BlogEdWord

The 9th Comes Alive

2009-05-04T04:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Maestro. Zimmermann:

I attended the University of Texas symphony performance last Saturday at the invitation of a student, and I was not sure what to expect. I have not always been moved by classical performances. Too often, they seem distant, removed; inapplicable to me here, now. And knowing it was a student performance gave me pause. But I have committed to appreciating all this city has to offer, and the talent at UT is an important part of that.

Recently, I moved back to Austin leaving behind some very dear friends, friends who added much to my life, some who taught me to open myself to new experiences. One friend, Jim, who graduated Yale with degrees in accounting and piano, reintroduced me to the symphony. I was reluctant at first, telling him that I usually wanted to leave at half-time.

“Intermission,” he smiled/grimaced.

I told him that I didn’t understand the point of classical music, the context, the setting. It seemed detached from the real world and anything having to do with my experience.
Our first performance together included a Rachmaninoff piece, and at dinner beforehand, Jim took the time to introduce me to Rachmaninoff--the history of that time and what was going on with the composer personally when he wrote the piece. I cannot recall what concerto or symphony it was, but I remember how the music came alive for me that night, touched me in a way classical music never had before.

This is all a fairly long-winded way of saying thank you.

Before the performance, I took time to read about the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto and what was happening with the composer at the time he wrote the piece—his recent rather public divorce, depression, certain personal questions about who he was and where he was headed, and of course the early rejection of the piece and then its later recognition as a masterpiece and a true test of a violinist. It helped me appreciate the performance in a way I could not have otherwise.

But I did not have time, or take the time to do that with the Beethoven. Maybe I took it for granted that I knew all there was to know about the piece. Maybe, like you said, I was somewhat numbed to it after all its commercialization. But when you took the time to place it in context for me, to explain what was going on with Beethoven at the time, to introduce the nuances of the movements and how they fit together, I was anxious to hear the piece in a way I never have been before. What you gave us was a wonderful gift of context and purpose and intention that, for me, made the concert-- an impressive performance in my admittedly inexperienced view--come alive. And the passion with which you gave your introduction and conducted the performance was refreshing and inspiring.

And all of it reminded me of Jim and the gratitude I feel toward him for showing me a way of looking at music in a new light, understanding the world from a different perspective, with a different soundtrack .

Anyway, I did not intend to go on like this. I really just wanted to say thank you. The performance was moving and enjoyable.

Ed

This Boy

2009-04-14T19:47:00.000-07:00

This boy,
Sitting across the dinner table,
telling me his life,
This 23 year-old, lanky boy,
With his swimmer’s build, chiseled face,
and perfect, sparkling-white teeth,
This boy who has lived so much so far,
Is smiling.

This boy,
Who never got the Barbie he always wanted,
Who chose his Easy Bake Oven over baseball,
and his art classes over soccer,
Still smiles.

This boy,
On anti-depressants at age 12,
With a physical tick-- a twitching of his head--until age 15,
Who counted dashes on the highway where ever they drove, for as long as they drove,
This boy somehow is smiling.

But his eyes still hold the pain,
still fear it all returning,
The depression,
The tick,
The checking,
The helpless rage.

This boy smiles,
But not yet with his eyes.

Copyright Ed Ishmael 2009

Turtles

2009-04-13T12:32:00.000-07:00

So here’s the deal. My life has been turned upside down, and so far, I have survived. Oh sure, it’s a bitch at times, and there are aspects of how my life was before that I wouldn’t mind having again, but all in all, it’s not as bad as I feared. I’ve set off on a different and unknown path, and I have no idea where it’s leading. And for some reason, that's okay.

We have this tank on our property in the Texas Hill Country. When it’s full, it covers about 2 acres, but it leaks. So in the summer, it drains away to almost nothing, and this last summer/winter, it dried up completely. You can tell when a tank is about to go dry, when even with all your hoping and praying, rain isn’t coming any time soon. How? The turtles.

As you can imagine, it’s not an easy thing for a turtle to relocate. The decision to do so is a serious one, fraught with peril and requiring Herculean effort. Out of the water, they are awkward and exposed, not just to predators, but to the elements, the sun, the dry air. And it’s not like they have a map, or GPS. Guided by instinct alone, they head out clawing their way over this hill or that. It’s arduous, glacially slow going. And if they’ve miscalculated, you’ll find their hollowed, dried shell in the middle of the pasture.

So if the turtles leave the pond it’s because they know there’s nothing left there for them. And if you see them leaving, you can bank on the fact that the pond will go dry, or be reduced to little more than mud.

This last year, around the end of November, as I was walking to my parent’s house, my dogs were on the road ahead of me when all of a sudden they started barking, heads down, lunging at something on the road. I knew it was too late in the season for snakes, but I couldn’t for the life of me tell what it was, until I walked closer. There, in one of the gravel ruts, were two turtles, facing up hill, facing away from the tank. The dogs were beside themselves. They had no idea what these were, or what they should be doing with them, or waht it meant that all of sudden they appeared here on this hill.

But I knew. I knew that the drought would continue and the inevitable would occur. And sure enough, by the first of January the pond was nothing but mud, and by the end of January the mud had dried and cracked.

So the turtles chose wisely. They knew they could not stay, and even though leaving meant danger and hard, slow progress, they set out into the unknown searching for something better.

I have no idea if they made it. I hope they did.

The pond is back up now, the result of a 4 inch rain a few weeks back, but so far, no turtles in sight. But they will find it again. They always do.

Lost In The Fog

2009-04-10T22:22:00.000-07:00

“I just want to go for two weeks with no major changes in my life.” That’s what I told a friend recently as we sipped wine outside on my back deck. In the last few weeks, my business partnership split, my boyfriend broke up with me, my bank account went nearly dry, and I was sick in bed for almost an entire week, longer than I can ever remember being sick before. To say that life has been merely difficult would be … inane. Life has, in fact, sucked.

And I don’t see it markedly improving anytime soon.

So how have I dealt with the stress? Probably not well. I did start working out again, and I’ve meditated once or twice. But frankly there isn’t much that can be done right now to change things.

I’m left with making my way through it knowing that the end is not yet in sight, knowing that tomorrow when I wake up these issues will still be here and will likely stay here for some time.

When I was in college, I raised money for my tuition by trapping. Back then, raccoon pelts brought $35 and tuition at UT was only $8 an hour. So if I had a good run during Christmas break, I was generally able to cover my tuition and most of my book costs. In addition to trapping, I would spotlight for raccoons after dark. Most mamals eyes reflect light, so a bright enough light is shown on them, the eyes can be seen from a hundred yards or more away. Once you spot the eyes, you give chase, run the recoon up a tree, and then shoot it. I know, gruesome, right? But back then it didn't seem so.

One night the air was warmer than usual and damp, and while I was out walking with my light and rifle a heavy fog moved in. Before I knew it, I was engulfed in the thick, quickly moving cloud and completely lost my way. The ground was only visible a few feet ahead as I tried to make my way home, but before long I truly had no idea which direction I was headed.

A 21 year old, a few hundred yards for his home, probably has no reason to fear even in disorienting fog, but I was afraid. I couldn’t find my way. None of the paths, or rocks, or trees looked familiar. I was lost, and I had no idea how to get home.

So eventually I just stopped, sat down, and calmed myself as best I could. The house could not be far away. I had not been gone that long. I had walked up the hill away from the house, and was walking back down now. All I needed was a glimpse of something familiar, and until I saw it, there was nothing to do except sit and wait.

Fortunately, it did not take long. The wind rose, and the fog began to move and as the cloud blew passed it grew thinner and then I saw it, in the distance, a hundred yards away, the light on our barn. I set my bearings and off I went, and even though the thick fog rolled back in, I was able to focus on just the next step, again and again, until at last I made the barn and home.

Chains

2009-04-09T21:32:00.000-07:00

His head was lowered and his arms were crossed, resting on the table in front of him. Michael, 23, was just out of Syracuse, and working as an entry-level research assistant at a prestigious Dallas advertising firm. I first met him the summer before when he was interning. Back then, he was bright-eyed, excited to be graduating, and eager to enter the work force. But since joining the firm in May, he had endured back-to-back 70 hour work weeks for months. His eyes, still blue, no longer sparkled as focused on the place mat before him.

