David Dubrow's Blog, page 59
October 1, 2014
White House Intruder's Got a Knife: Part Two
Part one is available here.
There are two elements to the White House intruder story that have recently come to light, and each of them bears some examination.
First, we now know that the deranged individual who had broken into the White House had gotten farther into the actual residence than we'd originally learned. The reason why is very simple:
[Rep. Jason Chaffetz (R-Utah)] said two people inside the agency told him that [alarm] boxes were silenced because the White House usher staff, whose office is near the front door, complained that they were noisy. A Secret Service official told The Post that the usher’s office was concerned the boxes were frequently malfunctioning and unnecessarily sounding off.
Let's unpack that: the Secret Service is blaming the security breach on the White House staff, claiming that vital alarm boxes had been silenced because of complaints.
Complaints.
The White House staff complained about a security measure, and rather than saying "tough titty," the Secret Service moved to address the complaints in a way that compromised security. That's inexcusable. That's ludicrous. Remember, the nature of personal security is that it's inconvenient. That these so-called security professionals forgot or ignored that is unconscionable.
On his Facebook page, former Secret Service agent Daniel Bongino said:
"The jurisdictional mess around the White House has to be cleaned up. Between the Secret Service, the US Park Police, DC Metro PD, the National Park Service, and others such as the White House staff and the White House Historical Association, too many cooks have their hands in the security-soup. Also, the Secret Service role in the decision-making chain at the White House has to be at least co-equal with the White House staff. Any manager within the Secret Service who insists on kneeling at the feet of an 18-year-old White House staff member, while throwing his agents under the bus, in order to maintain his 'network', needs to move on ASAP. This is too important of a mission for sycophants."
I couldn't agree more, though I think he doesn't go far enough. There needs to be massive housecleaning at the Secret Service. Many, many people need to be fired.
The other element to this story is how it was portrayed in the Washington Post. In the article I linked at the top of the page, the Post says:
After barreling past the guard immediately inside the door, Gonzalez, who was carrying a knife, dashed past the stairway leading a half-flight up to the first family’s living quarters.
The knife Gonzalez was "carrying" was a folding knife (also called a folder). What we don't know is if Gonzalez had actually opened the knife and had it in his hand when he "barreled" past the guard. The term "carried" here suggests that he did indeed have it in his hand. And if he had it in his hand, he meant to use it, right?
Well, we don't know. We know he was nuts.
From the way the White House situation has been presented, it can be safely said that I entered my son's preschool today, carrying a knife. It was folded and clipped to the inside of my pocket, under my shirt, but I did indeed carry it. Horror of horrors, I was carrying a knife. With children right there!
The rhetoric our sloppy, biased news media has used is imprecise at best, and inaccurate at worst. To be fair, the Post isn't the only news outlet to use this sort of language; check everyone from the AP to the New York Times and you'll see the same thing.
Whenever you read a news story, you always have to ask yourself two questions: what are they trying to make me feel? And what aren't they telling me?
There are two elements to the White House intruder story that have recently come to light, and each of them bears some examination.
First, we now know that the deranged individual who had broken into the White House had gotten farther into the actual residence than we'd originally learned. The reason why is very simple:
[Rep. Jason Chaffetz (R-Utah)] said two people inside the agency told him that [alarm] boxes were silenced because the White House usher staff, whose office is near the front door, complained that they were noisy. A Secret Service official told The Post that the usher’s office was concerned the boxes were frequently malfunctioning and unnecessarily sounding off.Let's unpack that: the Secret Service is blaming the security breach on the White House staff, claiming that vital alarm boxes had been silenced because of complaints.
Complaints.
The White House staff complained about a security measure, and rather than saying "tough titty," the Secret Service moved to address the complaints in a way that compromised security. That's inexcusable. That's ludicrous. Remember, the nature of personal security is that it's inconvenient. That these so-called security professionals forgot or ignored that is unconscionable.
On his Facebook page, former Secret Service agent Daniel Bongino said:
"The jurisdictional mess around the White House has to be cleaned up. Between the Secret Service, the US Park Police, DC Metro PD, the National Park Service, and others such as the White House staff and the White House Historical Association, too many cooks have their hands in the security-soup. Also, the Secret Service role in the decision-making chain at the White House has to be at least co-equal with the White House staff. Any manager within the Secret Service who insists on kneeling at the feet of an 18-year-old White House staff member, while throwing his agents under the bus, in order to maintain his 'network', needs to move on ASAP. This is too important of a mission for sycophants."
I couldn't agree more, though I think he doesn't go far enough. There needs to be massive housecleaning at the Secret Service. Many, many people need to be fired.
The other element to this story is how it was portrayed in the Washington Post. In the article I linked at the top of the page, the Post says:
After barreling past the guard immediately inside the door, Gonzalez, who was carrying a knife, dashed past the stairway leading a half-flight up to the first family’s living quarters.
The knife Gonzalez was "carrying" was a folding knife (also called a folder). What we don't know is if Gonzalez had actually opened the knife and had it in his hand when he "barreled" past the guard. The term "carried" here suggests that he did indeed have it in his hand. And if he had it in his hand, he meant to use it, right?
Well, we don't know. We know he was nuts.
From the way the White House situation has been presented, it can be safely said that I entered my son's preschool today, carrying a knife. It was folded and clipped to the inside of my pocket, under my shirt, but I did indeed carry it. Horror of horrors, I was carrying a knife. With children right there!
The rhetoric our sloppy, biased news media has used is imprecise at best, and inaccurate at worst. To be fair, the Post isn't the only news outlet to use this sort of language; check everyone from the AP to the New York Times and you'll see the same thing.
Whenever you read a news story, you always have to ask yourself two questions: what are they trying to make me feel? And what aren't they telling me?
