The Presidential Election

Regardless of where you might stand politically, I hope you'll acknowledge that it's a hopeful sign for our society when a woman and a black man are front-runners in the presidential contest. A generation ago, that would have been a fantasy.

I don't get into discussing politics much, whether here or in a face-to-face conversation. Nowadays, too many people focus on who is supposedly right, instead of what is probably right. That mindset creates a climate poisonous to a genuine exchange of views. Truth too often takes a backseat to agenda.

I'm an independent voter. I'm not a registered Republican, and I'm not a Democrat. Never have been. Like many people I know, I'm a little conflicted in my political leanings: I'm a liberal in my heart, a conservative in my head. I call myself a "half-assed Libertarian." (Half-assed because I'm not so sure that privatizing dang near everything is the best answer.)

But here's the thing: I believe in the Constitution of the United States of America. I also believe the Constitution has been under assault by the Democrats and the Republicans for some time now. And, in today's world, it seems that the Republicans, the so-called "conservatives," are a greater threat to the integrity of the Constitution than the Democrats.

Here's a quote from columnist Charley Reese: The hard truth is that if you are a genuine political conservative, you don't have a party. The Democrats are practically socialists; the Republicans are closer to corporate fascists. Neither one offers conservatives anything but rhetoric.

That's why I plan to vote for Ron Paul. Although he's running as a Republican, his platform is more aligned with the Libertarian school of thought. He probably won't get elected, but to me, he's the only potential savior of the Constitution who even has a chance. (My hope is that he'll choose to run as an independent, should he be denied the Republican nomination.) The idea that the Constitution could have a dedicated guardian in the nation's highest office is one of the most hopeful developments in U.S. politics I've seen.

Look at this video of Jay Leno's "favorite interviews." Although only two of the people interviewed are political figures, after viewing it, you might agree that it's time to try someone besides another Democrat or neocon. (Didn't want to end this on a serious note.)

Convenient Generosity

One day recently, I stopped in my coffee haunt, our local Bad Ass Coffee Company, where I almost always get tea. I like to be different. Plus, my wife and son tell me that coffee gives me "dragon breath."

There was a medium crowd in the place as I walked in. The owner of a nearby auto repair shop was pointing at a guy lounging on a sofa. Mr. Auto Repair whispered to the girl behind the counter, "If I were you, I'd call the cops." I glanced back at the sofa. The guy on the sofa appeared to be guilty of being homeless. It appeared that he'd taken some effort to get and stay clean, but he had that weather-weary look about him, and a backpack alongside. The weather outside was miserable, with half rain, half slushy snow. The guy sat there, taking refuge from the weather, trying to be invisible.

People were giving Mr. Homeless a clear zone of sorts. I grabbed my tea and entered the clear zone, sitting at a table about three feet from the guy. He looked at me nervously. I'm tall, and as I get older, I've been told that I look like a cop. I liked it better when people told me that I looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and John Ritter, even if they were lying. But, I don't have enough hair for that anymore, and besides, John Ritter is dead. I hope he's having a good time with Tex.

About twenty years ago, still during my single daze, a young woman in a bar told me that I looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and a chipmunk. An amorous adventure did not follow.

Anyway, I can be a bit of a bleeding heart. Rush Limbaugh would probably think me stupid for feeling sorry for all those lazy, good-for-nothing homeless bums. I'll just have to live with that. Once, on an airline flight, I talked with a guy who'd once been a homeless advocate in his town. He said that he got out of it out of frustration, because "half of those bastards are just pulling a scam." Maybe so, but even if that's true, that means that half of 'em aren't.

I have a generous streak, but I can be a selfish jerk with my time. I thought about buying the guy a coffee and some food, but I really wanted to spend time with my laptop, not in conversation. I decided that I'd do my morning blog roundup, check email, then buy the guy something when I left. That way, I could stay in my little sphere of privacy, and avoid the dagger eyes I guessed I'd get from about half of the patrons.

A twenty-something guy walked into the place. He carried himself with a subtle confidence, and something about him let on that he was a child of affluence, despite his neo-hippy long hair and faux-funky attire. He grabbed a coffee, and looked for a place to sit. He chose a seat about four feet from the homeless guy, and checked him out. After a few moments, he asked, "Are you traveling?" "Yeah, I'm on the road."

I finished answering an email, all the while overhearing their conversation. The young guy was asking the homeless guy questions, finding common ground, making the homeless man feel like he belonged, like he was there.

I'd volunteered to help out in one of my son's classes, and it was time to go. I gathered up my stuff and visited the restroom. As I left the restroom, I could see a difference in the homeless man. He sat more erect, he was smiling, and there was a light in his eyes. I walked up and gave him some money. "Really?" I chuckled. "Yeah, really. Take care of yourself."