“I was happier bartending,” he said, still looking down. “It’s not at all what I thought it would be.”

I felt for him and wanted to say something helpful, but everything that came to mind seemed hollow and empty and useless.

In 1987, I graduated from Texas Tech law school and took a job with a downtown Dallas law firm. The money was great and, other than the head attorney of our section, the people I worked with were friendly and helpful. But I quickly realized that I was hired as a workhorse and not much else. My sole function was to bill hours, the more the better, and to fill my quota I would be working very late most nights. I hated it almost immediately. Just how much I hated it became obvious the day I returned from my first vacation after taking the job.

About six months after graduation, a friend in the Air Force was moving from Enid, Oklahoma to Phoenix and asked if I would drive with him. I was gone a week, and the morning I returned and sat at my desk my hands started shaking and my chest tightened. That physical revulsion was not lost on me--I saw it, noted it, knew what it meant. This life I had arranged for myself was not healthy. It was life draining, not life enhancing, but even knowing that, it took me 12 more years before I took the first small steps in getting out. And now, some 10 years later, I am faced with another chance to finally do what I’ve always wanted to do, to finally be what it is I have always truly been.

I thought about all this as I sat there watching Michael.

I know one of his bosses. I considered calling him and asking him if he knew what his company was doing to these kids, if they truly intended to suck the life out them and leave them as shells of their former selves. I saw in my mind a giant spider wrapping these kids in its web, then sucking them dry. Was it really worth it just so the partners could live in Highland Park in their big fancy houses with their big fancy cars?

But I also knew it would do no good. The chains that held me to the job I hated all those years, the same chains Michael wears, the same worn by his boss, are all self-imposed. No one can free us but ourselves. And realizing that takes time. No amount of advice can rush the process, and some of us never break free.

I hope Michael does. I hope the sparkle returns to his mediterean blue eyes, and his brilliant smile finds its way home.

And I hope I do too.

$75 Squirrel Proof Bird Feeder

2007-06-17T05:47:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, I went to a fancy bird store in Highland Park, the wealthy part of Dallas. It's the kind that sells gourmet bird seed and bird mansions instead of bird houses. Everything in the store was ridiculously expensive, but I found a bird feed that I liked that seemed reasonably priced. It was a tube on end with a little dish attached at the bottom and four half-oval holes cut in the tube with a little peg sticking out of each hole for the bird to stand on while eating. It also had a round hood, that looked like a half globe, resting on top. I couldn’t tell what the hood was for, but I decided to buy the bird house anyway. The only price tag on the feeder said $15, about $50 less than anything else in the store.

My little house in the country has an abundance of song birds, and I feed them. In fact, it's one of the first things I do when I arrive--adjust the HVAC, give the dogs food and water, fill the bird feeders. For the longest time, I only had one feeder. This new one would make two.

By the time I made my way to the register, there were four other customers behind and one person at the counter next to me. As the attendant rang up my purchase he looked at me and said, “That’s $75.” My mind raced. Seventy-five dollars? Is he talking to me?

“You have a squirrel problem, heh?” he asked.

“A what?” I answered.

“A squirrel problem. You’re buying a squirrel proof feeder. I just assumed….”

“Oh, a squirrel problem,” I said a little too forcefully. “ Yes, yes. Got a watch those pesky little buggers.” But in my head I was putting it all together. The squirrle-proof bail was $15, the whole contraption was $75, although not marked anywhere.

I could have stopped right there, and told him the truth, that I had made a mistake, that I had never seen a single squirrel at our country house, and that there was no way in hell I was paying $75 for a bird feeder. But this was snooty Highland Park, and suddenly I felt very cheap, so I just kept my mouth shut, paid the money, and walked out.

For the first few visits to the country house, I saw no birds on the new "$75 squirrel-proof bird feeder." I even told my partner that I hung the $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder and no birds were coming. I called my mom and asked her if there was anything I was doing wrong with my $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder, and she said no. Everyone in our life started jokingly calling it the $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder. But I secretly resented it every time I saw it in the cedar tree, out the French doors, just ont he other side of the deck.

Finally, on about my fifth visit, I noticed seed missing from the feeder, and finally, I saw cardinals and Spanish dove and red finches gorging themselves at the $75 squirrel proof bird feeder.

Then one day I saw a squirrel, the first squirrel I had ever seen on the property, and it was on the limb one over from the limb on which was hanging my $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder. I watched as he sat there eyeing the seeds, and I suddenly felt insightful and smart having purchased this $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder. WHo knew? I was confident he could not possible reach the seed, but just in case, I decided to cut the limb off on which the squirrel rested. I thought that was the end of it. Even though I now knew there were indeed squirrels on the property, I had my $75 squirrel-proof bird feeder, and I was set.

I was wrong.

Yes, this is one of the more exciting things that has happened to me on Sabbatical.

Buying Cattle

2007-06-10T17:28:00.001-07:00

"You can now tell people you're a cattleman," Ozzie told me as we drove back to Goldthwaite from Comanche.

It was Saturday and we had just left the Comanche Livestock Exchange after loading Ozzie's purchase into his trailor. My parents own 100 acres in the Hill Country and the rain has been so generous this year that the grass is plentiful. At dinner one night Ozzie mentioned that we could run a few more head on our place and later that evening I told my Dad I'd like to buy a cow. So with Ozzie's help we set out to buy some cattle.

Ozzie and his wife Maurine moved to Goldthwaite in 1991 and purchased 500 acres for $425 an acre. That same property now is likely worth $3000 an acre. The story is the same all over the Hill Country. Ranchers who until 5 years ago had little monetarliy to show for their lifetime of labor on the land, are now finding themselves holding properties worth millions. The demand was initially driven by retirees from Dallas, Austin, San Antonio and Houston, but the extraordinary escalation in value over the last few years resuilted from Californian's cashing out on the West Coast and relocating here.

Most of the counties in Texas have a livestock commission, a company that sells livestock on commission for the farmers and ranchers. The various commissions have their sales on different days, mostly to avoid competition. My parent's place is in Mills County and the five adjacent counties are San Saba, Brown, Comanche, and Lampassas. Dinner with Ozzie and his wife was Saturday night and he said the next auction would be San Saba on Thursday.

"If you are interested in going," Ozzie told us, "I would enjoy taking you." So we agreed to meet Thursday morning and head to the auction. But before Thursday arrived, Mom got a call from Maurine saying that a cow had died while calving and was partially in one of their ponds, a relatively inaccessible one, and she wondered if my Dad had a wench or could bring his Four-wheeler over to help pull the cow out of the water.

So Wednesday morning, Dad and I loaded the four-wheeler in the pick-up and headed over to help out. We backed the pickup against the damn and drove the four-wheeler off the bed. From the rim of the damn we could see the cow, front end bloated, rear deflated by the vultures feasting. Even from across the pond, the smell was strong. I started breathing through my nose. The hill on the backside of the pond was thich with scrub oak. No pickup could even get close. I threaded my way on the four-wheeler over bolders and around mesquites and oaks. The once or twice I forgot and breated through my nose, the smell almost gagged me.

Ozzie took one of my Dads cargo straps and looped over the cow's front leg. Even though her rear was closer to us, it was already decaying so badly that if we'd tried dragging her there, the leg would have seperated. We hooked the other end to the four-0wheeler hitch and Dad pulled the cow 15 feet up the hill and out of the water.

When I finally let myself breath through my nose again, I actually tasted the strench in my mouth. It was rank and nauseating.

Ozzie was grateful and as we drove away he said he would be at our house the next morning at 8:30 to drive us to the auction.

The sale in San Saba, about 30 minutes from Goldthwait, is at the Jordan Cattle Auction, an upscale facility with abundant pens and state-of-the-art equipment. Most commissions have similar layouts. the office, where new buyers sign in before the sale and all buyers payout after, is in the front of the building. the lobby has doors opening into the auction area, and the auction area has large metal doors that open in from the holding pens and back out to them.

Ozzie took me up to the office window and introduced me.

