Jim Baumer's Blog, page 13

Poems All Month

We’re 10 days into National Poetry Month and I’ve not made one mention of it. That’s a damn shame!

I never paid much attention to poets as I’ve alluded to before. Then, Mark was killed and I wanted to know more about why he was attracted to poetry and certain kinds of poets.

Someone wrote me that he thought poetry was “a thing” and maybe I should glom onto that. He didn’t think much of my “diary of grief” style.

I’m not a poet and never will be.

Did you know Herman Melville wrote more poetry than fiction? I didn’t until this afternoon when, after spending most of the day on my writing-for-hire, I employed my speed-reading prowess I first learned back in the day at LHS, from Mr. Barton. I managed to tear through three books on Melville, Ambrose Bierce, and Walt Whitman.

Melville was a poet: “Melville His World and Work,” by Andrew Delbanco

Melville’s first poetic theme was the Civil War, which unfolded in Battle-Pieces and Other Aspects of the War. “If we are to completely to understand Melville’s poetry,” wrote Robert Penn Warren, “we must see it against the backdrop of his defeat as a writer.” [from Andrew Delbanco’s, Melville: His World and Work]

If you know anything about Melville and his writing, then you know his popularity as a writer came long after he was gone.

I thought today’s poem-a-day, “Solemnity,” fit well with the Melville’s Civil War poems and the reading I’ve been doing from Drew Gilpin Faust’s excellent, This Republic of Suffering: Death and the American Civil War.

Solemnity




Myronn Hardy







At the mosque’s entrance 3:30 a.m. Syrian
women beg wearing black gloves.
Your father’s grandmother was Syrian

before the country was ash.
Before the government turned
to kill its people.

What incites that internal blaze?
What says it is me I will take
or not me but those whom I claim?

We are claimed after meditation.
We are walking an empty street
after pretending to play drums.

After I recognize the heather in air
after we swim in a pool surrounded by azaleas
after your mother smiles observing us

after we sleep in her house fields
of sunflowers. I’m on a bus
watching them sway. I’m forgetting

the distance the inevitable loss
I will hold warm as snow whitens the green.
What will you hold?

What will you see beyond your hands?
Streets lined with jacarandas
that morph to pines to a self beneath

ice that wolves trample silently?
Someone still begs.
Someone still believes in our

innate generosity.
You are waiting for me but refuse to say it.
You believe in returns.

You believe in the planet’s roundness.
You believe in gravity’s inaudible assurance.
You believe in what I doubt.

Copyright © 2019 by Myronn Hardy. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 10, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

Stealing Your Hamburgers

We’re living in a country where it seems like everything is broken and no one knows how to fix it. Hyperbolic? Yeah, a little bit. But, there’s a sheen of truth in that opening salvo, too.

Donald Trump ran on a slogan of “Make America Great Again.” MAGA speaks to an idea that we’re not what we once were, as a country. While I might disagree with President Trump and his prescriptions for “fixing what’s broken,” I can’t disagree that we’re not where we ought to be, either.

On Friday, MSNBC’s Chris Hayes went to the Bronx, the NYC borough represented by Congresswoman Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (she also represents parts of Queens, too). The town hall, taped in the afternoon, ran during Hayes’ usual 8:00 p.m. slot on the left-leaning cable news network popular with “lefties” like me.

As Ocasio-Cortez strode into the auditorium at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, she was afforded a “hero’s welcome” by the adoring crowd, before sitting down and taping the hour-long segment on her signature proposal known as, the Green New Deal. I’m glad I tuned in and got to see AOC, the three-letter moniker both her fans and critics tend to use when referencing her and her politics.

Ah, yes. Speaking of things that are broken and not being repaired—our politics would certainly fall within those parameters. And Ocasio-Cortez has become a lightning rod on the left for attracting criticism from opponents in much the same way Mr. Trump galvanizes his opponents’ wrath.

So, what is the Green New Deal? I know that it’s been touted (and condemned) by various factions across the political spectrum. The Green New Deal was a proposed resolution co-sponsored by both Ocasio-Cortez and Rep. Ed Markey (D-MA). A concise summary would say that the Green New Deal sets goals that would drastically cut carbon emissions, focusing on electricity generation, transportation, as well as agriculture. In the process, it aims to create jobs and boost the economy.

