something wrong” disclaimer invariably will have an extended story before the actual problem is revealed.  There are all kinds of “computer problems” which could result in a teller not being able to balance, a loan officer not being able to open their e-mail or a branch manager being unable to make a remote desktop connection.  We just rarely ever see the computer being the actual problem.   You would love me as your IT guy because I never point out that the problem was in fact a user error and always make it a point express sympathy for the difficulties encountered.  I learned to treat my customers that way by some technicians much smarter than me.  I have a relationship with our database software company where all of the call center operators know who I am by voice recognition. 

          Mama and the kids are coming home for Easter break tomorrow.  When my wife left in November I made some feeble promise to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen.  I dreaded the occasion.  I made it to the hardware store ten minutes before they closed on the night before she returns home five months after she departed.  I’m the kind of guy whose friends threaten to take away all his tools every time he starts a project on his Harley.  Successful plumbing and motorcycle repair is like raising children.  It takes patience.  I can do it but I don’t like it.  Seeing I was under a bit of a deadline to do this faucet rebuild I knew that I couldn’t afford my typical method of operation which involves forcing things to fit, with hammer if necessary, not confirming the actual proper parts are available before starting and treating the unassembly process as demolition.  I took three deep breaths before I began this repair and I am proud to announce that the job was done with only the one original trip to the hardware store.  This is the hardware store where the old guys at the key and glass counter refer to me as “three trips Wally.”  So it goes.

          The next home project is refinishing the cupboards.  I have spent the last ten days in preparation for this home improvement chore.  I started by going to the paint store to buy sand paper and de-glosser.  A few days later I brought home boxes from work to store the cupboard contents while I am sanding and refinishing.  Finally I have gone through the cupboards and eliminated all mis-matched, unused or ugly dishes.  I am sure to be in trouble for this but I am a firm believer in the adage, “It’s easier to get forgiveness than permission.”  I had all of this accomplished and planned to begin “the ordeal”  by Tuesday. Then it occurred to me that it would not do to have the whole family here for a visit with door-less cupboards.  In talking to my wife on the phone tonight I thanked her for being the “mime” of my procrastination.  After she started laughing, at me, I realized that I had meant to say “muse” of my procrastination.  I made her promise not to say anything about that conversation or the procrastination thus rendering my original statement accurate.  I’d rather be lucky than good any day!

          Julie B., my guest poster on March 31^st is doing much better.  She is finding the support she needs for her son and her employer is being very understanding.  The local DHS office has pointed her to some wonderful resources.  One is a community out-reach program called Angel Food Ministries, which is run by a local church.  Angel Food Ministries is a discounted food buying program that offers groceries for approximately one half of the retail prices offered locally.  I bet this service is offered in your area too.  This is a wonderful example of government and the private sector working together to provide support for people in need.  Here is a link to the Cedar Rapids service.  http://www.soffc.org/sub_pages.php?page=25  It would be cool of you to find out if such a program is available in your community so you could then share that information should the opportunity present itself.

I set out to write about tolerance tonight and in preparation came across the website tolerance.org http://www.tolerance.org/index.jsp where they invited me to explore my hidden biases.  Obviously I didn’t have hidden biases!  I have always considered myself compassionate, tolerant and intellectually unbiased.  I was about to write a blog to prove my fair-mindedness.  All who would read my comments would be able to attest to the virtues of my humanity.  In viewing the website there were opportunities to test your level of bias on the topics of associations of black and white faces with images of weapons or harmless objects, the link between family and females with career and males, Arab-Muslim’s and Other people, Disabled people, Gays, Native Americans, age and weight among others. 

 

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/demo/measureyourattitudes.html

 

          The test was fairly simple in application, it used good and bad word association with names of Arab or other people.  It was easy to see how the test was set up and it even seemed that it would be obvious how to take the test in a manner to score consistently with my assumptions of my unbiased nature.  I scored as having a strong automatic preference for other people compared to Arab Muslims.  I felt that the order the test was arranged in was significant to my final score but the literature with the test suggested that order was not, in fact, significant.  I took retook the test anyway and scored a little better, “Your data suggest a moderate automatic preference for Other People compared to Arab Muslims.” 