"This is Eddie Ishmael and he is a new buyer. Can you get him signed up?"

The lady on the other side of the slilding window said, "Well, of course. All I need is a driver's license and a copy of your check."

And that was it.

"What name to you want them to use in there?" the lady asked.

"I guess Ishmael," I said hesitantly.

She nodded and we moved on.

We entered the auction are about 45 minutes bfore the sale and reserved three seats with name cards, then we walked through a metal door out into the pens.

The pens are made of welded metal pipe and they are covered with a tall tin roof. The sounds were nearly deafening. Cows mooing, calves bawling, metal gates slamming shut, cowboys yelling at the cows and at each other. At first it was a bit overwhelmeing.

We went up on the cat walk and tried to identify some pairs--cows with calves--but the cat walk was fairly high in the air and the cows and calves had been already separated. Supposedly, the cows are easier to handle that way and there is less likelihood that the calves will get injured by the much larger cows.

Ozzie was a great teacher, very knowledgeable and very patient. Cattle for sale at auction generally consist of fertile bulls, nonfertile bulls, bred cows, nonbred or open cows, pairs (a mtoher and calf), three-ways (a pregnant mother and calf), hefers, steers and yearlings.

Each auction house has its own markign system for telling buyers about the cows. These marks are generally sprayed on with paint. If the cow has an X on its back, it has been pregnancy tested. A "O" on its back hip, which stands for "Open," means it is not bred and will likely be sold by the pound for meat. If it is pregnant, there will be a number on its hip telling you how many months pregnant the cow is. A pregnant cow, depending on how many months, is either short bred (1-3 months), medium bred (4-6 months) or long bred (7 to 8 months). Obviously, the shorter period before birth, the quicker the rancher can make money off the cow and the less he will have to hold her as non-productive.

There is a vet on site at the sales and his job is to check the cows for pregnancy. At the Jordan auction, the vet was at the back of the roofed space. He wore a white medical overcoat with the right sleeve rolled up and a clear polastic glove that went all the way to his bicept. That arm and his whole side were covered in cow shit. He checked them by shoving his whole arm up inside them and feeling the size of the calf.

I ended up not buying at the Jordan auction so Ozzie volunteered to take us to the Comanche auction the upcoming Saturday.

Michigan Day 3

2006-08-14T11:12:00.000-07:00

Michigan Second Day

2006-08-14T11:11:00.000-07:00

Michigan Day 1

2006-08-13T20:30:00.000-07:00

Last night, my first night in Lee’s 1900 two-story frame house on Lake Leelanau, Michigan, we ate dinner on the front porch seated on his grandparent's wooden rocking chairs. The day had been pleasant, low 80’s, and the evening was calm and cooling. Lee’s house is on the lake. He even has a small wooden deck, supported by galvanized steel poles driven deep into the lake bed, jutting out into the water. That side of the house, the side facing the water, is the front of the house. The entrance from the county road, along his winding drive through his towering beech trees, is the back. Last night, we ate dinner on the front porch.

It’s August, which means its corn and vegetable season here in Northern Michigan. The corn here, at the right point in the season, is surprisingly juicy and plump. When you bite down on an ear, the kernels explode in your mouth with creamy sweetness. And the tomatoes, they are firm and fragrant and tasty.

Andy Rooney did a 60 Minutes segment on tomatoes. He told about the tomatoes he remembered growing up, how flavorful and colorful and real they were. Then he described the genetically engineered versions we have today. You know, the ones "designed" to be picked by machine, the ones that never really get ripe or even red. They look and feel … well, engineered, like plastic fruit in a bowl, only worse, because plastic fruit at least looks inviting. But these Northern Michigan tomatoes are real, they are firm, they are tasty, they are so very flavorful.

I told Lee last night that I have had a bounty of great tomatoes this year. My mom had a garden from spring to mid-summer. She and my Dad live in the Hill Country of Texas, a semi-aired 200 square miles of rolling hills, scrub oak and cedar. The soil is mostly caliche—a crushed limestone mixture that resembles chalk. Needless to say, coaxing vegetables from that soil takes time, attention, and determination. My mom expends all three in a loving, caring act of tending her garden every year. Most of what she grows, she gives away, to her children, her grand children and her neighbors. To her way of thinking, neighbor is an expansive term, including everyone she knows in her small town of Goldthwaite and all her friends in Austin. This year, she and Dad grew a wealth of tomatoes and green beans.

My Dad took a picture of the largest tomato of the harvest, a 1.8 pounder, sitting on a scale. The local paper printed it with a story about mom’s prolific plants, and she soon received phone calls and emails from town’s folk wanting to buy her produce. Nearly every meal during every visit we made while her garden was producing included tomatoes, even breakfast. But I never complained. They were so deep, dark-red, and juicy and sweet that I could not get enough of them. What I discovered, or maybe remembered, was that I love tomatoes, and when they are good tomatoes, meaning real tomatoes allowed to ripen, I actually crave them. What it tells me is this: what they pass off as tomatoes in the store are nothing but a cheap imitations of the real thing, a fabricated replica that we have grown so used to that we don’t even know what we are missing. Well, I know. And after this summer, after mom’s tomatoes and Upper Michigan tomatoes, I’m not likely to forget. That may not be a good thing considering I’m unlikely to find real tomatoes anywhere near Dallas.

As Lee and I sat on the front porch, sipping our wine and finishing the last of the meal, the sun was just setting across the lake. The two things I remember most vividly about my visits here are the sunsets and the thunderstorms, each are awe inspiring, powerful, even forceful reminders of the often overlooked majesty in nature. The sunset last night was no exception. It started as a bubble of deep, dark pink resting atop the westward hills. It hovered there, growing deeper and richer and more intense, and then it exhaled. From the tops of the hills it breathed itself toward us in pink and orange and red bands along the underside of the low clouds. The progression was slow, nearly imperceptible, and as the full length of narrow sky directly between the porch and the hills was filled with color, it inhaled again, pulling the colors back into itself, slowly, calmly, spreading out as it did to fill the horizon. Then it was gone, and the calm lake, silky and still, was alone as it stretched out before us into the darkness.

Today is cool, mid-70’s, and windy. There is a south westerly breeze raising whitecaps on the water. I slept soundly last night, perhaps for the first time in months. Maybe for the first time since my last visit here nearly a year ago. There is no air conditioning, so we are at the mercy of the night air to make it pleasant or unbearable. I cranked open the windows in my room and turned on a fan and read, but by the time I was ready to close my eyes I was already getting cold, so I turned off the fan and pulled the sheet up over my shoulders. At some point, the wind picked up and the house cooled down even more, and I must have awakened just long enough to unfold the blanket at the foot of the bed and drape it over me because I was swaddled in it this morning.

Lee is in town shopping and I am here, on the back … no, front porch, breeze in my face, waves lapping at the rocks of the break water, typing. Not bad for a cool, pleasant Sunday, huh? 4:15 The clouds lifted. Lee is inside working, and I’m back on the front porch enjoying the warm sun and the cool breeze. Lee says this lake, Lake Leelanau, is one the most underutilized lakes in Michigan. I can see how that could be true. For its size and its relative nearness to Traverse City, there are precious few boats on this lake. That’s of course one of its charms as far as retreats go. But what it does have are lots of wave runners, an inordinate number as compared to the boats. They aren’t obnoxious, just ubiquitous. Every time I look up I see one. And whereas for some reason the boats tend to hug the opposite shore, the wave runners seem to like this side of the lake. Of course today, as windy as it is, neither boat nor wave runner are that numerous.

When I visit Lee there tends to be a theme for the week. It’s not one we choose ahead of time, but our conversation start following a path and before long we’ve worn a rut that all other conversations tend slide into. When a conversation starts on its own trail, eventually it intersects with the one we’ve already cut and sort of tumbles in and rolls along the path of least resistance. It’s only Day 1, but even now I see the beginnings of the week’s theme, the bend to the grass where are conversation has trod several times already. It seems to be about the difference between what we do and who we are. Even the book I am reading, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, touches upon this theme. We have yet to flesh it out, the grass is still there, and the path not yet worn, but it seems to be heading in that direction.

