Last one standing....last one dead.

He is 22. She is 24. Her name is Lauren. She's a Facebook friend of mine. She's in Afghanistan, in the United States Army...no one seems to be able to explain why she's there. Something about Freedom. Karzai, the President there, isn't happy with us...he wants us to stop bombing them. The bombing is killing civilians there. We have robot planes called drones, too. Like science fiction...Buck Rogers. For her it's real, though. It's hot and bad things happen. Unhealthy work. His name is Albert. He's there too. The war there is almost over...his friend was just killed though. An IED blew his friend's face half off. The war's almost over, thank God. Lauren and Albert have families here in the States. Their fathers don't know each other. The same thought, though, keeps them both awake at night. The troops, our troops, are coming home soon...some sometime soon. There are no more goals to achieve...just to stay alive. Both dads can't stop thinking...Lauren and Albert...will be the last one to die. The last one to never come home. The last one old veterans call the REAL heroes of war. Can you imagine someone you loved being the last. Or even being the first. God save you Lauren and Albert. Or maybe we should save them.

I need a friggin God!

Voltaire said, "If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." Politically incorrect it may be. But a profound truth when we see the lastest news. As of June 7th of this year, the war in Afghanistan became the longest war in our nation's history. I need a God just so I can say, "For Christ's sake...stop!" At home, we're diddling with the economy and politics like children fighting over a popsicle. Republican Debate audiences cheer the death of the uninsured and shout down our gay soldiers. This war...it's like during the Holocaust...when neighbor said to neighbor, "Aw, come on...that can't be happening." We need a friggin God to say a prayer to, light a candle for, mention in passing...when these bodies come home every day.... I believe Stephen Hawking when he says we need no God to explain the Universe. But I need one today.

This follows....

Storm Porn....

Years back, oh so often, I would be hit by a pornado of naked breasts and pelvises while searching for a vendor at work. An innocent misplaced request for medical record chart holders once sent me pop-ups that lasted 10 minutes, as I aimed and struck X's like a marksman. The unexpected casual observer would avert their eyes...but could not help but notice. Pop-ups were a fact of life...a fact that, I'm sure, ended careers or, at least, changed their paths. They were a kind of "Porn Storm." Now, every news channel has cranked up their broadcast of "Storm Porn." And it is addictive...not unlike the urge to see death at the racetrack. Irene is the villain today. No naked breasts. And signs along her target proclaim a sweeter, calmer time. Good night they say to her. So here's to sweetness: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ECPvzLF8GA&feature=fvsr 

The oxymoron....

Compassionate republicans...a small mind
A big mouth and ? which to open...which to shut.

Our Legacy?

What is the legacy of humans? Is it what differentiates us from the other species? There is the opposable thumb. And we are the only animal that has sex over the phone.... But, it seems, everyday, another animal is making a tool or showing intelligence, true care and affection. We do legitimize things, like marriage, with ceremony and law to express importance. But do we know that other creatures aren't somehow celebrating or emphasizing their lives in a similar way? Absence of communication between species allows for imagination. Is our legacy war? Or the actions of our politicians? The Holocaust? Or love? I don't believe any of these things makes me feel special. This made me feel special. For a while. http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-ny-gayweddings-pg,0,5287053.photogallery?index=lat-gay-wedding_loug8inc20110724084934

Baseball, Death, and a place to rest....

Stirring in the Bullpen

by Michael Lawless

            I guess I just hadn't thought it through. It seemed simple enough…baseball field…grass. But, here I was, at Jacob's Field, an Urban Baseball Cathedral in the heart of Cleveland, dad’s birthplace, with my dad in my pocket, and I still had to find a place to put him.

There was no problem at first. He wanted to be cremated and he wanted his ashes spread on Lake Erie. Dad loved the lake. He lived his last years in a 12^th floor condo on Lake Ave. We would sit on his balcony some nights and watch the boats, all lit up, lights twinkling. Mom left him a while back- too much booze, too much pain. And, he’d lived the better part of thirty years in Chicago, away from mom, my two sisters, and myself. At first, he lived on the streets, grabbing food and sometimes a smile from the Salvation Army. Years later, he was back on his feet and taking care of his dad at the end. Gramps had an apartment on Lakeshore Boulevard overlooking another lake. When he died, and dad had nothing left in Chicago, we asked him to come home. He did, and I soon took over the same role he had played with his father.

