May 1: Robin Gets a New Bath

In my evolving series about the life and times in the year of the Robin, today's slice concerns her incredible memory for objects and locations and shapes.

Robin has always taken her twice daily baths in a rectangular take-out plastic clear container.  It's easy to clean, easy to see through and gave her a sense of comfort when she dropped bits of food or ripped up newspaper to see that it falls to the bottom.  I can't explain why she engages in this behavior, only that it seems to please and amuse her.  Kind of like the time she dropped a raisin to the bottom and was rather surprised that it had grown in size and shape by the time she remembered to fish it out of the water.

Today my lovely little Robin has decided NOT to take a bath in the new version of her bathtub.  I found a much larger square shaped clear plastic container to replace the old one.  The old one barely fit her entire sturdy body, and often her tail stuck out, causing her to have to flap around furiously to get every bit and piece of her feathered torso wet.  I figured that this newest version would allow her a fuller emersion, get her tail inside the container and make her splashing more efficient.

Needless to say, I underestimated her powers of observation.  Despite several verbal prompts of "go ahead baby, go take a bath" she eyed the substitution warily.  She threw in a piece of newspaper.  She dipped her beak in for a taste.  Sip, sip, water seems to taste the same.  She flew to a different spot to get a better angle to view her new tub.  Didn't look the same, not the same shape.  She flew down and dipped both feet in.  Temperature feels alright, soothing on the toes.  After about a good ten minutes of testing and hopping about, and eyeballing the thing, Robin decided to head to her cage and watch the tub.  Just in case something would happen.

Yet I know she is DYING to take a long and luxurious bath.  For about as long as I've had this ball of feathers, she has religiously taken two baths a day.  One in the daytime and one at night before bed.  The water has to be crisply cold, room temperature isn't acceptable.  It has to be spotlessly clean- one would never dip a toenail into unsightly water fouled by one's own droppings or the errant feather.  If her conditions are not met, my stubborn little Robin refuses to even walk by the bathtub.  She is THAT picky.

So for her to test the characteristics of this new and improved tub for so long means that she doesn't quite know what to do.  Should she break down and just take the plunge in, letting the cool ripples of water flow over her back and head?  Should she wait?  Will the other familiar tub come back?  Why if they both disappear?

Oh, the endless questions running through that small, compact head!

My wager is that after she's done resting, which she is doing now on the ledge of the cage, that she will give up on her inhibitions and take the plunge.  After all, the day is drawing to a close and it's time to start preening again.  One can't possible do a proper preen without the benefit of our personal jacuzzi.

For the Love of Robin

Living in New York, you get very jaded very quickly. Every time someone shoves into your backside at the turnstile. Or pushes up against you while they propel themselves into that last bit of breathing space left in that train segment. How about when people appear out of nowhere, as if conjured out of thin air while you, the schmuck, waits patiently in a line with your card out, ready to swipe it as you board the bus?

It's enough to make a person want to swear off the human race. I mean, what redeeming values do people in a great metropolis really have? We are pushy, arrogant, rude, have no patience, no time to wait, no concept of the word tack and in an homage to exceptionalism, everyone is so special that nobody's shit actually stinks! You would think that the makers of Charmin would go out of business at this rate, because apparently nobody in an urban environment would ever have a need for such a product!

I often wonder why is it that I seem to be trapped in this vortex of hubris and hardness. True, like thousands of other peons, I'm tethered to a job which pays me little, provides me with scant opportunity to give or get respect, but keeps food in the fridge and the landlord's litigators away. What reasons could there be to continue to live a life devoid of purpose, sunshine and reason? I can't find the answers, though I've looked often and regularly. I think that I'm not alone in my questioning. People turn to other methods to dull the numbness, to make sense out of the senseless, and to pretend to find reason where none exists. Church, athletics, family, volunteerism.  Even the occassional scrap book and hand craft is just hollow in the face of long and endless stretches of  emptiness.  Somehow, what works for others just doesn't quite cut it for me.  I can only decorate so many cupcakes, ties so many bows, stencil so many placecards, or glue so many pieces of semiprecious jewelry in place.  It means nothing.  It gives nothing in return.  It doesn't breathe, or think or comprehend.

