The Obituarium

I enjoy politics. I like following it. I like reading as much as I can about it. I suppose I even like the theater of it.

I hate politics. I hate arguing about it (with some exceptions). I hate the vitriol with which politics are wielded. I hate the way it divides people on ideological lines.

The last, of course, is the problem. Because the issues in this county are not party dependent. The problem is the system. And what too many people don't realize, or care to acknowledge, is The System is a private club. You are not in it (this assumes there are no billionaires or Senators reading this). You will never be in it. Furthermore, the primary way The System ensures you are not in it is by pushing your buttons and inducing your froth to attack "The Other Side." As long as The Other Side is the enemy, those in charge of administering the country are safe.

That and the ridiculous sums of money people give them to do their bidding.

*

You live in an oligarchy. Not officially acknowledged, but that is the case. The side you support is propped up by billionaires, who are also propping up the other side. They, unlike you, do not discriminate. They do not want to pay taxes. There are armies of accountants gaming the (absurd) tax code to protect those billions, the savings of which they use to buy politicians and write policy. There are people charged with spending your tax money whose sole goal is to curry favor with the moneyed interests--Defense Industry, Wall St.--for the purpose of securing a high-paying gig in those private sectors. 

*

Mexican immigrants are not the problem. Married gays are not the problem. Obamacare is not the problem.

Pride, greed, gluttony...now you're talking.

Some people don't want their tax dollars going to the poor. Others would prefer not to foot the bill for illegal wars. Most would not choose to contribute to a $2.7 billion dollar surveillance blimp program that still doesn't work. We can all pick the things that irk us. Freedom! 

More often, the candidates set the agenda, legions of campaign operatives looking for the hot button, the soft underbelly of the opposition, all in the name of winning. Americans love a winner. One must grasp the idea that none of these people are working for you. They are out for themselves. And the billionaires.

*

I have no personal preference for any of the candidates. I find some more odious than others. Their issues are not mine. Theirs is a performance of obfuscation and false promise. Division over inclusion.

That's my deal: inclusion.

It's God's too.

"The most important one," answered Jesus, "is this:'Hear O Israel: The Lord our God is one Lord. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your sould and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this" 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these." (Mark 12:29-31)

You want to be a Christian Nation? Then you love and take care of everybody. Mexican immigrants, Syrian refugees, poverty-stricken citizens, Obama...

You want to do God's will on Earth? 

Give freely without begrudging it, and the Lord your God will bless you in everything you do. Deuteronomy 10:15

You want to live a Kingdom-driven life, be "in this world" but not "of this world?"

The the King will say to those on His right 'Come, you who are blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepare for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.' Then the righteous will answer Him, 'Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and gave you something to drink?' And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? "The King will answer and say to them, 'Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the lease of them, you did it to me.' Matthew 25:34-40

*

There is such a disconnect between compassion and politics. Helping the needy (and the helpless and the humble) is not politics. It is one of the two most fundamental tenets of the Bible. America lacks a compassionate heart. America's heart is too easily turned to anger and exclusion. It's Us against Them. And Them. And Them. Anyone who doesn't look, act or think like us. Those are exactly the people you are charged to bless.

The System has hardened our hearts against those that are broken. Winner takes all. Mandates. Walls. That is what has to change. The heart and soul and spirit of America. A full transplant. 

Repealing Citizens United wouldn't be bad, either.

The tears were unexpected.

We're talking about 8th grade graduation--pardon me, "promotion"--here. A milestone, a signpost, sure, but not exactly the greatest of all accomplishments. Even the school sought to tamp down on the celebration, ripping through the ceremony with minimal pomp. They advised parents to treat the ceremony as a beginning, rather than an ending, and while seeking not to de-emphasize its importance, to remind us parents that we should expect our kids to be able to make it past the 8th grade.

So, at the end of a tidy 35 minutes ("thank you," say the parents trying to keep a three-year-old from spazzing out in a large crowd), a whoop went up and AJ came over to us. He hugged us each in turn, his step-father, his Mom, Emet, Caleb and me. I had no inkling I was about to start sobbing uncontrollably. But I did. That's not the unexpected part. No, what surprised me, all of us, was when I saw the tears in AJ's eyes.