7:30 I am starving. We are having salad, pasta, and bread. Just the thought of it makes my mouth water and my stomach growl. I used to eat whether I was truly hungry or not. Now I am hungry all the time. And it’s not due to a revved up metabolism. I only wish that were the case. No, it seems to be tied to the sugar levels in my blood. Whether I’ve exercise or not, whether I need it or not, my body is always craving food. It’s annoying and terribly inconvenient. I actually have to plan ahead and have protein bars in my back pack, protein shakes in the refrigerator, and snacks, usually healthy, sometimes not, laying about. Of course talking about this is just making me more hungry.

Michigan Day 2

2006-08-13T09:46:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting at the counter of the Early Bird Café in Leland, a lazy little town on the edge of Lake Michigan…, or it would be lazy if it had the chance. In the summer that’s not an option. The town is situated around a cross road with the main businesses crammed within 2 blocks of that intersection. One road runs parallel to the beach and only about 200 yards from it, and the other runs directly into it. This café is old and rickety. The counter is Formica, as are the booths, that faux wood grained Formica, the kind that never looked like wood even when new, and now that some of the grain has been rubbed off with use, it just looks sad. They bill themselves as Leland’s best breakfast and lunch. That may be. The tuna on toasted whole wheat was simple but really good, owing partly, I’m sure, to the fact that it’s 1:30 PM and I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I made a reservation for fly fishing tomorrow. $250 for a half day. We’re floating some river within an hour of Traverse City, just me and the guide. It would cost the same if I brought a friend, but Lee is the only person I know here, and he has absolutely no interest in fishing. So it’s just me and the guide.

I’m finishing up here and about to head down to the waterfront. I’m told that “surely, someone in Leland sells fishing licenses.” Let’s hope so. I tried to buy one online, but Lee’s computer is a dial-up and after getting through 90% of the sign-up, it informed me we didn’t have the proper programs to run it. So I hope Leland comes through, otherwise we’ll be spending time at 6 AM tomorrow searching for one.

Time to check out the rest of Leland.

5:00 PM

Leland wasn’t that interesting today. I walked along the narrow lock that empties Lake Leelanau into Lake Michigan. Unlike most locks, it’s not used to raise and lower boats from one body of water to another. Instead, this lock is used more like a giant sink plug to regulate the water level of Lake Leelanau in winter. Since, as you know, ice expands, they lower the water level in winter to allow room for the swelling ice, otherwise, it would wreck havoc on the retaining walls and shoreline. There is a falls at the top lock and shops on either side of the lock canal.

Small commercial fishing boats off Lake Michigan use the canal to bring their catch to the Leland fish market. It is an old, relatively small plywood building with concrete floors, a row of counters in the back corner and a sink for gutting fish, and display cases filled with fresh and smoked fish from the lake. I’ve been in the fish market before. The catch is always meager, or at least disappointing. And the smoky smell that hovers around the building is almost overpowering when you first open the door, then the underlying smell of slimy, gutted fish sneaks up on you, nearly gagging you and making it hard to stay long enough to buy anything. Luckily, I wasn’t buying anything today, and I ducked out quickly.

So knowing it smells to high heavens, and that I wasn’t likely to buy anything, why go anywhere near it, let alone inside? I don’t know. It’s like not being able to turn your head when a train wreck’s coming. I need to be revolted some times, reminded that it’s not all nice and neat and clean and sterile and fragrant. I need to remember that the fish I eat was once alive and before I get to eat it, it has to die generally by a painful and messy means.

Snowmass: Last Morning

2006-01-08T07:47:00.000-08:00

Week in Snowmass

2006-01-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

There are no jet ways at the Aspen airport. You just exit the plane down a long, metal, retractable (meaning on rollers) staircase and walk across the runway. You pray the weather isn’t too cold when you land. Stepping off the plane into a near zero degree wind can be a shock you do not soon forget. But lately, my prayer has changed. In the last few years there seems to have been a steady warming that is at best unnerving and at worse a harbinger of truly drastic weather changes. My prayer now is, let it be cold--really, really cold.

Unfortunately, when I exited the plane the weather was pleasant. That is not a good sign. And as the day wore on, it got even better, which is worse. When it was all said and done, yesterday set record highs in Aspen--48 degrees. On the mall in Snowmass, there were teenagers in shorts. I kid you not. It was almost offensive, like they were flaunting the fact that the environment is off kelter or they are truly oblivious to the implications. I’m not sure which is worse. Of course they could have just been enjoying the weather, which, while understandable, is a little like warming yourself at a funeral pyre.

And these heat waves are not just in Aspen. I read a few days ago that Australia has had record heat for the last few days. And it is so dry in Oklahoma, Texas and New Mexico, that there are massive grass fires that have burned hundreds of thousands of acres and, in one instance, an entire town. When you add that to the increased intensity and frequency of hurricanes in the Atlantic and Gulf, with the melting of the polar ice caps and glaciers around the world, there is no longer any debate. Global warming is real, it is serious, and we have to try and do something about it. I only hope Bush’s foot-dragging on Kyoto and his administration-wide assault on environmental regulation hasn’t made it impossible to change course.

We've been staying in Snowmass (thirty minutes outside of Aspen) the last week for my continuing legal education. Skiing in Snowmass is great. The mountain is huge and has something for everyone. Clint and I are similar skiers. We both handle blues easily and many blacks. Moguls give us headaches, but we're learning. He get’s better every time we go, so that now he is at least as good as me and, since he is more fearless, he often beats me to the bottom.

Have I mentioned how beautiful the guys are here? The workers on the slopes are hot. Almost any one of them could be a model, it seems. Now grant it, much of their beauty is presumed on my part because their faces, at least portions of their faces, are covered by sunglasses, ski masks, etc., and the ski clothes they wear are, of necessity, baggy.

But, that being said, and even covered by loose fitting clothing, you can tell their bodies are svelte, and their chins are chiseled, their faces tanned, and they all have brilliantly white teeth. What's up with that? So it’s no stretch to fill in the gaps with compatible information and come up with a real beauty.

Snowmass Village is tiny. You can walk the entire the village (side to side, up hill and down) in about 30 minutes. It makes skiing and getting around town very easy, but your entertainment options are limited. Luckily, Aspen is only a 40 minute shuttle ride (less than $5 dollars) or 20 minute taxi (around $40) away and it has everything, even a gay bar (or at least it did last year).

When I have a camera, I notice things I otherwise would not. And when I see interesting shots, I take them, or at least I’m starting to take, starting to fight the fear I have of taking them. I saw an old man at an adjacent table, with his stark grey hair and deep wrinkles. He was wearing an Aspen ski instructor’s jacket which fascinated me. He had to be 70. But what was more interesting was how many people knew him and came up to him to chat. At one point a 65 year old man came up and leaned over the table toward him and, with his arm around his shoulder, started talking to him. The scene fascinated me for some reason. These two grizzled old men, chatting and catching up. I took the picture. Clint went ballistic.

It seems he gets embarrassed when I photograph strangers. He thinks it’s intrusive. But I like capturing people at their most natural and unguarded moments. Then, they are real, and by implication, I become part of something real, even if for the briefest moment, millisecond it takes for the shutter to wink.

We went to Aspen twice this trip. The first visit was Wednesday for afternoon skiing and dinner.

Ajax mountain is nothing like Snowmass. It seems the entire ski slope is on the edge of one ridge or the other. The slopes are almost all blue or black. In fact, mostly black.

We skied until 3:30, or about 3 and a half hours. By then, we were exhausted and headed to the base of the mountain. Off and on all afternoon it snowed on the mountain top. And by the time we retrieved our gear from the lockers at the base, the snow was coming down in thick sheets there, as well.

It was a mini white-out that lasted all of about 20 minutes--quick but beautiful and surprisingly intense.

After skiing we went to Starbucks and sat there sipping our hot chocolate and wondering how we would pass the time until our 9 PM dinner appointment.

“You know what I’d really like?” I asked Clint.

He shook his head, no.

“A massage. How can we find one?”