September 29, 2014
Confessions of a Former (?) D&D Geek
Our culture has changed significantly since I paid attention to it, which was quite some time ago. I suspect that fantasy role-playing games (RPGs) aren't considered quite as nerdy now as they were in my time, but I could be wrong. With the mainstream popularity of video games, it seems that the pen-and-paper games should also enjoy a little more cachet. Without them, I would not be a writer. Games like D&D, Call of Cthulhu, Villains and Vigilantes, etc. were quite formative in my social life and helped build my mental landscape. Without use, your imagination shrinks. The stories we told during those games were really quite extraordinary.
It was on a rainy day in 1980 that my older brother introduced us to Dungeons and Dragons, the blue box version. Though fairly young at the time, I was utterly captivated. We played, of course, The Keep on the Borderlands module (we called them "modules" because that was what was printed on the box; more properly, they'd be called stories, or scenarios). Those early games didn't last long for reasons I no longer recall, but the game had lit a fire in me.
A couple years later, we unearthed those old D&D rulebooks and played again, mostly just my younger and I, with me as the Dungeon Master (also called "referee" or "game master"). Then, during a trip to a local bookstore, I found the Dungeon Master's Guide and Player's Manual for Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. Advanced! Wait: you could be both an Elf and a Magic-User? That was when things got really fun.In high school, I joined the D&D club (called the Simulations Club) on a whim, which was one of the best decisions of my life: it helped me get out of my shell a little and introduced me to people who are still friends today. One afternoon a week, we'd spend a couple hours after school killing monsters, sneaking into castles, and other such things. All on paper.
From there, I found the game Call of Cthulhu: rather than play Lord of the Rings-style adventures, you took on the role of a 1920's paranormal investigator dealing with H.P. Lovecraft's Cthulhu mythos. It was neat, but what really made it come alive for our gaming group was the Dreamlands expansion, where you could descend the seven hundred steps to the Gate of Deeper Slumber, and from there emerge into a fantasy world both surreal and horrifying. Zoogs and horned Men of Leng, cat-inhabited Ulthar and Kuranes' Celephais, moonbeasts and magicians.
By this time, I was typically the game master, the one who ran the Sunday night games: it was a role I enjoyed more than playing. The games got even more interesting when I acquired both the Stormbringer and Hawkmoon role-playing game sets, which had the same core rules as Call of Cthulhu (all of them were published by Chaosium). Rather than a limited universe of Earth and the Dreamlands, the players went further afield to Granbretan and the Young Kingdoms, and from there to the multiverse.
And then something new came around: Nephilim. Also a Chaosium game, it had a similar rule set, but the setting was so different, so intriguing, that it couldn't be folded into the long-running game. We started anew. The basic premise of Nephilim was that the players took on the role of semi-immortal spirits who possessed human beings throughout history, acquiring magical power and influence. It was a world of secret societies, of changing human events to suit inhuman schemes. Just creating a character took the whole day.Eventually, as marriages, careers, children, and other elements of daily life took over, the game broke up. For a while I resurrected it online with some of the old players, using a telnet client, but it didn't have the same oomph as gathering around a kitchen or rec room table, playing face-to-face.
There's a lot here I didn't mention in detail: the Friday night D&D sessions, forays into Vampire: The Masquerade, Villains and Vigilantes, the Illuminati and Family Business card games, Dune, Axis and Allies, and poker. All of them are worthy of pages of description. Except for poker, which is fairly pedestrian, even when you get into variations like Follow the Wild Queen Chicago Recall.
Sometimes, I miss it. But I'm too busy now telling my stories my way to collaborate the way these old games required.
Without it, though, without D&D and Call of Cthulhu, I wouldn't be here, doing what I'm doing now. There was true magic in those old games, and the spell they laid on me will last my entire life. The rule books are still in boxes somewhere, waiting to be opened and enjoyed again.
September 26, 2014
Breadhead Friday: Holla for Challah!
Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, started the evening of Wednesday, September 24. Jewish holidays always begin the evening before, because Judaism goes by the lunar calendar. The next day begins when the sun sets. According to the Jewish calendar, this is the year 5775. The holiday is traditionally celebrated with challah, apples, and honey to guarantee a sweet new year. Challah is a braided egg bread, rich and a little bit sweet. Some people put in raisins, others scatter poppy seeds and/or sesame seeds on the surface before baking. Me, I just like it plain. No raisins, dried fruit, or seeds.
The dough, freshly made
The dough after two days in the fridge. Note the bubblesI've made challah before with some success, so for this new year's celebration I decided to make it again. Overall, I'm pretty pleased with the results, though my next batch of dough won't be quite so wet. I get so wrapped up in the artisan bread requirement of less flour=more holes that this dough ended up a little slack and difficult to work with.
Three-braid loaf after two hours of rising and egg washFor ease of shaping, I went for a three-braid loaf. You can do all kinds of braids, including round 7-braid loaves, but I'm working like heck to finish this YA Halloween novel and didn't want to make too much work for myself.
Fresh out of the ovenSo, Happy New Year! Even if you're not Jewish, challah's a very tasty, flaky bread that's great for sandwiches and French toast.
The crumb shot
September 24, 2014
White House Intruder's Got a Knife: Six Things to Think About
Much is being made of the fact that the deranged person who unfortunately succeeded in breaking into the White House was carrying a knife. Without context, this becomes a frightening notion: if he was carrying a knife, it means he intended to stab somebody, likely the President of the United States.I'm not going to try to unpack Gonzalez's insanity; that's for his doctors to sort out. But, we should talk about knives a little bit. People carry knives all the time and they're not insane. It's a legal tool of personal defense where I live, and if you believe, as I do, that you have a moral duty to protect yourself, then it's actually foolish to not carry a knife. Especially if you can't or won't carry a firearm.