But the brokenness of our politics—fueled often by binary constructs of every single issue—attempts to demonize both the legislation and in particular, Ocasio-Cortez. For many on the right, she’s the political and moral equivalent of “Satan” and someone out to take away Americans’ hamburgers. This was a charge made by Sebastian Gorka, former member of the Trump administration, at the Conservative Political Action Conference last month, fulminating that wild-eyed Democrats are coming and worse: “They want to take your pickup truck! They want to rebuild your home! They want to take away your hamburgers! This is what Stalin dreamt about but never achieved!”

AOC is not the Hamburglar.

For one, Gorka’s rant is over-the-top on so many levels. Of course, there’s been a host of other unhinged characterizations of the Green New Deal by Republicans, who fail every single test on the innovation front. I can summarize their criticism of the proposal as a “green socialist manifesto.” But is it?

And to be fair to Republicans, Democrats in the Senate failed to step-up and support the resolution, as it failed to gain the necessary 60 votes for advancement for a final vote. Four members of the Senate’s Democratic caucus in fact voted against it: Coal Country’s Joe Manchin of West Virginia, Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona, Doug Jones of Alabama, and Maine’s own “maverick” independent, Angus King. For what it’s worth, King is someone is I think is an environmental fraud on a host of levels, including his support of (and the significant benefits he received) industrial wind, and not deserving of the pass he gets from far too many on the left.

If all you know about Ocasio-Cortez comes courtesy of your deluded (or “psychotic”) right-wing sources of misinformation, then you’ll likely miss how revolutionary Ms. Ocasio-Cortez and her cohort of freshmen congressional colleagues really are. Or, maybe they’re not as revolutionary as others are giving them credit for being.

There was a time in America not that long ago (but far enough back) that those in power believed in and supported what NYU sociologist Eric Klinenberg calls, “social infrastructure.” Those physical places in our society where bonds between people are forged and developed. As he wrote in a piece for The Atlantic last fall, robust social infrastructure “fosters contact, mutual support, and collaboration among friends and neighbors; when degraded, it inhibits social activity, leaving families and individuals to fend for themselves.”

If you attempt to read the news as a way of ferreting out what’s actually happening to us, rather than as a means of scoring cheap ideological takedowns, then you’ll recognize a pattern: Republicans only care about maintaining the status quo. And their baseline position will only continue resulting in things breaking down without a fix forthcoming.

If there’s a way forward, then it’s time for new ideas. Concepts like Medicare for All, something more affordable than Republicans want you to believe. How about jobs built on a foundation of living wages? And yes, investments in our public (and social) infrastructure: the things Klinenberg says are “precisely what we need.” These were the things we were prioritizing when America was still a functional nation.

If Trumpsters wanted a better America, then that’s what they’d be supporting. Not building a wall around our perimeter and continuing to enhance the wealthiest at the expense of the rest of us. And certainly not demonizing people like Ocasio-Cortez and others who actually offer a path to making America better, and possibly, great again.

 

Under a Rock

I was spent Friday afternoon following class at USM. The long week of trying to write marketing collateral, hitting an article deadline, a return to tutoring, and then, sitting through my nearly three-hour-long history class, pushed me past my energy tipping point.

Back home, waiting for Mary to arrive from work and thinking about what to make for dinner, I flicked on the television. Five minutes of politics was enough. For whatever reason, I changed the channel to a music station and on my screen was a young woman who could easily have been one of the students I’ve been spending time with tutoring and subbing. Except that she was in a “strange” video; blood was dripping from her nose and she appeared in outfits ranging from a white uniform, to yellow sweat suit, all the while commencing to sing about “bad guys and tough guys.” The video was jarring enough to keep me there, watching the song called, “Bad Guy.”

Saturday, sitting in the Lee’s Tire waiting room while getting my snow tires swapped-out for summer treads, I happened to be paging through the Arts & Leisure section of the New York Times: Who was looking back at me from page 17? The face of Billie Eilish, the young woman from Friday’s video, which commences with Eilish saying, “I’ve taken out my Invisalgn.”

Apparently, I’ve been living under a rock because I knew nothing about the 17-year-old prodigy named Billie Eilish. According to the piece in the Times, before she’d even turned 17, Eilish had accomplished “nearly all of the modern prerequisites of pop stardom and then some. The writer than ticked off things like her homemade songs (written with her brother, Finneas) had been streamed “more than a billion times on digital platforms,” along with millions of Instagram followers (15 million, according to the article).

On Spotify, I’ve been listening to tracks from her new album (if that’s what you call this compilation of songs gathered together hastily to cash-in on her popularity), “When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go?” Honestly, I didn’t mind the experience. I heard pop for sure, some elements of hip-hop were present, but I’m not an expert on teenage music of this sort.