*

When my marriage broke up nine years ago, I could not have imagined this day. I couldn't imagine anything. AJ was four and every time I looked at him, thought of him, innocent and all-trusting, I hurt exponentially worse for him than I did for myself. Which saved me a long, drawn-out healing process. Because I knew I had to protect him from whatever was happening between his mother and I. And that, more than anything else, moved me past my own self-pity. It was necessary for him to know where he stood in my life and I kept him front and center.

Now, all these years later, he knows this. Maybe he doesn't articulate it, but it shows in his actions. He knows, without a doubt, I have his back. Even when I have to discipline him, he knows it's not adversarial, that I'm on his side.

He's a very loving kid, a fact which manifests itself in a curious physical way. He's always touching me. It used to kind of annoy me, personal space and all that. Like, whenever we walk from the car, through a parking lot, into the store, to the park, he grabs on to my arm. As the years have gone by, I've not only expected him to do that, but looked forward to it. He's growing up, moving closer to leaving the nest, so I take comfort in him still being there, not yet burdened by cynicism. Lately, I've taken to wrapping my arm around him, pulling him close as we walk.


*

I asked him later why he was crying. I wanted to make sure he wasn't sad. He assured me he wasn't and said he didn't know why. I laughed and said I didn't know why, either. I suppose he's like his Dad in this way, sensitive to his surroundings, finding meaning in important events, in touch with how he feels. He admitted he'd really enjoyed his two years in junior high, the friends he made, and he'll no longer live inside that school setting. Of course I understood and emphasized he'll have the same friends next year, albeit in a much larger high school setting, and he'll be surprised how many memories he'll make there.

He's lucky. I tell him this all the time. He's lucky he has a step-father and a step-mother who really care about him. That's not the case everywhere. Some of his friends are even examples of that. Divorce is a tough, adversarial deal. Unless you choose for it not to be.

To be sure, a lot of the credit goes to him. I've asked him frequently over the years if it bothers him that his parents are divorced. That he has to shuttle back and forth a couple times a week to different houses. He's never complained. We've had some bumpy times, no doubt. When he went from the only child at two homes to having a baby at one and a step-brother at the other. He acted out to get attention. But that was fleeting. Because he's always had our attention. All of us.

We all went out to dinner last night. Parents, step- and otherwise, his brother (hurling forks at the wait staff) and step-brother. We laughed and toasted and did our best to tell embarrassing AJ stories. It was really fun and made me just stop to remember a bunch of amazing days in the last nine, the last 13, years.

One, in particular encapsulates AJ. When Emet and I told him we were getting married, he told her, excitedly "You're going to be a Mom for the first time!" This is not a child who is inflexible, who needs to cast people in defined role. He has love for everyone.

So maybe that's what the tears were after the ceremony. He hugged us all in turn. And it hit him.

They all have my back.

"I'm just happy to be in the building."

In my four decades of rabid, obsessive sports fandom, I had never--EVER--been in the stands when one of my teams played for a championship. I've been to A's playoff games, like the 2000 ALDS, where I saw Gil Heredia--of all people--out-duel Roger Clemens at the Coliseum. I've seen the Kings during early Stanley Cup rounds and felt the intensity, the increased buzz, that one doesn't get during the regular season. But never a Final.

Until last Wednesday.

Thanks to the good graces of former soccer teammate and Times colleague AC Ligamente, that gaping hole in my experience was filled at Staples Center for Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Final. And oh man, it better than I could have imagined.

That feeling is at least 50% results-oriented, thanks to the Kings' OT win, but even prior to that, even when they stumbled their way to an early deficit, the pure energy and depth of emotion was a new experience. We sat in the very last row, which was absolutely fine, because, for one, the 300s at Staples Center are great seats for hockey, the level is really steep so you're looking right down on the ice. Also because we paid face value (a kind season-ticket holder provided AC the tickets), which was nearly four times less what the kids sitting a row in front of us paid on Stub Hub. We joked a bit about being up against the wall (A.C. and WAG had been to one other Stanley Cup Final game, in 1993, and also sat in the last row), but as I settled into my seat, I uttered the sentence at the top of this post. "Yep," said one of the kids in front of us. "Bucket List."