Building on the concept that personal security is by its very nature inconvenient, you also have to consider that when you're attacked, it will happen when conditions most favor your attacker and least favor you. A criminal isn't interested in a fight: he wants an ambush. So you're already going to be at a disadvantage. With that in mind, you're legally and morally correct in using a force multiplier to defend yourself. A knife, properly placed, can end a physical threat more effectively than a fist.Just because you carry a knife, it doesn't mean you intend violence. Again, it's clear that Gonzalez was crazy. The vast majority of the knife-carrying public isn't. It's a tool, nothing more. Before Muslim extremists flew American airplanes into American buildings, it was perfectly legal to carry a knife with a blade length of under 3.5" onto a plane. That was a factor in the carry knife choice I made fifteen years ago.It takes a great deal of practice and frequent maintenance training to access, open, and deploy a folding knife under the circumstances laid out in Point 1. You're not going to be able to do it if you've already been hit in the back of the head with a chunk of pavement. As in all self-defense situations, you have to be aware of potential threats, avoid them when possible, and de-escalate (or run) if you can. If you find yourself opening your knife for any other reason than to cut an inanimate object, everything else has gone wrong for you that day.There are plenty of people who geek out over knives. They own many, they carry multiple knives, they talk about them ad nauseam, they lionize knife makers. Barring some notable psychopaths, they're no different from Apple fans, Tim Burton fans, or fanatics of Game of Thrones. Don't let someone else's embarrassing gushing get in the way of your legal choice to carry a knife. Like firearms, knives don't act on their own, and ownership of one doesn't imply eagerness to use it on another human being. As in all things, media representation of knives and knife owners reflects a distorted mirror of reality. Learn about these things for yourself, rather than unquestioningly consuming the pap from the news media.
September 22, 2014
Flash Fiction: Angels in the IHOP
The message Raqiel had sent was at once simple and incredibly complicated: “I need you.”
We hadn’t spoken since the Argument, when he’d tried to stop Bazkiel and I from following Dad’s orders on the Sodom and Gomorrah job. It was ugly in the way only fights between brothers can get. He’d held nothing back. Bazkiel had fled, weeping, and only found surcease in burning Gomorrah and its sin-ridden people to white cinders: a classic case of angelic sublimation. For my part, I had just let Raqiel beat me with the truncheon of his words until he’d gotten tired of it. I still bear the scars, but I no longer bear a grudge.
To prove it, I put on mortal flesh and descended to Earth at his invitation. The venue was an International House of Pancakes in Hot Springs, Arkansas.
Typical.
The bleeding hearts always like to wallow in the muck to show you how much they care. It’s stupid. It’s showy. We could’ve met at the top of Mount Everest or the bottom of the Mariana Trench or even the Four Seasons in Manhattan. But instead, we had to get down and dirty with the “real people.” The folks.
I walked past the surly, didn’t-want-to-be-there hostess in her blue vest and polyester slacks to Raqiel’s booth, the one by the bathrooms. He’d taken on the form of a Korean woman in late middle age for reasons known only to him, and was cradling a cup of coffee in both hands despite the damp, oppressive heat of the restaurant. I’ll refer to him as a she from now on.
“Good to see you, Usiel,” she said, smiling. Her eyes were red, swollen, and wet. Several crumpled napkins littered the table.
“Raqiel,” I greeted her, and sat opposite. “What’s up?”
“Thank you for coming to see me.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye.
She’d decided to be coy. I could’ve played the game: asked her how she was, what she’s been doing all this time. Fenced a little until she was ready to talk. But as I sat there, smelling nitrite-laced bacon and fake maple syrup, I discovered bruises that I’d thought were healed over millennia ago. It made me angry. Very angry.
“I don’t have time for this,” I grated. The waitress, who had been coming over with a plastic smile on her mouth, turned and fled. “Get to it. I’m busy.”
I guess I still bore a grudge after all.
The look of pity in her expression had me on my feet in less than a second, but she lifted both hands and said, “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m just sorry. For everything. The fight…everything. I need your help. Your…advice.”
I hate apologies like that. She just wanted to mollify me so she could get what she wanted. Still, I sat back down and said, “While we’re young, then.”
“I have to…to kill someone. A human being.” Her lower lip vibrated. “Dad said it’s time for me to go out and do some real work, as if helping people isn’t work.” She put down the cup. “Azrael’s busy, so it’s fallen to me.”
Biting back, And this is my problem how, I waited an appropriate amount of time before asking, “Who is it?”
She pulled a thin paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and bunched it in her fist. “Raymond Vasilakis. He’s…” Face crumpling, she whispered, “He’s got…children.” And then the waterworks started again: deep, wracking, loud sobs.
Checking to see if anyone was looking, I hissed, “You’re making a scene!” I yanked a bunch more napkins out of the holder and thrust them at her.
It took her several tiresome minutes to get hold of herself. In the meantime, I consulted the Book of Life to see who this Raymond Vasilakis was. For a casual perusal, all I could get were the basics: astrophysicist, three daughters, one wife, didn’t go to church, hated broccoli. Nothing special except in the brains department, but he wasn’t a great mover or shaker. A bench scientist. Why did Dad want—
“Sorry,” Raqiel sobbed, seemed about to say something, and dissolved into tears again.
“Just stop it, will you?” I begged. “They’re going to throw us out of here. Drink some coffee or something.”
She nodded, sipped audibly, and wiped her puffy face with a sodden napkin. “I’m not crying for me, but his children. They love him so—“
“Save it,” I said, before I could stop myself. Not that I wanted to. If bleeding hearts were invisible, nobody would have one. “Why does Dad want him off the Earth?”
Waving a hand, she said, “He’s going to be the Project Director of Hubble II in seventeen years, four months, and sixteen days. They’re…the humans, you know…they’re going to be able to see extrasolar planets with it. Close up.”
My jaw dropped. That would be an unmitigated disaster. “No,” I breathed.
With a negligent bounce of her shoulders, she said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about that.” She wiped her nose. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I know how. But…I wanted to ask you…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down at the pile of snotty tissues on the table.
So soon! No wonder Dad didn’t just want someone to deflect an event or influence an outcome: He needed this guy out. They weren’t ready.
I shook my head to clear it. “What? What is it?” That He’d entrust this task to such a weepy, self-righteous paragon of pseudo-virtue rankled me further.