Which is why I think a little bit of my crust, my frozen heart, my broken soul, finds a bit of salvation every time I look into her eyes.  She's a quite little thing, and sings in a soft, hardly audible voice only when you least expect it.  Those bright onyx eyes betray little when they stare at you, her head cocked at a coquettish angle, as if she had a line directly into the deepest recesses of your being.  She seems to sympathize, to understand, to share your pain and anguish.  As she perches precariously on my laptop, her crimson bosom rising and falling with every breath, I sense that the connection between us, unlike with humans, transcends words.  She understands much, reveals nothing.  But through her eyes, and her quiet ways, she affords me peace and restores my faith.  While hope wanes with each day I am forced to continue living in this urban hell, Robin's merry presence keeps a tiny flicker of humanity alive in my heart.

The Color of Justice

Easter conjures up pastel images of approaching Spring, rabbits, chocolates and egg hunts.  Easter generally doesn't include hordes of young people marauding in the street, harassing pedestrians, disturbing shoppers and causing mayhem.

That's what this Sunday brought to Times Square.  Dozens of young people were accused of "wilding" and engaging in assaultive, disruptive and criminal behavior.  Several people were shot and many were injured.  About fifty teens, mostly African American young men, were arrested for a variety of charges, the predominant charge being disorderly conduct.

Now Manhattan DA Cy Vance has decided in order to send a message, that he will not offer "plea bargains" in all of these cases.

Which is strange, if you think about it, because he seems to have a knack for offering pleas.  To the cabbie who admitted lying about not taking his meds before he slammed his car into a woman, killing her.  To the Saudi man accused of killing an elderly man on the Upper West side in a robbery gone wrong.  To David Letterman's blackmailer, because, well, he really didn't mean to extort the celebrity for $2million bucks.

The evidence in these three cases seems pretty substantial and the crimes that much more serious and offensive.  Granted, I'm not defending any young person who decides to behave poorly and disruptively.  But you have to wonder how many of the young men rounded up and arrested were not guilty of any more heinous behavior than to be standing in Times Square while young and black on the wrong day and time.  Time Square being such the mecca of entertainment, it's not absurd to think that young people would have chosen Easter Sunday to spend some time there eating, drinking, shopping or just enjoying the great weather on some of those snazzy lawn chairs on the Broadway pedestrian mall.  The news accounts lists dozens of stories of young black men with their moms, girlfriends or family members who got rounded up and collared for, well, being in the path of a cop and his handcuffs.

Any law enforcement official who goes to court to make a blanket statement that there will be no pleas in a particular category of cases without first evaluating the evidence in each and every case is either a media whore or just not that bright.  A few years ago, about 200 people were arrested for disorderly behavior during the Puerto Rican parade.  After careful evaluation of the charges and the evidence, less than half a dozen of those cases ended in pleas and convictions.  Just because there's a large scale arrest by police does not mean that all of those arrests are backed up with evidence to support the charge.  Some are, some are not.  There's always the possibility that there might be a few folks who may actually be not guilty.

Being young, black and in New York isn't a crime.  Apparently, to District Attorney Vance, the color of justice available to those individuals is substantially different from those of a paler pigmentation.

Beautiful is Just a Word

If beauty is skin deep, then what does it mean when someone calls you beautiful? What does it mean when that comment is made verbally? In print? In an email? Or more generically via Facebook? Does the term lose its potency and significance if it's thrown about like excess grains of salt from an errant shaker? Does it mean even less when it's paid to those we have only virtual relationships with? Or does it just cheapen our "real time" relations that much more?

I've often wondered what it really means when someone says "you are beautiful.". In our highly saccarine and superficial society, compliments are bantied about like confetti in the wind. Do we tell ugly people they're a rare beauty as a sign of support or a form of bitter sarcasm? Do we tell average plain Jane folks they're beautiful because it's expected? How do you measure the true depth and sincerity of a statement that is always relative in nature and suspect to begin with?