Reading about her family, she sounds like a fairly normal kid—as normal as any 17-year-old can be with fame banging on her bedroom door and wanting to consume yet another pop music acolyte. [see Michael Jackson]

The writer, Joe Coscarelli, described Eilish’s vocals as “pure,” but that her lyrics were “angsty and bleak—serial killers, domination, monsters under the bed,” as her thematic set. I did note the “wobbly beats,” when I first saw her video, which initially captured me.

Of course, like with every new teen idol who comes along, some parents are freaking out about their children’s adulation bordering on obsession. Apparently, Eilish is “so controversial.” What’s new? Can anyone say, “Elvis,” or “Eminem?”

How to Succeed As a Writer

I’ll be on calls for the rest of the day. I’m on deadline for articles, and I’ve been hired as a writer for a national marketing campaign. Why bother putting a blog post up on the JBE? I don’t know—maybe because I think having a blog and updating content is important. I’ve been doing that for as long as I’ve been writing. Why stop now?

Then, for some reason, I’ve gotten emails from writers soliciting advice. I guess they thought I might have a “magic bullet” related to writing, or something. I hate to disappoint, but I don’t consider myself the model of success, at least in terms of the usual way the term is sliced and diced. It’s possible they had me confused with someone else.

Since people are asking, let me briefly hold court on the topic.

One of the writers has had success, at least I consider having a book published, “success.” But like happens to many writers, things change, sometimes overnight. If you’re not in it for the long haul, during these times “in the desert,” it’s easy to think you’re doing things wrong.

I am still writing. Being a writer is what I set out to do back in the early 2000s and I’ve stayed the course. I’ve had several detours out of necessity, mainly related to paying the bills, but even when I was working full-time, I was still freelancing, putting out books, and honing my craft. So, if success can be joined to stick-to-itiveness, then yes, I guess I am successful.

Success=hard work

Sorry to disappoint, but there are no magic bullets—at least I haven’t found any that made being a writer the equivalent to coasting downhill. Writing’s tough, finding enough work is sometimes harder. Being a writer, as much as some people romanticize it is like any other profession—it’s hard work!

Then, bad things can happen to you. Your son might be killed, or you might face some other tragedy. You might have a health crisis. Getting back on your horse is tough. People who used to champion your writing might decide to abandon you.

Even before Mark was killed, I wondered if this “writing thing” was worth continuing with. I know Mark believed in me and he’d always share pearls of wisdom with me that he’d cultivated in his own life and from his commitment to his craft as a writer and poet.

I’m back writing regularly for auto trade magazines. I landed a project because I can write and others recognized that. I have a book manuscript I’m shopping, so yes, the slog continues.

As an aside, one tip I always leave with writing students, whether it’s one of my eight-week classes, or a Saturday boot camp on publishing: start a blog. Why? Because having a blog is an excuse for you to write as often and as regularly as you want. I can’t believe more people who call themselves writers don’t avail themselves of this. I’ve always believed this and have preached it: “writers, write.” That’s what I’m doing here. See what I just did? If you did, then there’s hope for you.

Since I’m not as committed to answering personal correspondence these days as I used to be, let me dispense with a few tips from my own life and let this post serve as my response to those querying me.

Believe in yourself because most other people won’t
Don’t take rejection to heart
Write what you know
Limit your time on social media
Have a thick hide
Cultivate resilience
Just keep at it

I’d also add, look beyond your own backyard for opportunities. Everything I’m doing right now isn’t based in the state where I live. In fact, I’m done pitching local editors.

Nothing magical in this post. Success is rarely about magic and almost always about hard work and staying at it. Here’s what Stephen King had to say on the topic, and I followed his advice.

Down at the Community Center

Not sure about anyone else, but I need regular detours and diversion from the ugliness of the world. Or perhaps it’s not diversion: maybe I’m just focusing on things that bring just a bit of joy, and less angst directed towards things that really don’t matter (politics, Twitter trolls, religion, who’s fucking whom, etc).

Music’s probably not everyone’s cup o’ tea, or probably not my rock and roll fixation that’s not gotten assigned to old geezers on nostalgia trips. Whatever.

I know a few readers are fans of Connor Oberst/Bright Eyes. He’s launched a new act with Phoebe Bridgers called, Better Oblivion Community Center, which if you’re not careful, you’ll confuse for a small town nonprofit. They even have an .org-based URL.