“How about the American Express concierge?” he suggested. And with that, he pulled out his cell phone and, using his platinum card, asked the concierge for help. Within minutes, the concierge had us massage reservations for 7:00 PM at the Aspen Club. Clint then Googled the Aspen Club on his phone which told him we were .8 miles away and gave us the address. We decided to walk.

I forgot how long .8 miles can be at that altitude and on snow-packed, slippery paths.

Our course took us directly past a small city park with a tranquil snow-lined pond. When I saw the park sign I did a double take then let out a laugh. Clint glanced at me with a furrowed brow and asked, “What?”

I pointed at the sign which read, “Glory Hole Park.” I kid you not. “This has to be some sick joke played on the unsuspecting towns folk by a local Queen,” I offered.

As we approached the pond, a flock of ducks splashed noisily as they lifted themselves up off the water.

We went to Aspen again Friday night after the conference. Our dinner reservation was at Rustique for 8:00 PM. We arrived in Aspen at about 7:00 PM and, at the cabbie's suggestion, went to Jimmy’s, a bar on the top floor of a three story strip center. The bar was packed, but we found a table and had a drink before dinner. Clint has intended to do a business plan for Celeratec for some time. We took the time at Jimmy’s to write out the beginnings of one.

At 8 we made our way to Rustique, a French Bistro I read about in several magazines. It was just around the corner from Jimmy’s. The décor was reminiscent of Santa Fe with thick, smooth adobe walls and exposed, rough wooden rafters. Our waiter was a cute, late-20’s, thin boy with short cropped brown hair and brown eyes. From the moment I saw him I thought he was gay. After we ordered, he brought us a bowl of charred tomato bisques explaining that it was “left over.”

Clint leaned over the table toward me and asked, “Did we just get a gay boy freebie?”

“Maybe,” I replied. "Do you think he’s gay?”

Clint looked incredulous. “Duh!” was all he said.

But at the end of the meal, when the waiter brought the check, Clint motioned for him to lean in and Clint asked, “So where is a good place to go tonight? Where would you go?”

The waiter leaned back a bit as he searched his mind then said, “It depends on what you want. A quiet glass of wine or a loud bar or …?”

“I want a family friendly place,” Clint said without hesitation. “My kind of family, not theirs,” he said waiving his hand over the crowd. "Where do you suggest?

The waiter leaned back even further and said, “I don’t have any idea.” Then he walked quickly away.

Clint looked stunned. “I think I just scared him to death.”

I just shook my head.

For our last day of skiing, we stayed in Snowmass. The sky was mostly sunny and bright, but the wind picked up about mid-day and by 1:00 PM it was blowing fiercely at the top of the mountain.

As we were waiting in the Big Burn lift line, we could see the wispy clouds of blowing snow spilling over the mountain top, but we had no idea just how hard the wind was blowing until we neared the top. The lift stopped several times on the ascent when the gusts grew especially fierce and dangerous. From the lift chair, we could see what looked like ribbons of snow being pushed along in finger-like currents upon the surface of the slope. And every now and then the snow would rise in swirling funnels that hovered over the slope before rising and dispersing into the air.

As we neared the top, the blasts of icy air grew even more frequent and intense and the chair stopped every few feet. About 20 yards from the drop-off, the chair stopped once again and, as we looked up at the mountain’s crest, we saw a thick cloud of billowing snow rise ominously above the summit then boil over the mountain top racing directly at us. When the gust hit the trees ahead of us, they shook violently and bent toward us as they were engulfed by a shroud of blowing snow. Then the blast hit us, slamming against our chair, pivoting it back at a 30 degree angle as the wind roared past us.

At first we gripped the safety rail in front of us but, as the cloud engulfed us, the ice crystals scrapped into our skin like a sand blaster, stinging like a swarm of wasps. For a second, my heart seemed to stop and my already vice-like grip on the rail tightened. But as the stinging grew even more painful, I released the rail, buried my head in my hands and closed my eyes. Within seconds, the onslaught subsided and the lift began moving again.

As soon as we exited the lift, another gust came roiling down at us from the mountain top. I took out the camera as Clint tried skiing away from it. Instead, he got caught in a particularly wicked gust that nearly blew him over and obscured him from view. After that, we hurriedly made our way further down the mountain and out of the vicious blasts at the summit. In all my years of skiing I have never felt gusts like those. And I will perfectly content if i never experience anything like them again.

Federal Club Christmas Party.

2005-12-09T22:21:00.000-08:00

P-Town Fireworks

2005-07-05T06:53:00.000-07:00

Last day in P-town. We catch the ferry at 3PM and arrive in Dallas at 10:50, if all goes well.

It’s sunny this morning and a bit warmer than last night. About 7 last evening the breeze picked up and it cooled down considerably. At about 9, we stood on the back porch of one of the rooms here at the B&B that faces the water and waited for the fireworks to begin. The wind was actually chilly. We sipped wine and drank Cape Cods, appropriate, huh? The fireworks were surprisingly good and had to have cost a fortune.

They shot the fireworks from a barge just off the pier. The harbor, where most of the sail boats are anchored, was between us and the barge. When the rockets exploded, the harbor lit up with whatever colors the firework produced. Most had several colors in succession, and the water, the boats and masts, and the pier itself glowed in the same sequence of colors, before fading again into darkness. Many of the rockets produced no real spray of color, but just a startling flash that lit the whole harbor followed a few anxious seconds later by a deafening retort, exploding across the water and echoing through the town behind us.

Our stay has been relaxing, refreshing, and fun. All in all a great break from Dallas.

Independence in Provincetown

2005-07-04T12:58:00.000-07:00

I am feeling particularly patriotic today, not in that tugging at the heart strings nostalgic way like when I was a kid, but in that deep-rooted conviction sort of way like I used to feel for my religion. It is not confidence in an act or action or even a result, it’s not about prevailing or dominating. It is confidence in an ideal.

If I look at the action of my government over the past three years, I am disappointed and disheartened. In a time when we needed men of conviction and moral strength, we got selfish opportunists. At a time when we needed to reinforce our core beliefs, we jettisoned them in favor of reactionary responses.

But I still believe in the values that have made our country great, and will make it great again: equality, freedom; that we have an inalienable right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness; that government is instituted among men primarily to promote those goals, and not to promote corporate greed or religious dogma; that our forefathers established a nation not a church.

The United States is nothing except its ideals and the people that hold them. It is a living, evolving entity that was not created in 1776 and set in stone thereafter. It is continually recreated with every generation, every congressional session, by every court decision and every presidential election. Given time, what has been done, can be undone and what is left undone until now can still be accomplished.

The US is potential and hope, nothing more but certainly nothing less. We can reach our potential and keep hope alive, or we can horde and conserve and let greed and selfish ambition ruin hope for all future generations.

Progressives have hope, and optimism in the future. Conservatives have fear and distrust the future. Conservatives think now is as good as it is likely to get so they horde all they can for themselves. Progressive think now is just the beginning of a bright shining future worth investing in for all our citizens.

A man without optimism and hope is nothing but an animated corpse. He is dead, he just doesn’t know it yet. Eventually, the grave will call, and he will go down. The trick is to keep him from pulling you in with him.

So I have hope today, hope that we can once again be the great nation we have been in the past, hope that we will, once more, return to our core beliefs and ideas. Our future is in expanding the hope of all our citizens for today and for the future. Our obligation is not let a shortsighted, self-centered powerful kill hope for our future.

All The Colors of The Rainbow

2005-07-03T16:51:00.000-07:00

Around Provencetown

2005-07-03T09:15:00.000-07:00

P-Town Playground

2005-07-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

P-Town is one big party that spills out into the street, and I do mean “the” street, Commercial Street, the main street in town. When we exited the ferry, we walked along Commercial, me wheeling our luggage behind me and Clint carrying both backpacks. We were told the hotel was five minutes from the dock. They lied. We walked for at least 10 minutes hauling our overstuffed bags, intermittently asking our friends, breathlessly, “How much further?” I know, for you people who live in a walking city, 10 minutes is nothing. But we live in Dallas, a 10 minute walk seems as daunting to us a trek across the Sahara. The difference in this instance being the animals you cross along the way. Instead of cobras and camels, we saw ripped roid-boys and costumed drag queens walking shoulder to shoulder with straight families (whose kids, by the way, did not even seem to notice the extravaganza playing out before them).