I for one chose to believe that the compliment is just an afterthought with no meaning or intent. Just like the term "I'm sorry" has been diluted to the point of insignificance, so has the term "you're beautiful.". Think of the parallels- u bump into a person on the bus, u say "I'm sorry.". U murder countless victims and what do u often hear in court? "I'm sorry.". Hence, how could "you're beautiful" ever mean anything more than a generic form of ego boosting wrapping in brown paper with no bow and no value?

Maybe I'm a cynic and maybe I've been blindsighted. But one thing's for certain- only I have the real power to decide if I really am beautiful or not.

Stray

am worthless.

No friends, only enemies and those who wish to utilize me as a tool.

I don't have a single blood relation who can stand me.

I sit alone most of the time, most of the day, often at night, wondering how I offended God to be punished like this.

I am condemned to be alone. Nothing lasts. Nothing is real. Only despair and loneliness and frustration.

I hate myself and I hate living this unbearable life. Unbearable because there is no solace. Only fear and hurt.

I wish I were stronger and not a prisoner to feelings. Of ineptitude, loss, envy, sadness and longing. I think I could bear the burdens of existence better if I didn't feel so wounded all the time.

Because I'm so damn unremarkable that I fade like the Cheshire cat. If I disappeared nobody would even notice I was gone. Nobody hears my voice, or sees my presence. I'm so faint I'm like the watermark on stationary- barely noticed, a taint, a trace.

I don't make a dent even in relationships. I could slit my wrists while standing naked in Times Square and nobody would see a thing. Nobody sees like the wounded cat I am that I slink off to a hidden corner to cry. Nobody would care. Why would anyone? Who could care about the old, discarded stray?

Who indeed?

Down the Rabbit Hole

I am a loser.

Blood relations can't stand me.

Relationships all are built on me being a useful tool.

I have no money, no hope for a paying job, no hope of losing the weight I need to. No friends, no voice, nothing.

Why isn't there a way for people like me to painlessly end our lives? Why does society get all bent out of shape about the sanctity of life when we should think about the value of our existence? Not talking about quality- that's a judgment call. But value. Value is relative in the sense that u believe someone or something has value when others might disagree. Call it the sentiment factor. People cherish old photos, knick knacs, bric-a-brac, memories. Trade most on the open market, u might not get any takers.

Why isn't it the same for people? Why do we compel people to continue to live when they have lost all sentimental value for themselves and others? I can rationally tell myself I have to keep on living because I have obligations to fulfill. Things to do. Bills to pay. Yet none of these things speak a wit about why I have to keep on existing. Am I a drone whose only purpose is to serve and do and work? When I stop doing such is it time to end my existence?

I don't have the temerity to take the necessary action. I live in constant dread of tomorrow. I hate the fact that I can't escape, can't get off the hamster wheel, can't find solace. I have no value at all. I am a drone forced to function. Loveless, purposeless, empty and always alone.

Would it be so terrible if someone shows me mercy and releases me from this despair? I won't be missed and there are plenty of drones to pick up the slack. Why won't someone help me? This dark horrible place I'm at where all I feel is hurt. I'm so very tired of being rational. I need the Alice pill so I can disappear.

Waiting for the New Year Baby

It never ceases to amaze me how this time of year when we are celebrating love and family and blessings that the first thing most people are anxious to determine is how much new stuff they can get to replace the old. New clothes or electronics or jewelry or even friends and employment. Often I'm at a loss when thinking about what to do with all of the old. Old toys. Old furniture. Old books. Even old boyfriends.

When we discard or replace all that is old in our lives we cannot discard some old relationships. Be they frayed or strained or tortuous or just plain unpleasant sometimes one cannot bring a new person in to replace an old. The old lingers like Lindberger and the faint scent of baggage and war wounds serve as a reminder that ex husbands and even ex in laws, if children are involved, never get tossed. They get compartmentalized in a more managable form but never actually leave. Take David Goldman and his son Sean. Is the Brazilian grandma, stepdad or half sister ever going to be replaced? Or will they be put into discrete blocks of time where contact is still necessary but limited?