“You…you always did what Dad said. You’ve ended more lives than typhus.” Voice hardening, she asked, “How do you live with yourself? After?”
I drew back as if she’d presented a plate of fecal matter for my delectation. “Is that what all this is about? All this disgusting…crying?”
“I’m sorry if it’s not as easy for me to just kill someone—“
Banging a fist on the table, I said, “I’m not having this fight with you again,” and pointed a finger in her face. “All you ever do is make things difficult. You pule and whine and moan about not just your job, but everyone else’s job, and I’m sick of—“
A flicker of anger tightened her face. “Don’t point at me.”
Grinning now, I jabbed my finger even closer. “And I’m not the only one. We’re all sick of not living up to a Throne’s ethical standards, as if Seraphim—“
“Stop pointing at me!” she shouted, causing people nearby to glance our way.
Nothing to see here, folks, just a little family drama.
I leaned back, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Or what?”
“Never mind,” she said, picking up her purse. “I knew this was a mistake.” She started to do that awkward butt-shuffle people do when they’re easing out of a restaurant booth.
Any desire for reconciliation was eclipsed by the pleasure of seeing her walk away angry. “I’ll get the check,” I said.
She didn’t grace me with a response on her way out, which suited me just fine.
The waitress tentatively approached again. Favoring her with a bright, sunny smile, I ordered the Split Decision Breakfast, eggs over hard, and a large tomato juice. Her name was Tamika, and barring significant celestial (or infernal) intrusion, would live an inconsequential, unsatisfying life until an acute ischemic stroke caused her death on May 14, 2036. The Book of Life was pretty clear on that. If she provided good customer service, I’d tip well. And dissolve some of the plaque building up in her left aortic arch. Give her some more time on Earth.
Raqiel on Hubble II. It was ludicrous. Not that she’d mess it up, but still. Of all angels.
You think it's easy to just make a planet? Dad’s not even finished the plant life on Gliese 667 Cc yet.
We hadn’t spoken since the Argument, when he’d tried to stop Bazkiel and I from following Dad’s orders on the Sodom and Gomorrah job. It was ugly in the way only fights between brothers can get. He’d held nothing back. Bazkiel had fled, weeping, and only found surcease in burning Gomorrah and its sin-ridden people to white cinders: a classic case of angelic sublimation. For my part, I had just let Raqiel beat me with the truncheon of his words until he’d gotten tired of it. I still bear the scars, but I no longer bear a grudge.
To prove it, I put on mortal flesh and descended to Earth at his invitation. The venue was an International House of Pancakes in Hot Springs, Arkansas.
Typical.
The bleeding hearts always like to wallow in the muck to show you how much they care. It’s stupid. It’s showy. We could’ve met at the top of Mount Everest or the bottom of the Mariana Trench or even the Four Seasons in Manhattan. But instead, we had to get down and dirty with the “real people.” The folks.I walked past the surly, didn’t-want-to-be-there hostess in her blue vest and polyester slacks to Raqiel’s booth, the one by the bathrooms. He’d taken on the form of a Korean woman in late middle age for reasons known only to him, and was cradling a cup of coffee in both hands despite the damp, oppressive heat of the restaurant. I’ll refer to him as a she from now on.
“Good to see you, Usiel,” she said, smiling. Her eyes were red, swollen, and wet. Several crumpled napkins littered the table.
“Raqiel,” I greeted her, and sat opposite. “What’s up?”
“Thank you for coming to see me.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye.
She’d decided to be coy. I could’ve played the game: asked her how she was, what she’s been doing all this time. Fenced a little until she was ready to talk. But as I sat there, smelling nitrite-laced bacon and fake maple syrup, I discovered bruises that I’d thought were healed over millennia ago. It made me angry. Very angry.
“I don’t have time for this,” I grated. The waitress, who had been coming over with a plastic smile on her mouth, turned and fled. “Get to it. I’m busy.”
I guess I still bore a grudge after all.
The look of pity in her expression had me on my feet in less than a second, but she lifted both hands and said, “I’m sorry. I’m…I’m just sorry. For everything. The fight…everything. I need your help. Your…advice.”
I hate apologies like that. She just wanted to mollify me so she could get what she wanted. Still, I sat back down and said, “While we’re young, then.”
“I have to…to kill someone. A human being.” Her lower lip vibrated. “Dad said it’s time for me to go out and do some real work, as if helping people isn’t work.” She put down the cup. “Azrael’s busy, so it’s fallen to me.”
Biting back, And this is my problem how, I waited an appropriate amount of time before asking, “Who is it?”
She pulled a thin paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and bunched it in her fist. “Raymond Vasilakis. He’s…” Face crumpling, she whispered, “He’s got…children.” And then the waterworks started again: deep, wracking, loud sobs.
Checking to see if anyone was looking, I hissed, “You’re making a scene!” I yanked a bunch more napkins out of the holder and thrust them at her.
It took her several tiresome minutes to get hold of herself. In the meantime, I consulted the Book of Life to see who this Raymond Vasilakis was. For a casual perusal, all I could get were the basics: astrophysicist, three daughters, one wife, didn’t go to church, hated broccoli. Nothing special except in the brains department, but he wasn’t a great mover or shaker. A bench scientist. Why did Dad want—
“Sorry,” Raqiel sobbed, seemed about to say something, and dissolved into tears again.
“Just stop it, will you?” I begged. “They’re going to throw us out of here. Drink some coffee or something.”
She nodded, sipped audibly, and wiped her puffy face with a sodden napkin. “I’m not crying for me, but his children. They love him so—“
“Save it,” I said, before I could stop myself. Not that I wanted to. If bleeding hearts were invisible, nobody would have one. “Why does Dad want him off the Earth?”
Waving a hand, she said, “He’s going to be the Project Director of Hubble II in seventeen years, four months, and sixteen days. They’re…the humans, you know…they’re going to be able to see extrasolar planets with it. Close up.”
My jaw dropped. That would be an unmitigated disaster. “No,” I breathed.