          I have to admit that at first the result of my test shocked me but it did not alarm me.  I strongly believe that we are capable of overcoming our biases.  When we choose to overcome our biases we are said to have integrity.  Dictionary.com defines integrity as;

1. Steadfast adherence to a strict moral or ethical code.
2. The state of being unimpaired; soundness.
3. The quality or condition of being whole or undivided; completeness.

      Having a bias is not an avoidable condition nor is a bias exclusively associated with a negative quality.  I have a strong bias when it comes to my children and this enables me to fulfill my role as a supportive and protective parent.  Obviously parental bias can go too far.  If you doubt that then you need to go to a little league ball-game sometime.  The problem with bias, as it translates into our behavior, is that people don’t always choose to act with integrity.  The benefit of understanding our biases is in being aware of them.  Being aware of our biases aids us in understanding our feelings when we are confronted with a situation which calls for integrity. 

          Assuming the validity of the test I now have a tool to use in my interactions with Arab Muslims.  I think I can work with that and hopefully those with whom I have interaction will have the integrity to not react on biases they have with middle-aged, over-weight, liberal, Hispanic Harley-riding Catholics.

         

Deputy Press Secretary, Brian Doyle, of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security was arrested yesterday on charges of trying to seduce a teen-aged girl on the internet.  How about that for integrity?

My Dad passed away in 1989, five years before I owned my first Harley.  He sold his 1949 Harley-Davidson EL before he married my mother.  As far as I know, he never made plans to buy another one. I do know that he never lost his love for Harley-Davidson motorcycles.  As far back as 1969 when I had my first pipe framed mini-bike my Dad would fondly recall the days he spent on his 61 cubic inch, Pan Head, Hydra Glide.  He always joked with my brother and I that, “When we became real men, we would ride Harley-Davidsons.”  My brother was into motocross and I was into trail riding and we were pretty much certain that my father was insane.     

I loved spending time with that crazy guy.  He ran a neighborhood DX service station that only offered full service gas. It had a two bay garage where we did oil changes, tire repairs, and minor tune-ups. Bicycle tire patches were always done free.  We had a pop machine that was set so cold that you often had ice in your Grape Crush.  I also developed a liking for that new stuff, Mountain Dew.  I spent every Saturday and school vacation day of my youth at that gas station.  I was able to join in manly conversations, have responsibilities and contribute in a grown-up world. 

Once in a while a group of bikers would come in to gas up.  They weren’t typically the sort of guys out doing a charity fun run or going on dinner rides but I think the love they had for their friends and their machines is something I can relate to.  My Dad always lit up when we had one of those visits.  He would talk with the guys, reminisce a bit and stay out on the drive until the last bike rode out of view.  To this day I wish I would have known what he might be thinking as he watched those bikes ride off. 

Recently I was looking through some old pictures of my Dad from his days as a member of the Black Hawk Motorcycle Club.  The pictures date from 1949 and into the early 1950’s.  They epitomized cool.  Not a clip on pony-tail in the bunch.  I think the look in his eyes in those pictures might be similar to what I might have seen in his eyes those many years later when those bikes pulled off our drive.

When I bought my first Harley, a Heritage, back in early spring 1994, the very first thing I did was ride it up to Waterloo to visit the cemetery where my Dad is buried.  I parked close to his grave, got off and showed it to him and really talked to him for the first time since he had passed away.  It felt like those old days at the gas station, where I was a kid who was accepted in a man’s world.   I didn’t do that last year when I bought my Road King.  I guess I know what I am going to do this coming weekend.

This is Part II of a story begun in yesterdays post.