I’ve been digging Bridgers’ music for awhile, including her recent indie “supergroup,” Boygenius, with Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker. Bummed I missed Dacus in Portland because the show was sold out and I tarried scoring my tix. Oh well. There will be other shows.

Anyways. Hope you enjoy this video as much as I did.

Oh. And I forgot to mention that rock and roll isn’t only within the purview of men, either. Thanks to KEXP, WFMU, and WMBR, places on the interwebs you’re likely to find me during most days when I’m working at the crib, lately I’ve been listening to lots of music made by women (but obviously, not just for women).

Not sure if I’ve written about her, but Sharon Van Etten’s really become a thing, as evidenced by coverage like this. I’m not surprised. I could see her talent four years ago when I first heard her sing and was blown away. Her Epic EP’s carried me through some tough times the past two years and I’m really happy that the world is just now waking up to SVE.

Ghost in the City

Back from another rock and roll-oriented trip to Boston. This was the third trip in less than a month. Monday night, I saw Teenage Fanclub, one of a handful of mid-90s post-punk bands still making meaningful music.

Live Teenage Fanclub (Paradise Rock Club/Boston)

The show was at the Paradise, near BU. I looked for something relatively affordable and ended up at a Residence Inn by Marriott, not much further away than a strong Dwight Evans’ right field howitzer to the plate from historic Fenway Park. My seventh floor room offered views of one of MLB’s oldest and revered diamonds, as well as the iconic Citgo sign. It was a mile walk to see the show and I could hop on the Green Line back, afterwards.

Too early for baseball

On my way to North Station to catch a train for home, I stopped at one of my five favorite places in the city—Boston Public Library. Libraries like this one are holdovers from the days when wealthy people made investments in public infrastructure that benefited all citizens, and wanted their government to do the same. What is being added for future generations by the current greedy bastards in power?

From my hotel, the walk there was slightly more than a mile. I’ve been battling left knee tightness, but I think my city-walking therapy the past few days seemed to be help. The route was also one Mary, Mark, and I made countless times during the early 1990s when the three of us would drive down from Maine and park off Boylston, across from the Sheraton. We also stayed at that property many times during a long weekend when we availed ourselves of other non-baseball options during an extended Boston stay.

Boylston Street passes The Fens, part of the city’s Emerald Necklace, another example of equitable public build-out benefiting all citizens. Birds were chirping, and the approach of spring had allowed many of the park’s pathways to be free of snow.

Back Bay Fens (along Boylston St.)

Since I got on the train in Brunswick late Monday morning, I didn’t have a single conversation, other than with people facilitating my travel—hotel staff, train conductors, club staff, and the workers at by Chloe where I had lunch after checking-in. On my return trip, it was the same. This was something new for me. I didn’t go out of my way to engage with strangers, either.

It’s quite likely I passed thousands of other humans, earbuds wedged into eardrums, texting on smartphones, or simply fixated on where they are headed. Boston is certainly  an urban environment, and geography affects people’s interactions. So does our embrace of evermore technology.

Walking around Boston, it was impossible not to pass many landmarks I’ve walked by with Mark. His spirit is everywhere in the city.

Grief inflicts many things on the grieving. While your life never returns to the previous equilibrium, you learn that for the people around you, their lives do.

As much as I’d like to be able to have more interaction with humans (or perhaps I really don’t want this at all), people move on and often, move away. Then, you are left with memories, solitude, and you have to figure out what all of this means to you in that place where you are forced to reside, forever.

Sometimes it feels like what I imagine a ghost feels.

Fake Without a Foundation

I wonder what percentage of people could name perhaps two or three of the foundational elements of journalism? It’s probably safe to assume that the people who lob the pejorative “fake” at media professionals probably don’t know even one element. Interestingly, I learned that younger Americans are better than the oldsters at telling what’s true, and what’s not.

One of my journalistic heroes was Norm Fournier. He was the editor and jack-of-all-trades behind the small town newspaper in the place where I grew up. Fournier, I’m sure, could name all 10 elements of journalism and practiced them with regularity across the more than three decades he was the font of news in the place where he decided to plant his flag, where he’d made his own commitment to truth. This type of commitment is actually the first element of journalism, as determined by the American Press Institute.

A paper that practices the 10 essentials of journalism.