*

These playoffs have taken a lot out of me. That is not hyperbole. I imagine most Kings fans feel the same. Three Game 7s on the road. The 3-0 deficit against the Sharks. OT in Games 5 and 7 against the nemesis Blackhawks. All seven games against the hated Ducks (I mean, Kings fans hate other teams more than the Ducks--Vancouver and Phoenix--but the idea of LOSING to the Ducks in the playoffs was a reality none of us would ever come to grips with). Twenty-one games of madness, sprinkled with moments of sheer terror, and, at the end of it all, the most honest and reliable group of professionals I've ever had the pleasure to follow.

I don't want to get all Lovey Dovey on you, but dang, there is so much to admire with this club. Hockey players always talk about "The Room" and you know the Kings are as tight-knit and focused as a team can be. Full of belief, as they say, which shows not only in their worst moments but in every moment.

All the more remarkable when you consider the Kings history, littered with, well, almost nothing in the way of success. There is no way ANY Kings fan could have ever envisioned having this type of team (which makes it hilarious when I see them criticized on Twitter, etc; don't you people know how lucky you are?).

Back when Salk and I used to have 10-game plans for the Kings (before he moved away and left me bereft of a hockey buddy until Emet came along), we sat in the 300s. There were some glimmers of hope back in those days (Palffy, Deadmarsh, Allison) that didn't come to full fruition (concussions), but the upper deck was populated with die-hards who mostly just sighed and criticized the players on the ice. And it was funny the way they did it. It wasn't screaming and vitriol. It was resignation. I'll never forget the guy who used to say, matter of factly, "You're terrible, Modry" five or six times a game, as if he was simply muttering to himself.

I like to think those same people are as deliriously mystified by the current success as I am. That they cried like I did in 2012. That they stuck it out and have cell phone videos from Game 6 that they'll never erase. And that they don't call anyone terrible any more. Except Regehr.

*

AJ was at my Mom's house during Game 1. Mom and my brother have gotten caught up in the excitement and watched some of the Kings playoff games. "I don't know how you can handle it," my Mom said after Game 7 of the Conference Final. "It's so nerve-wracking." She said AJ couldn't sit during the game. He stood in the middle of the living room with his arms crossed, dipping and weaving and jumping with the bounces of the puck. Occasionally, he'd disappear down the hallway. "I can't watch this," he'd say.

"He's your son," Mom would say.

Surprisingly, I found my nerves were tempered for Game 1. Plenty of butterflies and mad anticipation since I was going. But no need for breathing exercises or Xanax. I theorized that, even in the top row, being able to see the whole ice left less room for guessing during those times when the puck slides out of the frame and I scream "WHERE ARE WE?!" at the TV. That's part of it, I guess. The other part is there were 18K-plus in the room with me, a shared psychosis evenly distributed amongst all of us, one we could combat with cheering, releasing the tension in us.

It was the shortest three hours of my life. All blurred. The only part I can recall with any real clarity is the winner, which happened at our end, right below us. The turnover, the pass and the entire section standing as Williams turned toward the net. When it went in, the noise was deafening. I couldn't scream any louder. I could hear myself over the goal horn. There was a roughly 25-foot ledge between me and the next section and I sprinted across it--and back--pumping my fists, shouting, smacking proffered high fives from strangers. I stopped to see the celebration on the ice. Again, I screamed. I would do so a few other times on the way out of Staples. And on the street. And on the subway platform.

It was a long train ride home, but I was buzzed the whole way. I got home and watched the highlights, saw Doughty's stunner in slo-mo, Stick's celebration, happy fans screaming in the background of the NHL Network set. Too amped to sleep.

I finally crawled into bed an hour later. A sleepy Emet asked, "Did you have fun?"

I did. I was happy to be in the building.

Our Little Blessing turned two last weekend, which is like WHOOOOOOOOOSH where did the time go and how did he get so big and talkative and hilarious and loving and a daily joy in our lives. As people do when events such as this arise, we spent time reflecting on his life and what he means to us and just why we call him our Little Blessing. It's hard sometimes, in the day-in, day-out speed of life to pause, to be appreciative and grateful, when you're running around with myriad tasks and worries. I struggle constantly with this. I have a 100 mph brain and I get lost in it.