 

My particular group's performance was a hot little dance number choreographed to the song "Just a Spoonful of Sugar" from the movie, Mary Poppins.  (Yes, it is the song of the day today.)  In spite of the fact that we had rehearsed this routine for months there were two critical elements which prohibited me from ever mastering our routine.  The first problem prohibiting me from mastering our routine was that I just plain flat-out couldn’t dance.  The second hinderance to my perfecting our particular performance was that: it was not until many years later that I would learn that the whole thing with tap was that you your dance steps were made to provide a definable and unison rhythm!  Honestly, I always thought it was just about the foot movement, the steps.  The music and the fact that the visual imagery of our movement in unison being somehow significant had never been explained to me.  So basically what I did on the night of our capacity filled recital, as well as each and every rehearsal, was to stand on my end of the line and shuffle my feet back and forth.  I did know one step, however, and occasionally got it done at nearly the appropriate time.   The old shuffle-hop-step which we puncutated with a powerful and dramatic dig.  It was my favorite sequence of steps. During the performance I noticed that it seemed as if many people were watching me and chuckling.   I assumed it was laughter borne of unbridled joy and it never occurred to me that the shuffling chubby kid on the end was amusing in his artistic incompetence.

The stage at the auditorium of our performance was much larger than the dance studio where we had rehearsed our steps for months.  There was no way that I could have foreseen the difficulties this would provide me.  Had I the clairvoyance to anticipate the events which would unfold I might have died.  The costume I wore that day is documented in the picture on this page.  I have no idea how I could not have realized I was in for a rough night.  Did you notice?  The costume was Pink!  Pink starts with a … oh never mind. 

My position was stage right at the end of our line of Rockette wannabes. The only other guy in my group flanked stage left.  The closing of our number had us skip across stage left in a looping line until we exited back at my end, stage right.  What this did, on this much larger stage, was create somewhat of a crack-the-whip phenomenon which ultimately made me abandon my skipping style in preference for an all out arm-chugging-head-bobbing-leg-churning sprint.  As I ran as fast as I could possibly run I kept losing ground on the line of dancers in front of me, the satin blue cumber bun which I wore began to slide down below my tummy.  Eventually it slid down far enough that the cumber bun encumbered my run and that is when the roof came off of the house.  There was no mistaking as to why the audience was laughing at that moment.   Damn butt weasels.

I have never received a definitive answer as to why my parents enrolled both my brother and I in tap dance lessons.  We were young, impressionable lads and not please by this particular parental priority placed upon us.  With regards to our dancing, I’m was relieved that my brothers’ passionately plead protests, which pondered the possibility of precluding our dance participation, eventually persuaded our parents to contemplate the plausibility of the personal practical life applications provided by performing against our will.  Eventually they relented and none too early in my mind.  Their acquiescence to our pain-felt plight pre-empted my participation of tapping through puberty. My brothers pirouetting prowess went by the wayside by the time he entered high school which spared me the accompanying embarrassment of it all in my most formative years.  Most people believe that the formative years are the ages of two through five.  In reality, we should all know that junior high is where you really find out if you are going to be perceived as a social have or have not. 

We would dread the coming of dance class for days before each appointed rehearsal.  The one thing that kept us from all-out mutiny and convinced us to keep going back each week was a psychological ploy that my parents employed from time to time.  When our angst would reach a critical apex my mother would call our father in for reinforcement.  He would whisper in our ear that dance would make us better football players.  He would then go on to talk about agility, footwork and conditioning, you know, macho crap that we bought hook, line and sinker.  This ultimately ended up being either a complete fabrication or a testimony to our ineptitude as neither my brother nor I ever excelled at football.  Hell, to be honest we sucked.  Neither one of us ever earned a starting position.  Ultimately we rode the bench for four grueling years of practice and conditioning with no opportunity to bask in the warmth of home town hero appreciation.   

I would have to assume that what eventually persuaded my parents to reevaluate the necessity or our dance participation was complete humiliation of their youngest son, me, on a stage in front of 2,000 local patrons of the arts.  Our teacher was a classically trained dancer who had danced with some of the finer ballets in Russia.  Back in the early sixties things like local dance recitals were still a big community event.  Those times were so different from current times where harried parents will arrive late for the start of their children’s events with the intention of not having to watch preliminary performances.  Back in the day, nobody would have ever had the audacity to get up and leave the moment their child left the stage.  Seeing as how this posting is painfully plagued with a plethora of “P” words I might as well tell you that leaving before you have seen my kid perform, especially since I was not as rude as you and arrived on time, and I had to painfully endure your less talented kids’ performance, is my pet peeve.

OK, That is all you get for today.  You will have to read tomorrows post to learn the horrid details of my personal humiliation.