I was reading one of our local newspapers still covering the local beat this weekend. I thought of Fournier and some of the conversations he allowed me to have with him at the end of his life. Again I was reminded that newspapers still serve an important purpose. Not only are they committed to truth, but their loyalty is first and foremost to all the citizens. What does this mean? Well, at the core of this second element of journalism it means that journalists “must strive to put the public interest—and the truth—above their own self-interest or assumptions.”

When our president says that the press is “the enemy of the people,” part of his mischaracterization of the press and media is driven by his misunderstanding of this second element. The press’s role isn’t to make him look good: it’s to report the truth and maintain its first loyalty—to all citizens, not just those in power, like him.

Unlike newspapers who practice the elements of journalism. social media enables the ignorant, providing them with a place and platform to spew misinformation. Those who know little or nothing about the press and how it operates are often the first to cry “fake” about news coverage that doesn’t align with their ideological slant, especially if it tilts to the right. Online platforms also lower the bar of entry so that the basest elements can push the truth aside.

In a neighboring community,, social media is where members of the town have taken to in a successful attempt to spread falsehoods about a public servant. I’m not going to go into significant detail other than to say that someone who commits (and volunteers) to leaving their house weekly (or more often) to help local government function deserves respect. All-too-often, those who can’t be bothered to get off their assess to even vote once a year, use social media as a forum to stir up controversy. It’s also one reason why fewer and fewer people care to subject themselves to attacks from the digital equivalent of the “peanut gallery.”

The public servant, a woman named Kim Totten, served on the MSAD 75 School Board for 34 years. She was the current chairperson, until an online contingent took issue with her leadership, and now she’s been removed. A fellow board member likened it to a “social media witch hunt.” I’m guessing that Ms. Totten hasn’t changed over the course of three decades. But the environment where she is forced to operate has, thanks to the lynch mob mentality of social media miscreants.

I have a good friend who was routinely vilified by his own detractors, via Facebook. This was in a small town south of here. My friend served on the local town council until he was term-limited out. Because his personal views were often progressive and he maintained an active presence on social media, those in town with nothing better to do than “grind axes” decided that his views of being a progressive unduly influenced his behavior on behalf of the town. Not because he’s my friend, but because I know how deeply-committed he was to his duties, I know these false chargers were an outright lie. I could call these charges made by local ne’er-do-wells, “fake.”

Unlike journalists, who must verify information by “seeking out multiple witnesses,” as well as “disclosing as much as possible about sources” in getting to the core of the truth for their articles, those “bomb-throwers” on Facebook and other platforms simply make charges—most of the time, with little or no verification.” These lies and falsehoods that originate in opinion and conjecture, tarnish attempts to get to the truth.

When Norm Fournier died, it was just after the release of my first book. I’m pleased that he gave me his own “blessing” about my own efforts to tell a story that was rooted in journalism, even if my motivation was more to tell a story, and less about a work beholden to journalistic principals.  I know these elements are usually somewhere in most of everything I write.

Before you lob “fake news” at the work of a committed journalist, or spread your own fakery, take a gander at the 10 essential elements of journalism. This is a solid list of principals you could actually incorporate any time you’re tempted to make a charge or accusation. Is what you are going to post actually true? How do you know? Have you verified it with supporting sources? This list goes on.

I’m pretty sure Fournier would approve.

On Not Doing Sports

“Doing sports” was always a big thing in the Baumer household. Mark had a WIFFLE® Ball Bat in his hands not long after he learned to walk. He’d later grow into an outstanding hockey and baseball player, doing the latter sport well enough to play in college, win accolades for his accomplishments, and have a hand in leading his college mates to a spot in the Division III College World Series in 2006.

On Mark’s final walk, we communicated less about sports than at any time in our relationship. I knew he still followed the NBA to some degree. While he’d never played basketball beyond elementary school in a structured fashion, he’d become enamored by “the Association,” even joining a Golden State Warriors fan board back in the mid-2000s during his undergraduate winters at Wheaton.

[Come on! Do Sports!!]

Mark brought me back to basketball. I’d played in high school for the woeful Lisbon High Greyhounds. As one of the team’s tallest players at 6’3”, I often found my nights on the hardwood matched up against the other teams biggest and usually best, offensive player. I couldn’t jump, wasn’t particularly fast, but I did have an aggression and a “mean streak” that lent itself well to pummeling opponents who possessed greater skills. Of course, this also meant I was usually in “foul trouble,” and regularly on the wrong side of the officials. I’ll simply add that my basketball career wasn’t as distinguished as my time on the baseball diamond. There, I could “throw that speedball by you, make you look like a fool boy” as Springsteen sang in “Glory Days.”