With a negligent bounce of her shoulders, she said, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about that.” She wiped her nose. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I know how. But…I wanted to ask you…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down at the pile of snotty tissues on the table.
So soon! No wonder Dad didn’t just want someone to deflect an event or influence an outcome: He needed this guy out. They weren’t ready.
I shook my head to clear it. “What? What is it?” That He’d entrust this task to such a weepy, self-righteous paragon of pseudo-virtue rankled me further.
“You…you always did what Dad said. You’ve ended more lives than typhus.” Voice hardening, she asked, “How do you live with yourself? After?”
I drew back as if she’d presented a plate of fecal matter for my delectation. “Is that what all this is about? All this disgusting…crying?”
“I’m sorry if it’s not as easy for me to just kill someone—“
Banging a fist on the table, I said, “I’m not having this fight with you again,” and pointed a finger in her face. “All you ever do is make things difficult. You pule and whine and moan about not just your job, but everyone else’s job, and I’m sick of—“
A flicker of anger tightened her face. “Don’t point at me.”
Grinning now, I jabbed my finger even closer. “And I’m not the only one. We’re all sick of not living up to a Throne’s ethical standards, as if Seraphim—“
“Stop pointing at me!” she shouted, causing people nearby to glance our way.
Nothing to see here, folks, just a little family drama.
I leaned back, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Or what?”
“Never mind,” she said, picking up her purse. “I knew this was a mistake.” She started to do that awkward butt-shuffle people do when they’re easing out of a restaurant booth.
Any desire for reconciliation was eclipsed by the pleasure of seeing her walk away angry. “I’ll get the check,” I said.
She didn’t grace me with a response on her way out, which suited me just fine.
The waitress tentatively approached again. Favoring her with a bright, sunny smile, I ordered the Split Decision Breakfast, eggs over hard, and a large tomato juice. Her name was Tamika, and barring significant celestial (or infernal) intrusion, would live an inconsequential, unsatisfying life until an acute ischemic stroke caused her death on May 14, 2036. The Book of Life was pretty clear on that. If she provided good customer service, I’d tip well. And dissolve some of the plaque building up in her left aortic arch. Give her some more time on Earth.
Raqiel on Hubble II. It was ludicrous. Not that she’d mess it up, but still. Of all angels.
You think it's easy to just make a planet? Dad’s not even finished the plant life on Gliese 667 Cc yet.
September 19, 2014
Doings
Breadhead Friday's canceled this week, though next week's should be quite extraordinary.
Earlier this week, I volunteered to write a short YA horror novel based in and around the town of Dunedin, in Florida. Some of the local teenagers will be featured as characters in the novel. My intent is to have this written before Halloween, when the events of the novel take place.
It's proving to be a more difficult task than I originally considered, but I'm getting a handle on it. I hope to have the outline done by the middle of next week.
My experience with YA literature is limited, so I've done a good bit of reading and research in the meantime. Obviously, I can't use blue language the way I've done in The Blessed Man and the Witch , and certain horrific elements will have to be avoided. Nevertheless, I won't talk down to the readers, and I'm writing a story that I hope will be gripping, exciting, and worth reading for everyone, regardless of age.
This will be available as a download free of charge once it's complete.
Got to get back to work. As my little boy says, usually apropos of nothing at all, "Tick tock!"
Earlier this week, I volunteered to write a short YA horror novel based in and around the town of Dunedin, in Florida. Some of the local teenagers will be featured as characters in the novel. My intent is to have this written before Halloween, when the events of the novel take place.
It's proving to be a more difficult task than I originally considered, but I'm getting a handle on it. I hope to have the outline done by the middle of next week.
My experience with YA literature is limited, so I've done a good bit of reading and research in the meantime. Obviously, I can't use blue language the way I've done in The Blessed Man and the Witch , and certain horrific elements will have to be avoided. Nevertheless, I won't talk down to the readers, and I'm writing a story that I hope will be gripping, exciting, and worth reading for everyone, regardless of age.
This will be available as a download free of charge once it's complete.
Got to get back to work. As my little boy says, usually apropos of nothing at all, "Tick tock!"
September 17, 2014
Anecdotes
Memory is a tricky thing. Trying to remember something is often like transferring water from one bucket to the other using a sieve, and the older the memory, the longer the distance between buckets. When people see us with our little boy, they always say, "Treasure this time, because they grow up so fast." There are already things about his short life I don't remember and have to be reminded of: his first word ("kitty"), his first slice of pizza (an important event in our pizza-loving household), when he started to walk (ten months).
This post is intended to jog my memory of certain events so that they're not lost forever. At the time they were funny or meaningful in some way. Days, weeks or months later, they will lose their luster, and soon I'll forget them.
We were playing with Legos the other day. At his age, he has the larger Legos (Lego Duplo). His mother had built a little boat, and he was building a crane. I sat and watched: there are only so many Legos to go around, and it's fascinating to watch the two people I love most in the world doing something creative.
Suddenly, he got a look of great concentration on his face.
I asked, "What's wrong, kiddo?"
He turned to me, said urgently, "I have to make poopies!" and ran to the bathroom.
We laughed about that for the rest of the day.
###
This morning, as I was putting his bag by the garage door so we wouldn't forget it when I took him to preschool, I heard him call out, "Daddy! What's this?" I went over and saw him in the bedroom hallway, pointing to something at the threshold of his bedroom door.
It was a snake. A very small brown snake. It was something that should not have been there. Its very presence was not just unwelcome, but surreal. I'm not particularly afraid of snakes, but you don't expect to see one indoors at 7:20 AM.
"Well," I said, keeping my voice calm, "It's a snake. That's definitely a snake."
"Why's it there?"
"I don't know, but it's got to go."
The snake was very much alive. Its tiny tongue flickered out, scenting. After a few minutes of follies with my wife trying to wrangle it into a plastic container with a sheet of printer paper, I picked it up with oven mitts and tossed it outside.
Nobody knows how it got in.