Waiting for everything anew might be something we look forward to come New Year's eve. But some things and people will forever be old and familiar despite time.

An Angel for the Holidays

Recently a news report came out that New York came in dead last among all states on a "happiness" measure for its residents. Granted the depressed economy and crippling unemployment rate gives folks much less to be happy about this holiday season.

Which made me think about the purpose of Chanuka or Christmas or Kwanza or Ramadan or whatever year end celebration people engage in. The purpose is not to get up at 3am to line up in the dark of night while shivering in jammies waiting to get the limited supply of cheap electronics on sale. Nor is it to stuff one's cheeks silly at office parties or social gathering. Nor should it be about how much to buy or how many lights can be wrapped around a freshly chopped or synthetic tree.

Rather it should be a time to reflect upon how much was gained, lost or squandered during the year past. Friendships gained. Opportunities lost. Good will squandered. We all have had our share of one, if not all of the above. If we focus too much upon one at the expense of the others we lose sight on a true perspective. One single act of despair shouldn't overweigh a year's worth of kindness. Nor should a poor lapse in judgment destroy a lifetime of good deeds.

I chose to evaluate the relative progress of my personal year through the lens of an unexpected act of generousity. Presents from those we expect gifts from are welcome but hardly remarkable. We expect relatives to give to us as we give to them. Its the unexpected kindness that is the hallmark to end a tumultuous year. Today an Angel visited me at work and bestowed unto me a gift of velvet red cheer wrapped in a bow of peppermint candy. Unexpected, certainly a delight and to me a sign that despite the ups and downs of a challenging year, I have much to be thankful for this memorable Christmas.

He's Still Blind and Cant See Me

I always thought it an amusing concept that prospective adoptive pet owners are screened, vetted and investigated within an inch of their lives before granted permission to bring home Fluffy or Spot. Yet the same rigorous standards go virtually out the door when someone signs up to receive a seeing eye dog. These service animals, who spend the remainder of their lives working for their owner, often never have the chance to have their plight and suffering documented partly because they're no longer viewed as pets and partly because their owners lack the capacity to see the depth of mistreatment.
Take for instance the gorgeous black Lab I see frequently on the bus leading his visually impaired owner about. He is yanked, shoved, batted about the face and have his paws cruelly stomped by a can whenever his owner moves about his bus seat and readjusts his weight or belongings. During the short twenty minute ride this snow battered day I saw the poor creature wince but not moan twice as the cane struck his tender nose and the environmentally correct bag of groceries rested on top of hid head. His collar got pulled half a dozen times as owner tried to shove the dog deeper into the well under the seat. Each time a straw paw stuck out it was swept back callously by the sole of a dirty sneaker.

I wonder- would the animal police consider this the abuse of a pet or what a service animal should learn to tolerate? After all, he is fundamentally a sweet Lab meant to be cherished and loved.

Overreaction Kills Santa

The US Postal service announced new safety measures for its Operation Santa program so comprehensive that only 35 stations have decided to participate this year.

Upon receiving a letter from a child the service will shred the envelope, photocopy the letter, redact personal info and then put it out for people to select to fulfill the child's Holiday wish.Admirable and heroic that participating stations are taking precautions to shield children from sexual predators.

Only problem with the procedures is that secular "Santa" won't be able to find the child and give him/her the present. You see all personal info will be redacted. That means address, contact info, and anything likely to identify the child. And since they've shredded the envelope that presumably contains a return address, there goes that info.

In essence, overreaction to the potential breadth of sexual predators has killed Santa for thousands of children who need their wishes realized.

I'm not downplaying the dangers of sexual predators getting a child's personal information but what about the regular person who just wants to do a good deed? Overreaction may have killed Santa but draconian screening measures have killed the Good Samaritan. To get to read and fulfill a child's wish, one needs to wait on line, show 2 proofs of ID and only then will access to letters be granted. I can only imagine how anxious and excited the average New Yorker is at the prospect of waiting on a post office line to fork over ID before being allowed to do nice for a child.

Right.