Once Mark moved back east from California and settled in Providence, we began an annual thing together: we’d pick a team we both wanted to see the “hometown” Celtics take on and we’d order tickets and plan a rendezvous in Beantown. I think we began this sometime around 2010 when Mark joined Brown’s Literary Arts program, in pursuit of his MFA in Creative Writing.

Like all our get-togethers over the years when I’d drive down, and then—at Mark’s urging—began utilizing public transportation options like the bus and also, the Amtrak Downeaster, they’ve left me with a myriad of memories. For instance, meeting at South Station (if coming down on Concord Trailways) or North Station (if riding the rails), I remember all the times I’d arrive at one of Boston’s transportation hubs and begin looking for Mark, either calling him or texting him. Once I got his coordinates, I’d most often spot his tall frame across the station, with his unforgettable grin and wave, and get to experience that special thing that fathers who love their sons unconditionally feel when reunited with an adult child you haven’t seen for weeks, or even months.

You likely know the story by now. Mark was killed in 2017, while walking across the country barefoot, on a quest to raise awareness about climate change, while also raising funds for an activist organization, The FANG Collective, that’d he’d joined and was involved with.

The last time Mark and I were at TD Garden Center to watch the Celtics was in 2015. It was actually December 11, 2015, a bit more than a week before Mark’s 31st birthday. The Golden State Warriors were off to a magical start. This was the year when they announced to the rest of the basketball world that they’d taken it over. They had won every single game to start the season and Mark decided that if they came to Boston still undefeated that it would make for a “game of a lifetime” for us to attend together. He got tickets. He then called me.

“Hi dad. What are you doing on Friday?”

I’m sure I said something like, “oh, not much. Why?”

“I have tickets to see the Celts and Golden State—do you want to go?”

Did I want to go?

It was the game that I’m sure Mark would have scripted if he could have. We met, walked over to the Boston Public Market where we ordered two amazing salads and Mark probably got a fresh juice of some kind. This was prior to my plant-based vegan conversion. Mark had been a vegan for awhile.

We then walked the half mile the TD Garden, talking basketball, writing, life. We always did during these basketball-related meet-ups.

The Celts threw everything at the Warriors that night. They pushed them to double overtime before losing by five, 124-119. It was Golden State’s 24th straight win to open a season. The next night, they fell to Milwaukee, a team they should have beaten. Mark and I were bummed that it wasn’t the Celtics who ended the streak. We laughed about it over email. I didn’t know this would be the last time I’d watch a Celtics’ game with my only son.

*******

A lot is different in my life these days. It’s that way for Mary, too. Our lives will never return to that place that existed before Mark was killed.

We went to Boston two weeks ago. We had a good time. Memories of Mark are scattered throughout the city.

Back in early December, I began watching a few games on NBA TV. I hadn’t watched more than a few minutes of a pro basketball game since Mark’s death. I’m not sure what prompted my interest in checking back in with “the Association.” I do know that a player named James Harden had landed on my sports radar, mainly due to reading a book by Sam Anderson, about Oklahoma City (also referred to as “OKC” by locals and others). Harden was a central figure in Anderson’s book, one that was excellent and way more than simply about basketball played by amazingly gifted athletes. Harden was (and is) as talented as any player who’s ever played the game.

In Anderson’s book, Harden played a key role for a team with two legitimate stars: Kevin Durant and Russell Westrook. He was their “sixth man,” a role where he supplied instant offense, coming off the bench. He left OKC, which caused a great deal of consternation in that city that sits “not quite” in the middle of Middle America, and has lost its mind about its basketball team.

Harden wanted to become and is now the marquee player and leading scorer for the Houston Rockets. If you know anything about the game of pro basketball and remember Michael Jordan, Harden is having a Jordan-esque type of season. As of this morning, he is averaging 36.7 points per game and has “gone off” for 50 six times this season, including a night where he had 61 back in January (that happened to be my birthday).

Watching him on television, I told Mary about “the Beard,” which is a nickname he’s acquired for no other reason than he sports a signature beard. I think it gives him almost a cartoon-character appearance, but it works, also. I kept saying, “I need to see ‘the Beard’ play.” So I asked her if she’d accompany me to Boston when Harden and the Rockets came to town in March. She said, “yes.” Keep in mind, this was back in December. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

December and Christmas were now in our rear-view mirror, as well as another set of anniversaries related to Mark’s death. I was beginning to wonder if my decision was a good one. I began having buyer’s remorse. But we had decent tickets and we’d enjoyed the train trip two weeks before.