###
On his Leapfrog there's a game/book thing called "First Day of Kindergarten." It has songs and activities and such, and it describes the first day of kindergarten for four students. One of the students is a Latina girl named Pilar.
Several months ago, as a joke, I called him Pilar, and he said, immediately, "No me Pilar!"
So it became a game, of sorts, where during a conversation I'd call him Pilar, and he would always come back with, "No me Pilar!" Always. Even if I said, "Oh, sorry, Pilar," he'd retort with "No me Pilar!" Same tone of voice, same response. Every time.
Yesterday, I called him Pilar, and he said, "I'm not Pilar." It was kind of sad. I couldn't get him to say, "No me Pilar." He knows how to say it properly now. That's over.
However, he still says, "yogret" instead of "yogurt." So there's that.
###
There's nobody he won't say hi to. His mother and I are introverts. Polite, courteous, but we keep our cards close to the vest. He's the opposite. He needs attention, especially from strangers.
When we were at the beach, there was a young woman walking along, reading aloud from a book that wasn't the Bible. She seemed very intent on what she was doing. It's a little strange to see someone reading aloud in public. If she's carrying a Bible, you automatically assume she's in some form of prayer. If she's carrying Divergent, well, it's odd.
For reasons of his own, he got up from the mud castle we were building in the wet sand, ran alongside her, and said hi until she noticed him. She took her face out of the book, smiled genuinely at him, and said hi back.
In that moment, she went from being a little off, a little disconcerting, to beautiful. Then he came back, we waved to her, and she continued her walk.
This post is intended to jog my memory of certain events so that they're not lost forever. At the time they were funny or meaningful in some way. Days, weeks or months later, they will lose their luster, and soon I'll forget them.
We were playing with Legos the other day. At his age, he has the larger Legos (Lego Duplo). His mother had built a little boat, and he was building a crane. I sat and watched: there are only so many Legos to go around, and it's fascinating to watch the two people I love most in the world doing something creative.
Suddenly, he got a look of great concentration on his face.
I asked, "What's wrong, kiddo?"
He turned to me, said urgently, "I have to make poopies!" and ran to the bathroom.
We laughed about that for the rest of the day.
###
This morning, as I was putting his bag by the garage door so we wouldn't forget it when I took him to preschool, I heard him call out, "Daddy! What's this?" I went over and saw him in the bedroom hallway, pointing to something at the threshold of his bedroom door.
It was a snake. A very small brown snake. It was something that should not have been there. Its very presence was not just unwelcome, but surreal. I'm not particularly afraid of snakes, but you don't expect to see one indoors at 7:20 AM.
"Well," I said, keeping my voice calm, "It's a snake. That's definitely a snake."
"Why's it there?"
"I don't know, but it's got to go."
The snake was very much alive. Its tiny tongue flickered out, scenting. After a few minutes of follies with my wife trying to wrangle it into a plastic container with a sheet of printer paper, I picked it up with oven mitts and tossed it outside.
Nobody knows how it got in.
###
On his Leapfrog there's a game/book thing called "First Day of Kindergarten." It has songs and activities and such, and it describes the first day of kindergarten for four students. One of the students is a Latina girl named Pilar.
Several months ago, as a joke, I called him Pilar, and he said, immediately, "No me Pilar!"
So it became a game, of sorts, where during a conversation I'd call him Pilar, and he would always come back with, "No me Pilar!" Always. Even if I said, "Oh, sorry, Pilar," he'd retort with "No me Pilar!" Same tone of voice, same response. Every time.
Yesterday, I called him Pilar, and he said, "I'm not Pilar." It was kind of sad. I couldn't get him to say, "No me Pilar." He knows how to say it properly now. That's over.
However, he still says, "yogret" instead of "yogurt." So there's that.
###
There's nobody he won't say hi to. His mother and I are introverts. Polite, courteous, but we keep our cards close to the vest. He's the opposite. He needs attention, especially from strangers.
When we were at the beach, there was a young woman walking along, reading aloud from a book that wasn't the Bible. She seemed very intent on what she was doing. It's a little strange to see someone reading aloud in public. If she's carrying a Bible, you automatically assume she's in some form of prayer. If she's carrying Divergent, well, it's odd.
For reasons of his own, he got up from the mud castle we were building in the wet sand, ran alongside her, and said hi until she noticed him. She took her face out of the book, smiled genuinely at him, and said hi back.
In that moment, she went from being a little off, a little disconcerting, to beautiful. Then he came back, we waved to her, and she continued her walk.
September 15, 2014
Unhealed Wounds and a Sense of Proportion
Wading into the hot soup of religion here, so put on your gumboots and pick up a spoon. Remember: we can talk about these things. It's okay.
When I was an entirely clueless young undergraduate at Temple University, rather than the almost entirely clueless adult I am now, I left class with a friend whose name I no longer remember to go to another class. This friend was Indian and pleasant, two qualities that are relevant to the remainder of this anecdote. As we walked past SAC (the Student Activity Center), a completely bald young man wearing an orange robe stepped in front of us, proffered a flower, and asked if we'd like to go to a talk that was being hosted shortly. Without missing a beat, my Indian friend said, very politely, "No thank you, I am a confirmed Hindu," and we breezed by him.
This made quite an impression on me at the time. The Hare Krishnas on campus were generally considered pests, but my friend had somehow put the fellow off in a way that was firm, courteous, and final. Back then, I didn't know a single thing about Hare Krishnas or Hindus, so it all seemed irrelevant, even meaningless. There was no difference between a proselytizing Hare Krishna and a homeless man asking for a dollar: neither had anything I wanted, and I had nothing to give to either. Such people were time vampires: grant them a second, and they'd take an hour.
As a Jew, I was proof against the blandishments of other faiths. Judaism is as much a culture as a religion, and to give up one would mean to eliminate the other. Whether or not I ate bacon cheeseburgers on Rosh Hashanah and then fasted on Yom Kippur was immaterial: I had a religion, and it was as much a part of me as my blood.