Maybe this year instead of encouraging children to commit pencil to paper and write Santa they can just send him an email

The truth you didnt like

As children we are taught about the legend of George Washington and the cherry tree. Young George had taken an ax to it and when confronted with the evidence of his actions told his father, "I cannot tell a lie" and professed his guilt.

Yet he and other Founding Fathers thought it prudent to add amendments to the Constitution to give folks the privilege against self incrimination. Faced with daunting evidence of culpability you have a right to keep your mouth shut. George didn't see the need to do this but chose to preserve the option for others. Truth was for others to judge and not for the accused to confess. Telling the truth might make you feel better but certainly is unlikely to set you free.

Is it any wonder then as a society we shun the truth? We expect to be lied to. Children are taught that "little white lies" spare people's feelings; politicians twist and contort the definition of simple words like "is" to escape confessing the obvious and leaders never want to be put in the position of having to disclose the truth if the news is stark.

Which made Governor Paterson's recent confession that the state is broke all the more unexpected. It was like he told the fat lady to stop singing and to go on a diet. We all instinctively knew the state was in poor fiscal shape but nobody wanted to acknowledge it. Like the pink elephant in the room (ok so I'm pushing it with the large analogies) everyone knows he's there but nobody wanted to stare and be rude.

The truth is rude. Its unvarnished and harsh and yes sometimes unpalatable. We have become so sensitive to the idea of sparing feelings that we have spared ourselves the blemishes of honesty. The ugly truth is that our state is on the tip of financial ruin bc we have spent our special interest selves into this current morass. Like the fat lady who's being told to diet, the news is unwelcome and shocking.

Its up to us now to decide what to do with the unflattering truth of our fiscal straits. We can acknowledge the truth and deal with it. Or like the elephant we can pretend the deficit doesn't really exist. Would George have owned up to the current crisis? Or would he have hidden the ax?

Flexible Standards

In life there are always standards to meet, to exceed or to fail at. Employers expect employees to meet minimun work standards. Athletes must exceed general standards in order to achieve excellence. Parents often unflinchingly reject their offspring's paramours as lacking acceptance standards. So how then can we expect all children to meet educational standards under No Child Left Behind when in life, everyone might fail a standard in one way shape or form at some point? Are we really bringing all our kids up to an immutable standard? Or are the standards vulnerable to manipulation?

Case in point- my child attends a middle school that by all visible measures falls short of the standard of excellence set by their elementary school. The current principal is standoffish and lacks warmth, does not engage parents and loathes to divulge simple information like dismissal times for half day sessions. Likewise the teaching staff, while competent, lacks enthusiasm and innovative ideas. The results are apparent by the way the stusents address the teachers, each other and in how they refer to the school and its pedagogy.

Yet if you examine the school's ranking by objective measures of standards, it scores an A. The elementary school, in contrast, earn a B. How, then could two schools receive scores that simply do not truly reflect what they accomplish?

The answer lies in part with flexible standards. Middle schools operate under vastly different criteria than elementary schools. One is concerned with instilling rudimentary skills while the other startsintroducing analytical ones. Concepts are much harder to teach because in part due to their theoretical nature. One can always argue, generally without success, that two plus two will always equal four. Hence a school which may deliver less in spirit and substance, can score so much better than its more vibrant counterpart.

Standards are the bane and the air of human existence. We strive to create them for coherence but render then innnocuous by the way we bend them. Be careful the next time you look at a standard. It may not meaure what you thought it did.

Through These Eyes

For the first time in a long time I decided to change my look and see the world through unembellished eyes. I cracked open my crusty contact lens case, rinsed off the slumbering saucers of gill like vision enhancers and popped them into my eyes. Oh wow what a trip. I say this because I was confronted not only by an instant inability to focus my weary myopic eyes ravaged by age and astigmatism but the sight of my own face. You see prior to this moment of fright I had viewed my countenance through some real cool frames. It seems that nowadays more people chose to wear glasses as an expression of personal style. Hardly a day goes by without me noticing that regular folk and celebrity alike are defining themselves through signature eyewear. Remember Drew Carey? His frames made his career and just as quickly he was threatened with its loss when he tossed the look for Lasik. What would Christian Soriano of Project Runway fame be without his spectacles to complete his style? Lisa Loeb? Sarah Palin?