Sunday morning, we hopped on the southbound Downeaster headed to Boston. The train was filled with many other basketball fans trekking to see the Celtics and Rockets. Sports seems to draw a different class of train-traveler, very different than the riders from a few weeks before.

We got to the game, had a pre-game snack and some drinks and took in the unique atmosphere of a professional sporting event. Lots of parents with children in attendance. Many others sporting a host of Celtics gear and jerseys. I spotted a few people wearing a red Rockets’ jersey with #13 on the back, Harden’s number. I was really there to see him and unlike the times I went with Mark, I wasn’t invested in a Celtics’ win. In fact, I hoped Harden would score 50, again.

TD Garden pre-game (Celtics and Rockets)

He actually had a game that I would say wasn’t one of his best. But because he’s such an offensive force, he still ended the afternoon with 42. The Celts fell behind by as much as 28 early in the third, then rallied, and the final score of 115-104 was much closer than how the game felt. In fact, Mary and I didn’t bother to stay to the very end. Unlike Mark and I, who would have stayed to the final buzzer, having fun, even during a blow-out, like we did in 2014, when the Clippers and Doc Rivers (Boston’s coach during their championship season of 2007-2008) came to town and applied a similar “beat-down.” That afternoon (also in early March), we were “hooting” and “hollering” as the Celts went on a late-game run cutting a 30+ deficit and getting it under 10 due to a three-point barrage by two players who are long-gone in Boston, Kelly Olynyk and Gigi Datome.

The game is on.

Mary is a wonderful travel companion, but she’ll tell you that her love of basketball falls far short of Mark’s passion. I even wondered aloud with Mary if Mark were still alive, if we’d still be interested in “doing sports” together like we had in the past. I do know that Mark was trending in a direction where following the daily routine and results of pro basketball no longer occupied the same place it once had in his list of life’s priorities.

It’s not easy to find healthy food at a sports event, at least at TD Garden. Pretzels and “veggie” pizza and beer (wine for Mary) weren’t our usual lunchtime fare, and it wasn’t vegan. Note: We’ve learned that despite our best intentions, there are times when not eating at home when there are literally no options that don’t have some variation of milk, cheese, or worse. At TD Garden, Sal’s pizza would be considered the “healthy” option.

With two hours before our train would disembark for points north and Brunswick, we decided to head towards the Boston Public Market nearby. Once there, we ordered food at Mother Juice. I realized as I was sitting there sharing a Buffalo Chickpea Salad with Mary that Mark and I sat in just about the same space, doing something remarkably similar the last time we saw the Celtics together. This memory was bittersweet at best. I’m sure if I tried harder, I could find a better adjective.

Goofing on the train platform, prior to boarding.

Once on the train, there would be a gaggle of young men who’d been drinking at the game and like many of a certain ilk, can’t handle their liquor. One of them “puked” all over the rest room in our car. That became the source of jokes for the remainder of the ride to Dover where this group of idiots got off. They triggered emotions running to the angry side of my character. They reminded me of some of the worst situations I’ve been in lately, like tutoring some very difficult students five nights a week. Self-absorbed and lacking any impulse control, it really sucked having to endure these drunken louts as long as we did.

Just north of Dover, a freight train carrying slurry had broken-down on the track. This resulted in an hour’s delay waiting for an alternative locomotive to be hitched to the cars and move them to a parallel track. This resulted in the stress level being amped-up on the coach car we were on. Several “adults” acting like fidgety children, “bitching” and complaining about something that wasn’t anyone’s fault other than, “shit happens.” I know that as well as anyone.

Mary brought cards, so we engaged in a rousing game of spades while we waited. Then, once we got rolling, we both napped much of the way back to Brunswick.

Arriving at the station just prior to 1:00 a.m. (more than 90 minutes later than scheduled) was the capstone on an odd day. In hindsight, my question was, “what the hell was I thinking?” when I bought the tickets. Remembering prior train trips to sporting events, I now realize that while there are certainly sports aficionados who know how to comport themselves, there are plenty who don’t. For me (and Mary), they ruin what minimal enjoyment we derive from professional sports, which we both realize is next to none.

We don’t care to “do sports” like this any longer.

Fashionable and Fickle

Some music videos for today and a little bit of context. This is the best I can do on this post-Oscar Monday, with two articles blasted out the door this morning (that I worked on all weekend), a paper due for my history class on Friday, and the usual other suspects from this thing called “life.”