Commercial is a narrow street lined with typical Eastern seaboard, faded wood-framed houses, most of which were converted long ago to restaurants and t-shirt shops. But even with the commercialism apropos of it name, Provincetown’s main street still holds its old charm, from the clock tower of the Townhall to the long, narrow architecture of its waterside structures, it doesn’t take much imagination to place yourself back 200 years ago in this town at the end of the Cape.

On the Townhall grounds, there is an arched granite wall about 20 feet long and 4 feet tall. It is a memorial to the war dead of Provincetown. The wall has four square panels about 3 feet by 3 feet. The first two are dedicated to WWII the third to the Koean War and the fourth has “Vietnam” at its top center, but then to the right, along the edge, they’ve squeezed in a heading that reads, “Pnanma-Greneda-Haiti-Gulf-Bosnia-Somalia-Lebanon.” At first, when I saw that all the panels were full, I thought, “How niave and sad. They never dreamed we’d have so many battles in so few years.” Then I thought how sad that they don’t even have room for the latest war—Iraq. I guess they’ll build another, and another.” Will we ever learn?

Jeff and Ed walked to the top of the Pilgrim Tower this morning. It is a granite cut block structure built in 1907 to commemorate the landing of the Pilgrims. The tower rises thin and tall fom its 30 foot by 30 foot square base 150 feet into the air. Climbing the ramps on the inside turn corner by corner by corner, the only distractions are the few rectangular windows cut in the 3 foot thick walls give glimpses of the scenes belw, and intermitant placards or corner stones giving the names of various Massachusetts towns and when they were incorporated. Each placard was approximately 2 feet by 2 feet most with just the name of the town and a date like Boston 1648. But several had the original name of the city and a date, followed by “named changed to ______” and another date. One marker read, “Falls River 1640, name changed to _________, 1800, name changed back to Falls River 1832.” It made me wonder what was going on back then that led so many town to change their names, and in particular, what was happening in Falls river that made it change its name, then change it back, all in the span of 30 years. It all semed like such a waist.

As they made our way back down the tower ramps, which seems to take longer than going up, we came across a place that read, Swampscott, 1630. I turned to Jeff and said, “Swampscott? What kind of a name is Swampscott? Of all that towns that should have changed its name, that was the one.”

Coming Out All Over Again

2005-06-27T12:19:00.000-07:00

In the battle that lies ahead, the fight against the discriminatory anti-gay amendment to the Texas constitution, coming out could be a potent weapon.

I am happy to note that last week I got to put my commitment, about coming out and asking people to vote against the amendment, into practice. I "came out" 15 years ago. But coming out isn't a one-time shot. It is a continuing process and in the coming months, we gay and lesbian Texans are going to have to look for ways to come out as often as possible.

I went to a dinner supporting People for the American Way (which has an Austin office and was apparently quite active on progressive issues in the legislature this past session). I know, a People For (as they call themselves) dinner isn’t exactly the lions den, but I have to start somewhere. In any event, after sitting down at our circular table of 10, and promptly having the lady seated next to me spill her red wine all over my suit coat, we started introducing ourselves.

It didn’t take long before one of my fellow dinner guests mentioned a man we knew in common and told the story of how he was disowned from his family because he left the orthodox temple and married a women who was not Jewish. I thought to myself, I can relate. It sounds like my coming out story. And then it hit me. Now is the perfect time to come out to these nine, total strangers and talk to them about the amendment. So I did--after a milliseconds hesitation in which time I thought of 15 reasons how this could turn out badly--and the response was surprising even for that group.

I said, “I can relate. When I told my parents I was gay, my mother got so angry that for three years we hardly spoke and when we did she invariably ended the conversation by telling me I was going to hell and that I was an embarrassment to them.” I was speaking mostly to Susan, who had told the story about her friend. But her mother-in-law was seated next to her and leaned toward Susan and said, “What did he do to his mother?”

Then Susan leaned in and said, quite loudly, “No, she was upset because he came out to her and told her he was gay.” I swear it was one of those moments where the noise level suddenly drops just a split second before the word “GAY” is blurted out. You know what I mean. It’s sort of an unwritten universal law similar to “objects in motion tend to stay in motion” or “what goes up must come down.” Well, in a crowded room, when you’ve just come out, if the word “gay” is used it seems to suck up all the oxygen and conversation so that everyone in the room gets to hear it.

But what followed was heartening to say the least. David, sitting next to me, launches into a tirade about the stupidity of the amendment and starts listing the ways “we need to fight it.” The lady who spilled her wine on me, started talking about her and her husband’s best friends in San Francisco who they’ve known since 1955, and how sad it is that they can’t enjoy the same rights other couples enjoy, and that we had to find a way to defeat this amendment. Then Susan said she hoped that Texas was better than to pass such a needless and mean-spirited law. They carried on like this for 5 minutes and only stopped when Alec Baldwin was introduced to speak (I had to throw that in so you knew I got to meet Alec who, by the way, is a really good speaker).

I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

My point is this, even though that was a fairly safe setting, I had no idea there were straight allies that felt this strongly about defeating this amendment. They are out there, and they will help. David wants me email him today so that we can talk strategy.

Republicans Attack Dem Sheriff, Lupe Valdez

2005-06-22T06:25:00.000-07:00

In response to this:

http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/

dn/latestnews/stories/062205dnmetjail.3194df86.html

I am disappointed that you would take the partisan bait from Ken Mayfield and help him deflect attention away from the Republican controlled Commissioners Court’s abysmal record on jail health. The Republicans hold a majority on the County Commissioners Court, as well as most posts in this state, and as with the School Finance debacle in Austin, the Republicans here at home cannot get their act together. But instead of pointing blame where it is due, the Republican controlled Court, you let Mayfield, a perennial underachiever, use the News to misdirect attention. Ask yourself this: when was the last time you heard Mayfield raise any concern about our inmates, let alone about their health? Why didn’t he raise concerns when all this began, and festered, under our Republican Sheriffs? This is an obvious political hatchet job against our Democratic Sheriff who has, in a short six months, begun to really turn things around at the county jail. Hopefully the do-nothing Mayfield will be out come 2006 and District 4 will have a competent, engaged commissioner not a political hit-man.

Dinner with Bob Casey, Senate Candidate PA

2005-06-22T06:02:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with Bob Casey recently. He is running against Santorum in Pennsylvania. Casey is currently PA’s Treasurer and, unlike Santorum, Casey is a true fiscally responsible public servant. Casey’s dad was governor, so he has a lot of connections in and outside of PA. I found him warm and engaging one-on-one. He is not a fire breather, but is instead thoughtful and deliberate and assured. Compared to the lunatic Santorum, I think Casey will do very well.

Santorum will raise a lot of money, but to do so, he has to get in bed even further with the fringe right. The further down that path he goes, the more he alienates Pennsylvanians who are, by and large, moderate. And Santorum has to have $10 or $20 million in order to saturate the airwaves in an attempt to morph himself into someone more moderate and more in tune with everyday Pennsylvanians. He has proven adept at doing this in the past, and will likely do so again. Casey will need enough money to remind Pennsylvanians of the truth: Santorum is an extreme right-wing fanatic who is totally out of step with the concerns, beliefs and traditions of Pennsylvania—not to mention the fact that Santorum isn’t even a PA resident.

I’m sure this is not original, but one of the guests last night leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I call him Sanitorium." I laughed. He certainly appears to belong in a sanitarium. I am confident Casey can win. It will be up to all of us across the nation to help him. Defeating Santorum will be a glaring rejection of Bush’s extremism and could be the first step in returning our country to sanity.

Happy To Be Gay

2005-06-21T11:51:00.000-07:00

In response to http://www.wacotrib.com/opin/content/news/opinion/
stories/2005/06/19/20050619wacjyoung19.html

Thank you for shining some light on the life and pain of Mr. Ball. I applaud your effort to expose Gov. Perry's heartless attack on GLBT people for the power grab that it is.