Caleb can bring me back. Slow me down.

Do you all know the origin of the name Caleb? He is a biblical figure, famous for his trust in God. When Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, he sent 12 spies into the Promised Land to scout the territory. Ten came back and said, "Yeah, it's pretty sweet over there, milk and honey and all that, but there are these big dudes--Giants, basically--and we can't take 'em, so we should probably just stay here in the desert."

I paraphrased that.

The other two spies, Caleb and Joshua, had faith in God's promise and, while verifying the presence of Giants, also said they would be no match for God's power.

*

When we were deciding whether or not to have a child at our somewhat advanced parental age, Emet and I prayed a lot. To try to know if this was the right thing to do, for ourselves and for the child. We believe God gave us his blessing, but he also asked for a few things in return. One of those was for Emet to contribute to the children's ministry at church, a request I believed was two-fold, both to prepare her for who was to come and also so that she shared her gifts (as a person, as a teacher) to others. So, she did exactly that. And upon hearing her story, a superior at the church asked her to record a video, a recruitment pitch, if you will.

You can watch it here.

I mean watch it now. It's relevent to the rest.

Of course, Emet is a little bit mortified by her face/voice/word choices on the video and they played it one time when we were in church, which we didn't totally expect. When it came on, she went "OHMYGOD!" but not in the reverent way you're supposed to do in church and she turned bright red, which got an even brighter shade when Pastor Dan remarked, "See ladies! If you want to get pregnant, serve in Empowered Kids!" at it's conclusion.

*

Our church is building a new sanctuary and ground-breaking is starting this week. Construction is taking place in what was previously the main parking lot, so, beginning this past Sunday, we had to park off-site and shuttle to campus. Caleb was very excited at the prospect of getting on a bus and was smiling ear-to-ear when we sat down in the front row, me beneath a video screen and he and Emet across the aisle. We weren't seated for more than 15 seconds when Emet's head snapped up and said, "It's me."

So it was. On the video screen, talking about Empowered Kids and how she was six months pregnant. We both got emotional right quick. And when the camera panned down to her stomach, we both said (or tried to say, in choking voice), "That's you, Caleb."

We kind of sat there dumbfounded, looking at each other.

*

I showed Emet. And for the second time in about 15 minutes, we just stared, robbed of anything to say. But we both knew.

"Okay, God. You have our attention. What do you want to tell us."

*

Forty-five years after Caleb came back from his spying mission, he was given what the Lord had promised him, land in Hebron. Forty-five years, he kept his faith, even in the midst of battle, of wandering in the desert. He always said, "God will bring us into the land and we will possess it" even when all tangible evidence appeared contrary.

I know many of you reading this don't share my belief. I know many of you are also suspicious of religion, of its hypocrisy, of acts committed in God's name that are inconsistent with a Loving God. What I love about my church is that the focus is on how the Bible informs my life, my decisions, with the goal of growing into my destiny (as opposed to judging others). The Lord says he has known me since before I was born and that there is a plan for my life. To grasp that plan is frequently difficult. It is beyond my understanding and I struggle (that word again) with trying to connect with God, fostering that relationship.

Here's the rub, though. Why does God want that relationship with me (with everybody, actually, but let's just keep this all about me for a moment if we could)?

It's pretty simple. To help others.

Because once God has your heart, he uses it for good. He uses it to change lives, to mend people who are broken. With me as his instrument.

I don't know how anybody can't get behind that idea.

*

I fell a long way away from God. That's no secret. And I suffered because of it. I did make one good decision, however. At the bottom of it all, I came back to Him. He did not berate me. He did not point his finger and say, "You got what you deserved." He opened his arms and brought me into Him. He took away my anger and my regret and my sadness.

And then he sent people into my life to heal me. He gave me Emet and Caleb.

*

I listened to yesterday's message after I got over the initial shock. Listened hard. Because I knew it was for me. Pastor Dan emphasized a regular theme, to Be Quiet. To take time away from life, from my 100 mph brain, and just Be Quiet so I don't miss what I need to hear, so I can believe beyond what I can see. Calmness in the struggle.

Like Caleb.