Why is it that wearing glasses has become more widely acceptable in a society that craves perfection? We have surgery to improve our vision, products to whiten our teeth, bleach our skin and straighten our hair. Yet somehow the banner of imperfect sitting contently across the bridge of our nose is perfectly fine.

I took another good look at myself. There was nothing wrong with my face sans glasses. But there was this feeling that my face was somehow incomplete without its familiar friend who had provided vision and fashion for so long. Without my glasses I felt naked. Slowly I removed the contacts. Perhaps for another occassion. Right now it's best to stick with the familiar. Mascara isn't the only way to light up a face.

Obama and the Specter of Race

It was the race of what could have been.

Pundits and pollsters alike are lamenting all morning on the 5 point margin separating Bill Thompson from Bloomberg's victory. They all wondered what could have happened if the Democrats had embraced him instead of abandoning him.

To this I say that the pernicious and rather ugly specter of racism is alive, well and thriving in politics. Thompson came close because he truly believed despite daunting odds he could have pulled off a Cinderella victory as the guy most New Yorkers would identify with. But he could not have done this without the validation of the most highly visible member of his own race.

When Obama threw his tepid, afterthought support for "that Democrat" running for Mayor in NYC he sealed Thompson's fate. This was after Obama's highly visible rebuke of Paterson. Contrast this with Obama's repeated, high powered support for Corzine. What did Corzine have that Thompson and Paterson did not? All three men were trailing in polls. All three are Democrats. What made Corzine distinct was the 25 million he poured into his own campaign. And the fact that he wasn't African American.

Similarly, look at the results of our local City Council race in the 20 CD. Democrat Yen Chou was running against Republican Peter Koo, a self-made businessman with deep pockets. She rattled off a list of endorsements from the Democrats except the one that could have made a difference in her district, the former Council member and city comptroller elect, John Liu. Like Obama, he had long abandoned his fellow Chinese political hopefuls. He endorsed his chief of staff in the 20 CD and incubent Alan Gerson in the Chinatown race against a very credible Chinese candidate, who ultimately won. In Liu's victory speech he spoke about the glorious colors of the rainbow that reflect the members of ethnicities who supported him. Yet he neglected to mention his own lack of support for those of the same ethnicity who wanted to follow in his footsteps. What made Liu's failure to endorse Yen is all the more telling, as both come out of the Queens Democratic organization.

Obama is the first African American president. Liu is the first Asian American city comptroller. Both have accomplished the incredible. But their lack of support to their brethren who aspire to public office like themselves speaks volumes about the persistence of racism in politics. Had the political establishment shunned both men for the color of their skin they would be where they are today. Both have preached inclusivity. Yet both have gone out of their way not to support credible candidates of the same race and ethnicity. Obama has gotten involved in gubenatorial races, Congressional races and local races. Liu has stumped for candidates as far reaching as those in other states. For either of them to have sat on their hands in races where they could have made a huge difference is regretable and somewhat repugnant. For this they both should be highly ashamed.

With mid term elections approaching it will be interesting to see whether it was wise for Obama and Liu to have assured Republican victories in the 20 CD and the mayoral. Race apparently doesn't matter to those who have already transcended it- as if we should deny that race matters. In a post racial world that is the most frightening acknowledgement of racism I can imagine.

Reverse Political Psychology

So I've been reading today about how Bloomberg has hinged his campaign spending on the fact that he needs to burn 35K a minute to get his message out. I've also read that his lawyers have explained that a "level playing field" is no rationale to curb spending because the Mayor has a First Amendment right to put his money where his mouth is by spreading the word about his run. I'm also reminded that the reason this third term was necessary because we need him to keep the city from falling into ruin.