Recent events from the Hobby Lobby Supreme Court decision to the idea of "separation of church and state" being used to eliminate all expressions of faith from the public sphere tell us that religion is still a massively complicated set of issues that can't be legislated, argued, or compromised into simplicity. Not by me, not by anyone.
However, an important point needs to be made: there's a gigantic difference between a Nativity scene placed on the front lawn of City Hall at Christmastime, and someone sticking a Bible in your face and demanding you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. Degree matters, especially in a world we share with people who don't agree with us. Today's hypersensitive, politically-correct culture didn't start in a vacuum: it started with this lack of proportion. It started when someone discovered that he had the power to make everybody else cater to a whim based on that lack of proportion.
Many of us are actively offended by proselytizing, by witnessing Christians and Mormons at the door. That's perfectly okay. Nobody's saying you shouldn't be offended. But before you call the Freedom From Religion Foundation, do one small thing: ask yourself why. Try to determine the reason why you're so offended. We all have to deal with things we don't like, disagree with, or otherwise find offensive: why is this so off-putting? If we're offended by what we see on TV, we change the channel. In a novel, we close the book. On the radio, we tune out. In the street, we turn away. But when it's religion, it's got to be dealt with, and usually through legal means.
Why? What happened to our sense of proportion? What, exactly, is being assaulted here?
Dig deep. The things that hurt us most are the unhealed wounds.
When I was an entirely clueless young undergraduate at Temple University, rather than the almost entirely clueless adult I am now, I left class with a friend whose name I no longer remember to go to another class. This friend was Indian and pleasant, two qualities that are relevant to the remainder of this anecdote. As we walked past SAC (the Student Activity Center), a completely bald young man wearing an orange robe stepped in front of us, proffered a flower, and asked if we'd like to go to a talk that was being hosted shortly. Without missing a beat, my Indian friend said, very politely, "No thank you, I am a confirmed Hindu," and we breezed by him.
This made quite an impression on me at the time. The Hare Krishnas on campus were generally considered pests, but my friend had somehow put the fellow off in a way that was firm, courteous, and final. Back then, I didn't know a single thing about Hare Krishnas or Hindus, so it all seemed irrelevant, even meaningless. There was no difference between a proselytizing Hare Krishna and a homeless man asking for a dollar: neither had anything I wanted, and I had nothing to give to either. Such people were time vampires: grant them a second, and they'd take an hour.
As a Jew, I was proof against the blandishments of other faiths. Judaism is as much a culture as a religion, and to give up one would mean to eliminate the other. Whether or not I ate bacon cheeseburgers on Rosh Hashanah and then fasted on Yom Kippur was immaterial: I had a religion, and it was as much a part of me as my blood.
Recent events from the Hobby Lobby Supreme Court decision to the idea of "separation of church and state" being used to eliminate all expressions of faith from the public sphere tell us that religion is still a massively complicated set of issues that can't be legislated, argued, or compromised into simplicity. Not by me, not by anyone.
However, an important point needs to be made: there's a gigantic difference between a Nativity scene placed on the front lawn of City Hall at Christmastime, and someone sticking a Bible in your face and demanding you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior. Degree matters, especially in a world we share with people who don't agree with us. Today's hypersensitive, politically-correct culture didn't start in a vacuum: it started with this lack of proportion. It started when someone discovered that he had the power to make everybody else cater to a whim based on that lack of proportion.
Many of us are actively offended by proselytizing, by witnessing Christians and Mormons at the door. That's perfectly okay. Nobody's saying you shouldn't be offended. But before you call the Freedom From Religion Foundation, do one small thing: ask yourself why. Try to determine the reason why you're so offended. We all have to deal with things we don't like, disagree with, or otherwise find offensive: why is this so off-putting? If we're offended by what we see on TV, we change the channel. In a novel, we close the book. On the radio, we tune out. In the street, we turn away. But when it's religion, it's got to be dealt with, and usually through legal means.
Why? What happened to our sense of proportion? What, exactly, is being assaulted here?
Dig deep. The things that hurt us most are the unhealed wounds.
September 12, 2014
Breadhead Friday: Who Put the Bab in Babka?
Babka straddles the line between yeast bread and coffee cake, and when done right can be the best of both worlds. New Yorkers are lucky enough to be able to get them at the corner bakery, but those of us living outside the Big Apple usually have to make our own. The first time I made a babka, using a Peter Reinhart recipe, it turned out okay, but wasn't anything to write home about. I'd done it, checked that box, and moved on.
Dough rolled out and chocolate filling spread atopYears later, I figured I'd try it again. This time, it turned out a lot better. The crumb was flaky and light, and the icing drizzle created a nice sweetness that contrasted with the bittersweet chocolate.
Rolled up, put into a Bundt pan, and bakedThe process is a bit involved, requiring long risings and a bit of a challenge shaping, but if you've ever made a jelly roll or sticky buns, it shouldn't present much of a problem.
Blue and white icingI don't know why I put a two-tone icing drizzle on it.