            He loved the Tribe. We’d seen the last game at the old Municipal Stadium, and, in only the few times he was able to get to Jacob's Field, he had fallen in love with the park. At his funeral, after talking to old friends of his we never knew, my sisters and I came to feel that part of him that loved baseball and that part belonged at the Jake.

            The day was September 16^th, his birthday and over a month since he had died. We planned on a late morning ceremony at Lakewood Park. We hiked down the path to the pier and all the way to the end where you can stand on the rocks and see the downtown buildings shining in the bright September sun. It was perfect. Just a couple of runners on the path that seemed to want to avoid us. We had the place to ourselves, which was good. We’d learned that there might be a legal concern with dumping anything into the lake-even your father.

            The ceremony was memorable, even moving. My wife, my sisters, their husbands, and myself each read what we thought were appropriate words in his memory and pictures were taken. Then, a moment of truth came when we had to open the black plastic container where dad now resided. This would be the first time any of us saw the results of our father’s cremation. The ashes were placed into a plastic bag inside the black plastic container. I opened the bag and pulled a sandwich baggie out of my breast pocket. I reached into the container's bag and grabbed a handful of dad and moved him gently into the baggie. Human ashes are strangely crystalline, not like, say, cigarette ashes, but somewhere between road salt and kitty litter. Just very different. I rolled him up, sealed the baggie, and tucked him away in the pocket of my jeans. Then, I poured the remaining ashes into the lake in front of us. The lake was calm, but I had assumed that the waves would quickly disperse dad among the rocks and to the bottom. The ashes seemed to flow back and forth and, like a cloud, maintained a shape just below the surface. I am not known for being overly spiritual, but he seemed with us. We hung around for some time, not saying much, just watching the cloud- dad, slowly sink. Then we said our goodbyes and left the park.

            My wife and I had tickets to the Tribe game that afternoon. So, we hopped in the car and headed for the Jake. The whole thing gave me the feeling like when you were a kid and tried to get away with something secret. We parked at the Madison Rapid Station and gave dad his last trip on R.T.A. I really thought there would be no problem finding a grassy area for dad at a ballpark. Like I said…baseball field…grass. But once in, I realized for the first time that the asphalt warning track ran the entire circumference of the field. And the grass was a good 8 to 10 feet from the closest railings. I had to figure this out. We found our seats and I planted my wife so I could keep looking and she could grab something to eat (and appear innocent).

            After about half an hour, it became plain that the only grass I would be able to get near enough to was in the bullpen. The game was just starting and, as always then, the ballpark was jammed. I knew dad would haunt me if I put him in the visitor's pen, and, who knew, his presence might inspire our pitchers. So, I chose our bullpen.

            An aisle parts the lower stands from the picnic area behind the pen and ends at a railing. Looking down over the railing at the rear of the pen, I saw green grass and knew this was it. I slowly pulled the baggie from my pocket and hung it out over the railing. I unrolled the bag and, knowing again that I didn't want to have to explain what I was doing, I quickly shook dad down toward the grass. But, all at once, it was windy. And again, dad was like a cloud. He started slowly down and then, with a jerk, a gust moved the cloud toward the back of several fan's heads in the lower stands to my left. Just as it seemed that I would be explaining to strangers why my father was in their hair, I felt another gust and the cloud, dad, went up and out and over the bullpen and then shot straight down into the grass. It was like at the lake. He seemed with me, and whole.

            Years later, I think of him whenever I'm near the lake, or at the ballpark, or watching the Tribe on the tube. He's now part of my hometown, and his. And if our pitchers in the bullpen see dust stirring out of the corner of their eyes, and the hairs rise on the back of their necks, I know it's just dad's way of saying, "Throw strikes!"

(Copyright 1998)