Most of these argument remind me of the plight of the orphan who kills his parents but cries he is alone. If we agree and give the Mayor credit for what he's accomplished in the last 8 years, the city indeed has not fallen into ruin but the diverse middle class has. We have pulverized and berated and pounded the already sheepish City Council into acquiecence on cuts to libraries and senior centers yet think nothing of no bid contracts to the growing hoard of consultants. We chastized older workers as "uninspired" and "dead wood" yet applaud the acumen of younger workers who have never held real jobs before being annointed consultants. We buy the fact that the city is in considerably better shape despite the record double digit unemployment rate and migration of the middle class out of Gotham. We applaud developers for erecting gleaming skyscrapers yet do little to retain affordable housing stock. We call Obama "poor" despite his six figure salary and retrain unfortunate stockbrokers who are out of jobs.

Fundamentally I wonder how well did the city really fare in the last 8 years. Did cranes fall out of the sky under Rudy's watch? Did firefighters perish because nobody bothered to file evacuation plans for a building destined for demolition? Would Koch or Dinkins have opposed Superfund money for the Gowanus Canal because such a classification would scare off developers? Are we ignoring the realities of today's city in a similar way? If we refuse to acknowledge that everything isn't so grand about our quality of life today are we being honest? Or is it better to insist that it is since anything less means we have compromised our own system of values? Is it better to pretend that today's city is more inclusive? Or do we just tell ourselves that it is?

What if Forever Had Finality?

Like a typical New Yorker, I have serious hangups when it comes to relationships. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the idea of forever. When you go to a wedding, there's always that pesky phrase, "forever hold your peace" that's thrown about. Or "as long as you both shall live." Talk about pressure. A lifetime is practically forever. Since I don't personally know of anyone who has died and returned to inform the rest of us if there is an afterlife, I'm going to stay with the premise that a lifetime is as much forever as most of us will ever know.

There are forevers you just can't change. Your biological parents. The genetics that gave you curly hair or green eyes or that big ole booty no amount of cardio can extinguish. There are other forevers that just mean "for the period it lasted." Relationships are a huge temporary fix that may seem like forever, or feel like forever. Ultimately, though, all of us end up in that conflicted grey area where we don't know what we have, don't know what we want, and are afraid to admit we don't know ourselves or others very well.

I am perhaps a great example of the typical conflicted person who wonders whether I can recognize healthy relations. It's an eternal hell to love or be in love with someone you don't know anymore. Because the alternative- that you never knew them in the first place- is more frightening. Maybe forever is a flawed concept and we should stop aiming for that ideal. Cars break down, people die and governments will change or crumble. Why do we expect relationships to withstand the test of time when even our own bodies eventually will fail us? And too our minds? Why should emotion save the day? I question myself often if I knew the person well or as well as I could know any person I'm apt to judge with rose colored glasses. I mean, don't we all judge people we chose to get involved with under different standards? Imperfections we'd never tolerate in regular folks we overlook or ignore in our paramours? Until we can't anymore because our inate sense of judgment finally creeps to the forefront and says, "ARE YOU THAT BLIND OR STUPID? YOU TRIED, IT WON'T CHANGE SO UNLESS YOU'RE HAPPY FEELING THAT THE PRIMARY SOURCE OF VALIDATION IN YOUR LIFE WHO ISN'T A RELATIVE CAN'T FULFILL YOU, IT'S TIME TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!"

Okay that was loud. Hence people break up, divorce, go in separate directions. Some people jsut have shorter tolerance periods. Others are content to be discontended. Maybe you chase that which doesn't exist. Or you convince yourself there's always more to be fufilled. Perhaps you don't know if the terror of self validation is worse than lackluster or haphazard validation from a relationship. Or you multitask relationships like work until you realize that it's become work to maintain your personal life. Work you can walk away, get away, create space, breathe. Can you do so when your personal validator becomes a job?

Waiting to Ingest

As temperate October gives way to mercurial fall the sounds of impending holiday cheer beckons legions of folks to wonder just how much more food will be ingested between now and the New Year, leading to the inevitable affirmations to diet and exercise as soon as the ball has dropped. No one asks themselves "Should eat that?" before January, only "how much can I eat without looking unseemly?" Right before the excesses of Halloween threaten to turn adults into kid-like candy monsters, processed food manufacturers are already tempting our collectively vulnerable will power to "add a Kit Kat to your daily coffee break". Or "have a pumpkin muffin with your latte." The sugary snacking possibilities are endless. Then comes the great American friendship celebration of Thanksgiving, replete with artery-hardening buttery laded whipped mashed potatoes, tooth aching servings of pumpkin pie topped with sweet cream and endless portions of honey ham topped w succulent brown sugar sauce. By the time December and the obligatory holiday parties rolls around most of us are ready to abandon all resolve to go get fitted with a lap band and artery cleaning surgery.