Basically, I was looking for an excuse to post this video, from a favorite Canadian musician of mine, Joel Plaskett. Here’s to fashionable people.

Back when I was still able to light myself on fire so others could watch me burn with enthusiasm for things like writing, and urging others forward, drawing on my own journey of reinvention, I’d often share a snippet from Seth Godin’s wonderful Poke the Box. It was about a Canadian band of over-achievers called Hollerado. Yes, they were a literal band.

I’d read the section in the book about how they released their first record, called Record in a Bag. Yes, that was the record’s actual title.

Godin obviously was impressed about these four Canadian rockers and their will to overcome adversity. Like booking their first American tour, or better: simply getting in a van and driving as far away from their home town of Manitock, Ontario, and showing up at venues where a show was happening and telling a fib about having a gig lined up down the street that fell through and asking, “Would you guys mind if we played a short set here tonight?” They ended up playing a shit-ton of shows with this ploy. There’s all kinds of other motivation, fo-shizzle.

Today, for whatever reason, I thought, “I wonder what Hollerado’s up to these days?” They’re breaking up after 10 years of striving. That’s life, and even those who are willing to Poke the Box can’t always clear every hurdle. Not sure what the circumstances are—perhaps it’s as simple as wanting to do something other than log thousands of miles in a van and deal with the fickle nature of success.

Their irreverence and love of life reminds me of Mark.

Happy to post one video about our politics at the moment, and the second one being the band’s first single, “Juliette.” Oh, hell: I’ll also post their “farewell” song, too.

Enjoy!!

A bit about the song, “Grief Money.”

“Juliette”

“One Last Time” (going out with a bang)

Thai for Lunch

Life will always try to make you run, even if your preference is for a steady trot. I say this, but much of our stress I think, is self-inflicted. Put your phone down, get off Facebook and Twitter, and you’ll be in a better state of mind.

My own life’s rhythms ebb and flow. For public schools, this is vacation week, so no sub assignments to consider. I’m tutoring at night because the private school nearby where I work has a different calendar than the one followed by their public counterparts.

While no fill-ins as a guest educator, I do have two articles I’m on deadline for. I continue writing for National Oil & Lube News. If you’ve never read any of my work for them, the February cover feature is mine, highlighting how no industry is immune from the reach of Donald Trump’s tentacles and tariffs.

Because I’m out during what are post-dinner hours for most people, I prefer not to have the standard American dinner, traditionally the largest meal of the day. For me, for much of my work week, I’ll whip-up something at lunch that is really my dinner. I make enough so that I leave a meal for Mary when she makes it home from work, or one of her after-labor fitness classes.

I don’t know where my culinary skills fall on any kind of continuum. I know my way around the kitchen, am quite capable of dicing and chopping, and I’ve mastered some of the basics of food preparation. I’m sure in our culture of fast food, or if you’re a foodie—eating most of your meals at a restaurant where the food is overprices and in my estimation—often underwhelming, then food prep might be foreign to you. Then, factor in the continued avoidance by many in the culinary world of moving away from meat to more plant-based meals, and cooking at home is almost always preferable to paying someone else to feed me.

Pad Thai for Two (maybe three or four)

Today’s Thai for Two packet presented an option that was fairly simple in terms of assembly. I had to soak my rice noodles for 25 minutes, so there was a time commitment involved. However, while my noodles were setting up, I diced my scallions, mushrooms, and then, timed my stir-fry requirement so that when the noodles were done soaking, all I had to do was add them, stir them around with the packet of Pad Thai Sauce (which was enclosed) and “voila!” I had dinner. I even steamed some broccoli because I love it and cruciferous vegetables are a good thing.

Cooking is cool.

Oh! I did forget to tell you I desired to add some plant-based protein, so I opted for tofu as an optional ingredient. If you don’t know, tofu is best if pressed before using. I also have a routine where I sear it prior to adding it to the dish at-hand. Pressing tofu is a practice you’ll want to adopt if you want to appreciate the goodness and utility of this soy-based protein source.

So all-told, my Pad Thai dish I made for lunch probably involved 45 minutes of preparation. But damn!! It was so good!! The case could even be made that not only was the food great-tasting, plant-based (and healthy), but preparing food can add some punctuation to your day: some even consider it mindful and meditative.

Pad Thai, with tofu, broccoli, and some kimchi on top.