In deed, this is not about morality. It is not even about religion. It is about manipulating the fears and prejudices of people for political gain. Such cynical acts ought to be beneath a sitting elected official, but in modern-day Republican politics in this state, it is almost to be expected.

While I thank you for your column, I do take exception to one sentence. You say, "But if you are homosexual in Texas, sadness comes with the territory." Not only is this sentiment misplaced, it is actually dangerous. I do not know if you are gay, but I doubt you are. If you were gay, you would know how one of the hardest parts of coming out is the fear that, as a gay Texan, your life will be miserable. You believe this, not because of any empirical data proving it, or because of some innate truth inside of you, but because the images you are force fed and the references you come across often paint gay people as sad or depressed or outcast. It leaves a lot of gay teens feeling there is no option but to end their lives.

Well, I am gay and I love my life. I have an incredible soul-mate and lover with whom I share a monogamous relationship. We would marry, if we were allowed. We go to movies together, pay bills together, go on vacations together. I walk the dog in the morning and he walks her at night. I share my hopes and fears and joys and sadness with him and him with me. All in all, it is a really normal, but most often joyful life. And I love my community which is filled with caring, loving, strong and determined people.

Is it hard hearing that the governor of your state shared a stage with an out-of-state millionaire evangelist that spewed hatred from a podium emblazoned with the seal of the state of Texas? Yes, it hurts. Does it make me furious that the governor said nothing to defend Texas citizens from this televangelists brutal, hate-filled assaults? Absolutely. Is it tough thinking you live in a state where they will take your taxes but not give you equal rights? Most definitely.

But the saddest part of all for me is watching this great state, the state I love, be lowered and debased by a governor who is willing to trade the proud name of Texas for a few votes from an extreme fringe sect hell-bent on using the laws to force their narrow view of morality on others. Texas is better than that. We are better than that, and we deserve a governor who is better than that as well.

Thanks again for your column.

Speak Wright Addresses TEXVAC

2005-06-21T05:46:00.000-07:00

The event was billed as "Legends and Rising Stars," and after making his way cautiously to the podium, while the over-flowing crowd gave him his first standing ovation, the 83 year-old former Speaker of the US House looked out over the crowd through those signature shaggy eye-brows and said, "In case you were wondering, I am one of the legends." The over-flowing crowed roared.

There are times even today, even with the obfuscating clamor and roar of the Republican noise machine, that I am reminded of why I am a Democrat. Last Thursday, at the Texas Values (TEXVAC) Ft. Worth Launch, listening to Speaker Jim Wright and five of our 11 freshman Democratic Texas House members, was one of those times.

Speaker Wright spoke for 20 minutes, without notes, to a transfixed audience. He spoke eloquently of true Texas values and how the future of the country, not just Texas, depends on the new breed of Democrats represented by the freshman in attendance. He reminded us that we are a party with a long history of great accomplishments, and we should wear the name Democrat with pride; that we are the party of progress and ideas and that the greatest advances in the history of this country--in education, the economy, healthcare, and civil and individual rights--are all the result of fearless Democratic leadership.

"I remember when we had our Young Democrats Convention in 1945." The Speaker recalled. "We, like these young legislators here, were determined to make a difference." He then relayed how delegates had drawn up a list of demands that, in his words, "sent the leadership into apoplexy."

"What were those radical demands?" he asked rhetorically. "Elimination of the poll tax; that we should do all in our power to hire and keep great teachers and to do that we should pay teachers at least ... are you ready? ... a whopping $2,000 dollars a year; and that women be allowed to serve on juries. Of course, all of these eventually came to pass. Oh, and one more demand we had back then, that we pass an anti-lynching law."

Speaker Wright then turned to the four freshmen Democrats standing off to his left, all of whom were in awe of this lion in winter, and looking at each in turn recited the following by heart:

"Politics is the most hazardous of all professions. There is not another in which a man can hope to do so much good for his fellow creatures; neither is there any in which by mere loss of nerve he may do such widespread harm; nor is there another in which he may so easily lose his own soul--With all the temptation and degradation that besets it, politics is still the noblest career man can choose."

After Speaker Wright, each freshman in attendance spoke for a few minutes introducing themselves and letting the crowd know what was in their hearts and minds. The Speaker had spoken with such conviction, and strength, and brilliance that when Mark Strama (Austin) took to the podium, he started by saying, "Now I see why they call him Mr. Speaker." Mark won his Austin seat by 550 votes over a first-term incumbent the Republicans had handpicked as a golden boy of their Party.

Each freshman was articulate and inspirational. And unlike the Republican party, our freshmen are a true cross-section of Texas, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, male, female. One of the speakers, Rafael Anchia, was just named as Texas legislature Rookie of the Year by Texas Monthly magazine. I could recite many powerful moments during their speeches.

After being there last night, I now see that the future of the Democratic Party in Texas is truly bright. If I were a Republican here, I'd be scared.

But the highlight of the evening had to be Speaker Wright.

At the end of his speech, Speaker Wright turned to the four freshman one more time and, in what can only be compared to a blessing and a passing of the torch, he said:

You are each embarking on this most noble career and at its end, many long and productive years from now, let it be said by us and a grateful nation, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. Well done."

The crowd was again on their feet and applauding this icon of selfless public service.

We owe it to ourselves, and to those who have come before us, to remember the strong heritage, tradition, intellect and heart that forged this great Party. And we owe it to Speaker Wright, and many others, to honor their contributions and their sacrifices. In Speaker Wright's eyes and in his powerful, if aging, voice we can hear, and see, and feel the spirit that makes us all proud Democrats, the spirit that will right this country and make it yet again what it was meant to be: the bright shining beacon of freedom and equality and liberty for all.

The Texas Values in Action Coalition (TEXVAC), as you recall, is the new group that was in the news in June after Travis County DA, Ronnie Earle, spoke to their Dallas Launch and helped raise over $100,000 dollars to elect Democrats in North Texas. Their methods are anything but Democratic politics as usual, and they are taking it to the Republicans in one of the reddest and most important of the Red States, Texas.

The crowd included freshman Democratic state representatives Dr. Alma Allen, Rafael Anchia, Mark Strama, Hubert Vo and Marc Veasey--the rising stars.

You can learn more about them by visiting their web-site at:

Melting Like to Ice Caps in Montreal

2005-06-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

So Montreal is hot! No, I mean it’s hot, as in really, really humid and about 98 degrees. So much for that theory of coming to Montreal to escape the Texas heat. It has to be cooler in Dallas and at least in Dallas we have air conditioning. I know, it would have been better for the environment if air-conditioning had never been invented. It destroys the ozone layer which even wrecks more havoc on the environment. Generally, I am very environmentally friendly, but right now I’m just hot and all I can think of is how wonderful air conditioning is. We went to dinner last night at 9 PM. The restaurant seated about 20, so intimate, and when we approached the front door, we noticed a floor-stand oscillating fan twisting left, then right, then left again. My heart sank. We’d walked only a block and a half to the restaurant from our B&B in The Village, and were already drenched with sweat. At that point I wasn’t even that concerned about how great, or even adequate, the food would be, only that it be cool and refreshing and relaxing. Instead, we arrive only to find that their one and only air-conditioning unit, a long, narrow slit of a contraption high on the all near the ceiling, was broken. Since the only place to stand was just inside the door, we stood there awaiting our table. Unfortunately, we also happened to be standing between the fan and the patrons, many of whom looked up from there plates or away from their companions long enough to glare at us. We shuffled a bit to one side, pressing ourselves against the wall and tried not to block the flow.

The restaurant is BYOB. We chose a Chateaux Nuef that turned out to need breathing, lots of it, and since the stifling heat made it hard for us to catch our breaths, I could relate. The food, however, was fantastic. I’d highly recommend it. I had the veal chop and Clint the duck.

Today we visited Olympic Park. Again the heat was wilting, the Metro stifling. We saw the Biodome and road the funicular to the top of the Tower. The view of Montreal was hazy through the humid air.

Tonight we are off to Old Montreal to a French restaurant there. The Grand Prix is in town this weekend and finding a reservation is difficult, but we are told the restaurant is superb and they definitely have AC. We called and made sure.