All of these tried and true machinations begs the question- is it ever a real celebration without food? Why is it that conspicuous gastromonic consumption equals a good time? Can we learn to enjoy ourselves and have fun without the need to feed? Or is it inherent to human nature that excess is the only way? I shall be reflecting over this age old question as I help myself to a healthy dose of guilt and sweet potato pie.

No one sees for the Seeing Eye Dog

Think about the premise- a friendly dog who acts as the eyes for the visually impaired, plowing the road, alerting for danger and serving as lovingly loyal companion. The dog, by action, demonstrates his true worth and value.

But what about the owner? How is he worthy of his canine gift and trusty assistant? One imagines the owner plying the dog with treats and affection and space to bask in his glory of dogdom, to sniff and run and bark and enjoy what comes naturally to him.

Not always the likely outcome for the seeing eye dog. Take, for instance, the dog who takes his owner on the crowded city bus. He is relegated to the floor under the seat, joining the array of dustbunnies, discarded gum wrappers and bent Metrocards. His glossy fur becomes matted w debris and ever so often his soft paw trampled by the clodding feet of impatient riders directed to move to the back. He does not speak nor wimper but his eyes betray the sadness that is his life- to silently service, without compensation nor acknowledgement, a life filled with the thoughts of open fields and endless sunshine, of canine friends and welcoming tails, of fur rubs and belly strokes, someday, somewhere, but not today, nor tomorrow, but someday, as he gently licks his trampled paw one more time to ease the pain he endures.

The Grey Lady and Mr Gray

The line between covering the news and being news has always been a fine one. Reporters throughout the ages have gone to great lengths to flex their independence muscle and for their reward ended up on the other side of coverage. Think of Judith Miller, who went to jail rather than give up a source in the Valerie Plame fiasco. Or Jayson Blair, who wrote so eloquently and movingly, but perished under the harsh scrutiny of fact checking and was "outted" as a talented fiction writer masquarading as a daily print journalist. Ditto Stephen Glass. (Ironic that the Grey Lady has nurtured the careers of many a writer whom they ended up covering as news of their actions became daily fodder)

But this time, the Grey Lady must take a backseat to another Gray- Geoff Gray, of NY Magazine. Gray is the irreverant but brilliant contributor to many a politician's decline. He wrote an impressive cover story on Eliot Spitzer and what happens? The Steamroller wimpers out of office. He writes a fantastic piece about Joe Bruno and the result? Mr Gray has been requested to testify in Bruno's upcoming corruption trial. Somewhere, John Liu is burning up in sweat. (No pun intended)

It's always fascinating to see how a reporter reacts from the other side of the inquiry notepad. Will they wilt, fight, whine or treat the experience as a nonchalant exercise in necessity in an inquisitive career? Too soon to tell for Mr Gray but I will be sure to tune in.

Power Dynamics

So I was thinking about the ways in which people accumulate and distribute power. Parents accumulate power from their perceived position as authority figures with the discretion to give or take away privileges. Employers accumulate power with the ability to reward or punish depending upon the context. Friends and social contacts exert power through external means by giving or withholding approval. Of course the manner in which any of the aforementioned groups take power are interchangeable. So the question I have is this- is is possible to have a lasting effect when thwarting power? The child who defies parental authority eventually grows tired of scant privileges and finds way to sullenly acquiesce. The disgruntled employee either leaves, transfers out or is termination from that employer's employment. Friends and social acquaintences come and go with the ebb and flow of the time if there is little reason remaining to continue the association. How, then, dow we ever thwart those who have the power? Or are we limited to successful battles while losing sight of the war?