I walked out and drove away. As I entered Lake Boulevard, I glanced through the windows of the coffee place. The young guy and the homeless man were laughing. For just a moment, as I drove away, I laughed with them.

Honey, I Couldn't Help It

A recent post on one of my favorite blogs, Megaloi, listed Michael's favorite movies of 2007. One of the things I love about blogs is how they serve as a way to discover new movies, music, or books. But, it wasn't Michael's post that brought "What the Bleep Do We Know!?" to mind; it was actually one of the comments to his post.

A woman my wife often runs into at work loaned her a copy of "What the Bleep Do We Know!?" It was while my son's godfather was visiting, and one night, after Dylan had gone to sleep, Rhonda asked if we'd watch it with her. She looked at us two dudes and dished out a stern set of conditions: "No laughing, and no smart-ass remarks."

Now, my wife has worked in male-dominated workplaces for her entire adult life. You think she'd know better than to tell two guys who went to high school together "no laughing, and no smart-ass remarks." That said, I tried, I really did. I made it about three minutes into the thing before the oh-so-earnest way a woman looked into the camera got me snickering. Claus immediately burst out guffawing, and quickly, I was doubled over with tears running out of my eyes. Sheesh, my ribs were sore the next morning from laughing so hard.

Rhonda called us several names, which did nothing to stem the laughter, then took "What the Bleep" out and stuck in a disk of "Six Feet Under."

Hey, I'm actually really interested in "What the Bleep." I'm just afraid I'm gonna have to watch it alone. Interpersonal dynamics, y'know. Or as Rhonda said, "I should have known better than to try to watch this with two guys who act like hyperactive ten year-olds in church."

I felt so bad. Really. (It's hard to type with your fingers crossed.)

Regrets, I've Had More Than a Few

This morning, I dropped Dylan off at his school. He asked me if I'd stay with him for the morning. (His school encourages parents to spend time with their kids in the classroom.) I had to tell him that his godfather, after a visit, had left his cell phone behind, and that I had to FedEx it off to him. "Can't you do it tomorrow, Daddy?" I sighed. It's my first school day at home, and I always try to hang out with him at school when I get home. "Well, Punkin', he's flying to New York for his job Wednesday, so I have to ship it today." A flash of disappointment flashed across my little guy's face. I hugged him, kissed him on the head (okay again, since he learned that his friends think it's cool that Daddy is a helicopter pilot), and watched him run off to play with his friends. I thought there was a subdued quality to his body language. Maybe it was my imagination. Gosh, I hope so.

I wanted to write today, but I couldn't think of anything that wanted to travel to my fingers. Then I re-read a blog post here, by a guy named Mike. It got me thinking of the regrets in my life. Funny, I have plenty to feel ashamed of, to feel embarrassed about, to want to forget. But what came to mind this morning was one little moment from when I was five years old.

My grandmother, my dad's mom, worked as a private nurse. One of her clients was a wealthy widow who lived on a ranch estate outside of Thousand Oaks, California. She would invite my grandmother to bring the family by now and then to use her Olympic-sized swimming pool.

Usually, at least a dozen family members would show up: my mom, dad, little sister, a few among the seven of my dad's brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts. Everyone seemed to have a good time.

Now, my dad wasn't a perfect dad. Neither was he neglectful or abusive. Like most dads, he was somewhere in the middle. He did one hell of a better job being a dad than his father.

I never really knew my grandfather, my dad's dad. I only remember meeting him once, when I was seven. He and my grandmother divorced shortly after I was born.

I always felt that my dad carried a lot of sadness with him. Even as a kid, I assumed it was because of his upbringing. My grandfather was an on again, off again professional gambler, and was absent through much of my dad's childhood. His mother was often severe and unloving.

But that day in the pool, my dad seemed very happy. He was cracking jokes, and had the whole family in stitches of laughter. Even my grandmother was laughing and having a good time. I don't remember that happening so often.

My dad watched me jump into the shallow end of the pool, then climb back up again. He laughed, then lunged up to grab me. One of my uncles bumped into Dad, and as he dropped me into the pool, my chin bumped the edge. Not very hard, really. It didn't hurt so much as startle me, but I began to cry. I tried to hold back as I saw the look in my dad's eyes change from joy to concern, and maybe, guilt. I tried to laugh as Dad checked out my chin. "You okay now?" "Yeah Daddy, I'm okay."

The pool party went on, and everyone continued to have a good time. My dad kept cracking jokes, but the light I'd seen in his eyes earlier was gone.

I remember watching him, and feeling as though I'd taken something away from him. Why did I have to be such a crybaby? I desperately wanted God to grant me a do-over, so I could see that joy in his eyes again. He deserved more joy.

But then, I was only five. Maybe the change I saw in his eyes was only in my imagination.

Gosh, I hope so.