The crumb shotSeptember 10, 2014
Flash Fiction: Howard Tinkertoy
As I backed out of the driveway, I noticed Matt’s kiddie tablet on the seat and almost stopped the car. He was going to be with his mother for the next two weeks and would miss it, but I found myself easing into the intersection anyway. The divorce hadn’t been amicable, and I didn’t feel like going back, getting out of the car, and having to ring the doorbell of the house I’d bought like an unwelcome guest. The tablet, a Nabi, was Matt’s responsibility, so being without it would teach him a valuable lesson. And if he wanted it that badly, his mother could call and arrange a time to pick it up. Traffic wasn’t too heavy, and I got home in record time. Home. Jesus Christ. Home is an inapt term for a crappy apartment on the “ethnic” side of town that was mostly inhabited by overlarge Latino families, welfare cases, and college kids too poor to live on campus. I hated that I always had to make sure there wasn’t anything visible in the car, from a half-empty snack bag of Ruffles to my kid’s tablet, or else the homeless junkies would smash the windows to steal it. From a four-bedroom in the suburbs on a good half-acre to an inner-city toilet: this was home? On a whim, I turned the Leapfrog on, logged in, and looked at the photos he’d taken. At his age, it wasn’t like he had any great grasp of composition or anything, but he’d caught a few interesting things: a dew-jeweled spider web strung between the branches of the birch tree in front of the house, countless selfies with his tongue out, bones from a KFC dinner, the Iron Man poster on his bedroom wall at the apartment. Usual stuff— Who the hell was that? It was a picture of the dining room. Sitting at the head of the table was a man wearing large brown glasses and holding a knife and fork above a bowl of soup, as if he planned to cut into it. The photo’s blurriness made his features impossible to discern, but he seemed familiar somehow. Who was he? A new boyfriend, clowning around in my chair like he owned the place— I was holding the tablet so tightly that it shook, so I put it down, went to the freezer, and poured myself a shot of Svedka to calm my nerves. The guy looked so familiar. Did he work with my ex-wife at that stupid gift shop downtown? None of the other photos on the tablet turned him up. I’d have to ask Matt when I saw him in two weeks. Two whole weeks to see my own son: those are my visitation rights. Good deal, huh? My job is only tedious because of the clients. You’d think a contract lawyer would have been able to get a good divorce attorney, but you’d be dead wrong. Anyway, I digress. The clients. I work with old people on wills and trusts, mostly, and 70% of my day is answering and re-answering the same questions asked by the same people. Telling somebody something once doesn’t do it any more: you have to reassure them. Yes, Mr. Stanwyck, you can devote this percentage to this person and the rest to that university. No, Mrs. Blum, you shouldn’t leave it all to your dog, because those wills get contested all the time and only in the movies does the dog live in the lap of luxury while your ungrateful children gnash their teeth outside the fence. After having to shout into the phone for an hour at a deaf old broad about reverse mortgages, I told my secretary I’d be taking a coffee break and left the office. The man in the large brown glasses was pacing back and forth in front of the lobby doors, and looked up hopefully when I came out of the elevator. He wore a gray V-neck sweater and corduroys despite the warm weather, with clean white sneakers and black socks. Determined not to let him know I recognized him from the photo, I went to breeze past him. Let him call my name and make the first move. “Howard? Howard Tinkertoy?” All the blood in my body turned to frozen gelatin, and I stared at him as if he’d slapped me. When I was four, my mother took me to visit some great-aunts of hers. They were old and I was shy, and they asked me my name and I didn’t want to tell them, so I told them my name was Howard, because I loved Howard the Duck comics. Everyone laughed, and they asked what my last name was, and I said, Tinkertoy, for similar reasons. Nobody remembered that but me. My mother died of breast cancer a few years later. “I need to talk to you. Fast,” the man said, and jerked his head in the direction of the exit. My voice was a squeaky whisper. “How do you…what…” “Fast,” he insisted, took my upper arm, and pulled me out of the building. We were halfway down the block when I managed to yank my arm away. “Get off me,” I said. “You can’t just—” I finally recognized him. His name was Kreutzman. He’d been my third grade teacher, the only male teacher in the whole school. From the 1970’s glasses to the Puma sneakers to the mild, rubbery late-40’s face, he hadn’t changed at all. “Yes, I know,” he said. “We really need to talk. Now.” He kept looking down the street as if someone was going to sneak up on us. “Okay, okay. Let’s go here.” I led the way and sat at an outdoor table at the Starbucks. It was clear from the look on his face that he didn’t like it, but he perched on the edge of a chair and nodded to himself. “We don’t have a lot of time. So I’ll be quick.” “But how—“ “Shut up!” he hissed, and for an instant I was back in third grade getting hollered at for talking in class. Abashed despite myself, I hung my head. He bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Robert,” he said, using my real name this time. “I can’t answer questions. That’s not why they brought me back.” I spread my hands and kept my mouth closed: a perfect listener. “There’s something I need to get from you. It’s a memory. A memory of something really awful. Something so terrible that you couldn’t even grasp it at the time. I need you to remember and I need you to give it to me.” How do you give someone a memory? Even so, I knew exactly what he was talking about. My stepmother. She’d been a horrible, abusive woman, full of vitriol and bile. Once, when I was ten, she caught me sneaking one of Dad’s Club magazines out from— “No! No, Robert! That’s not it,” Mr. Kreutzman said, jabbing a blunt forefinger at my chest. “I’m talking about something important.” I gaped at him. “Important? Jesus Christ, she took a wooden spoon and…and…I needed surgery! And no one believed me when—“ He slapped both hands on the table loud enough to make it rattle. I jumped. Nobody else seemed to notice. “Stop it! It isn’t about you. Everything isn’t about you.” Swallowing, trying to push the decades-old pain, anger, and resentment back down where it belonged, I glowered at him. “We’re not going to be able to talk again like this. They won’t allow it. So when you remember, write it down or draw a picture of it.” His honest, elastic face relaxed a little. “I know it’s hard, Robert. You think I don’t know that? As much as I ever loved a student, I loved you, because you were a decent, sweet little boy who had a sick mother. You didn’t deserve that.” Tears stung my eyes, the first since I was twelve. Even when Matt was born I didn’t cry. Real men don’t cry. Mr. Kreutzman doubled, then trebled. I scrubbed my face. “I have to go,” he said, getting up. “You have no idea how important this is. It’s everything. I can’t tell you what it is. All I can say is that you weren’t alone when it happened. Four others were there, and you’re the only one they haven’t killed yet. But you have to remember. You can. And if—when you do, you’ll understand. You’ll shout it to the world. As terrible as it was, you’ll make everyone understand. Everything doesn’t have to end.” I looked up at him, and he made the face of a man who has to do something he really doesn’t want to do. “This wasn’t a dream.” He touched my forehead with two fingers and made me see what would happen if I didn’t remember what I was supposed to. My screaming didn’t stop until the ambulance arrived, and long before then, Mr. Kreutzman was gone.