As we were walking along Sainte Catherine’s Street this afternoon a scary thought hit me, “If it’s this hot here, a thousand miles North of Texas, this much closer to the North Pole, surely the ice caps must be melting at an alarming rate.” Clint nodded, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and we slogged on.

Realizing Relief in Montreal

2005-06-11T09:24:00.000-07:00

Mid-way through a banking turn over Montreal last night as we made our final approach--the bright lights of the city stretching out beneath us, the Olympic stadium reaching up from the city like the raised command deck of a futuristic starship--I grew tearful, and I didn't know why. I've always wanted to visit Montreal, a French-speaking slice of the old world within three and a half hours of Dallas. I'd heard it was beautiful, energetic, and gay friendly with great restaurants, and night life. Just minutes earlier I was excited to be landing. Why the sadness? What changed? My mind sifted data trying to find the answer. Then it hit me. I wasn't sad so much as relieved or maybe a bit of both, but for different even if related reasons. For the first time in my life, I was about to land in a country where I was truly free and truly equal. I had not realized how tired I was from fighting, how stressed I was from the constant struggle. It's not like I think about it every day, but living in the US, perhaps especially in a Red State, is like existing in a constant low-grade state of siege, and it wears on us. One of the psychiatric associations recently called for recognition of our right to marry precisely because of the added stress our relationships are under due to the social stigma and lack of support structures. It takes a lot out of us, whether we realize it our not. I didn't realize it until my heart and mind gave an autonomic sigh of relief. I was sad for my country and the state it is in, how it has lost it's way and perhaps even it's soul. And I was relieved to know that we would soon be touching down in allied territory.

Mothers day 2005

2005-05-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

We took our Mom's to brunch today. I'm 44, my mom
is 68. Clint is 26 and his mom is...well...really close to my age. It
is fascinating how your prospective changes through time. My
relationship with my mom is different now that it was when I was 26. I
am different. She is different. I have disappointed her, she has
disappointed me. But none of that really matters any more. What
matters is that for a little while this weekend I got to spend time with
her, talk to her, be with her. That will not always be the case. I am
happy we spent time with our mothers today and to all my friends out
there that did not have the option, for all who've lost their mothers, I
offer my heart felt sympathies. I promise this, I will honor your loss
by trying my best to never take my mother for granted. I'm sure I will
not succeed, but I will try.

Ed.

A Day in Colonia, Uruguay

2005-04-19T06:46:00.000-07:00

A short ride by high-speed ferry sipping mimosas and peering out of a window onto the Roi Plato, that is how our morning began yesterday. We were on our way to Colonia, a small city located in Uruguay. Arriving after 58 minutes of smooth sailing, we disembarked to a quaint old village. We rented a couple of scooters and spent that day tooling around the village. A short drive up the coast, a small lunch in a side café, and a little "Zoom Zoom" all the way.

San Telmo Antique Market

2005-04-17T08:40:00.000-07:00

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On Sundays, a small square in a quaint neighborhood adjacent to downtown
is transformed into an outdoor antique market overrun with tourist and
local buyers. You can find almost anything there from old locks to old
gaucho equipment to old hats and dolls. Wherever there is a crowd,
there are the trinket sellers and, in BA, the tango dancers. It is a
bright, calm, cool Sunday morning here. A nice day to visit San Telmo.

Sunny Saturday in Ba

2005-04-16T10:29:00.000-07:00

The rain has ended. The sun is shining. The frenzied weekday energy has faded and BA is relaxing.

City of Death

2005-04-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

... you can also tell a lot about a people by the way they treat their
dead. For instance, if there was ever any wonder whether Buenos Aires
is a wealthy city, the question is quickly answered the minute you set
foot inside the Cementerio de la Recoleta. The monuments are
spectacular and substantial and each had to cost a small fortune. I
told Clint that the density of art alone was staggering. Every tomb was
a work of art, most with statues or reliefs, some with stained glass,
almost all with crosses. That is the other fact confirmed by a walk
among the dead of BA. Argentines are a very religious people, not in
the let-me-hit-you-over-the-head-with-it way of some Americans, and not
by saturation as in parts of Mexico, but they believe deeply. And it
seems, as with most peoples, they believe even more deeply in, or near,
death. At lunch today, in the Recoleta, one of the poshest parts of
town, the restaurant had a picture of Pope John Paul II on their window.

Desde la esquina (From the corner)

2005-04-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

It's almost 10 AM here. I am waiting on a friend of Gabriel's who will
give me a walking Spanish lesson. I wanted to pass along a few pictures
taken from the table in the first photo which is at the corner next to
the apartment. I ate breakfast there today. It is amazing what you see
from one corner.

Rainy Day in BA

2005-04-14T16:20:00.000-07:00

Our first full day in BA has so far been filled with rain and shopping.
The apartment owner arranged a car to take us to the Leather Fabricator
where we spent the day trying on leather jackets and deciding the deign
we wanted. The sales people were very helpful and friendly and we spent
way too much money, even though the prices are relatively good here. Ed
took laundry to a small lavanderia where no one spoke a lick of English
and we think he arranged for the cleaning to be back tomorrow with the
pants ironed. Of course he could have told them to bleach everything
and throw them away. We never know for sure. Clint has spent much of
the day on the computer working, but if you have to work, working from
BA isn't bad.

We are off for massages, since the rain is keeping us from seeing the
sights. We'll touch base later.

Buenos Aires First Morning

2005-04-14T16:19:00.000-07:00

In Bariloche, the only sounds in the morning were the birds chirping and the wind blowing through the branches. Not so in BA. If I did not know better, I would swear I was in NY. The distant hum of diesel engines and of blaring horns echoing off the buildings, reminds me of Manhattan.

Our apartment is on Avineda Santa Fe in an area of BA called the Ricoleta. The part we've scene so far is much like London and New York rolled together. It's 8 AM here, 6 AM in Dallas and I am sitting at a corner café looking out onto the main street--a four lane, one-way street filled with taxi's and delivery trucks and a few private cars for good measure. On this rainy, cool Thursday morning, the sidewalks are busy with people making their way to work and with pigeons enjoying the leftover bread thrown out by the Café workers. BA, like most great cities, is a pedestrian city. People mostly walk or take cabs. Like I said, it is similar to New York or even London before the tax (on driving into the city). I assume there is a subway, or rail of some kind, but I haven't seen it yet.

Most of the buildings in this area are 10 story, no higher. In that way, BA is more like London than New York, but the streets are wide and noisy, more like New York than London. I hear that BA is much like Paris is some places, but I haven't seen those yet.

We head to a leather factory today to be fitted for coats. For Christmas, before we knew for certain we were traveling here, my mother gave us money for coats. Clint and I both lost leather jackets last year. We never purchased replacements. It turned out to be fortuitous, I hope. We'll see what the prices and quality are. I think we may be shopping a lot here.

We went to an incredible restaurant last night called Nectarine. The owner of the apartment we are renting asked to join him. He swears it is the best restaurant in BA. Every dish was complex and savory, every bite a little different than the last, and the combination of flavors was surprising.

It's good to be surprised, pleasantly of course. Allowing yourself to be surprised, is a gift. Almost by definition, being surprised requires a prior loss of control (whether voluntary or not).

Our last hours in Bariloche

2005-04-13T15:11:00.000-07:00

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We are in Buenos Aires, but cannot help thinking about Bariloche. It is
so unique, so beautiful, and so surprising. We thought we'd forward a
few shots from the last 24 hours in Bariloche. We will send a few from
BA tomorrow. For tonight, we are off to have wine with a friend then
dinner. Probably Italian since BA is know for that. Tomorrow, if the
rain lets up, we will walk the city and go to a leather factory for
jackets. Anyway, we miss Bariloche already. Let's hope the rain lets
up.

The only sounds we heard in Bariloche at night were the falcons
screeching above the hotel. Here, there are horns blaring in the back
ground. And when we landed there was a protest at the airport. The
protestors all had deoms and five-gallon (or the liter equivalent)
buckets and they were pounding out ferociously obnoxious rhythms
chanting slogans demanding . . . Well we're not sure what they were
demanding, but the were not happy.

Did I say we miss Bariloche?