There was negativity and danger and unbelief all around him, but he stayed tight in his heart and "finished well." Caleb was 85 years old when he finally entered Hebron. It takes that long sometimes. God always keeps his promises, but you can't really get too impatient with him, because he does it in his own time.

We promised to raise our Little Blessing to love Him. The only way to do that is to behave in a manner consistent with what He teaches us. That's what God told me yesterday.

He is probably thinking that he's told me that a hundred times before and he has, but I just wasn't quiet enough to get it or feel its full impact, so he had to get all overt on me yesterday.

And then he told me to tell you.

So I did.

I wasn't sure about you in the beginning, Caleb. Before you were born, I mean. Because even though your father doesn't look it, I am, in fact, 45 years old, which is pretty old to be procreating in my opinion (one not shared by Tony Randall) and I'm going to be REALLY old when you're in say, high school and Mom and Dad are counting the seconds to retirement or when you're in college and we're rolling around the country in a Winnebago and wearing bifocals on chains around our necks. So yeah, your Mom had to kinda talk me into you. Which brings me, on this, your first birthday, to a crucial lesson:

Your Mom is always right.

When I first saw you, the doctor had you by a single, skinny leg and was trying to yank you out of your mother. Except you wouldn't come out all the way. Your head got stuck and I was like, "Oh my god, he's going to have a giant head" and for what seemed like long minutes all I saw was your body, and you apparently weren't too jazzed about this situation either because you started peeing and pooping while suspended upside down by a single, skinny leg. The doctor finally sprung your head free and there you were, ten fingers and ten toes, screaming and red and angry and peeing and pooping and the most beautiful thing in the world.

You had a full head of awesome, dark hair (like your Dad, who, despite his age, has managed to stay follicley relevant) and you looked like a bird with your alert eyes. At only three days old, you were trying to lift your head because you wanted to know what was going on in the world, a trait you've shown this entire year, whether it's looking out the back window at the trees and flowers or chasing after other kids at the park.

We didn't quite know how to react to you, awash as we were in wonder. Your Mom had spent the previous few years thinking Motherhood wasn't going to happen for her and was busy making her peace with that when I kinda jumped into her life with both feet. As I said, she had to convince me that you would be more fun than golf vacations and rock and roll shows and getting blackout drunk in San Diego boutique hotels (as a theoretical example) and if there was even a shred of skepticism left in me, it all went away on the day we brought you home from the hospital last year. It was a Sunday and I went to get the car while they wheeled your Mother and you downstairs. When I pulled up next to you guys, I saw your mother was crying. Not crying softly but full-on bawling her eyes out and I ran over in a mild panic and asked what was wrong.

"Everybody keeps wishing me a Happy Mother's Day," she said (barely, I mean, there was a whole bunch of snot going on there with the tears and all, so it's a good thing we had all those baby wipes on hand).

And that, son, that feeling your Mom felt right then, that is the one you give us every day. Gratitude and joy and happiness. You are our Little Blessing. The way your whole face smiles when you're happy. The way you lower your forehead to mine to give "love." The way you laugh when AJ and I chase you up the stairs. The mornings when you lay in your crib talking before we even come to get you. It's even okay that your first word was "dog" and not "Mama" or "Dada" (though thanks for getting to the latter before the former).

I know this is supposed to be All About You, but you've also had this unforeseen side effect. Having a baby around the house again, made me remember a lot about your big brother when he was your age. You both have some similar behaviors, but it wasn't just that. A moment or a trait of AJ's would come to me while I rocked you and I'd get to reflect on that and appreciate it more because...well..this doesn't concern you...but so many of my memories of that time were tainted. You could even say I blacked them out or locked them away, which I'm willing to admit isn't the best response ever, but it was less painful that way and I've gotten to re-live a lot of that time thanks to you and I've enjoyed "seeing" AJ as a baby again and I wanted to thank you so much for that gift.

You've got a lot of living to do yet and yes, your parents are kind of exhausted most of the time, not to mention the last six weeks where we've been trading sickness back and forth, some kind of super-resistant Death Germ which is trapped somewhere in the home, so we'll have a little shindig for you this weekend, congratulate you for making it to the one-year mark with an acceptable number of concussions and poop disasters. But after that, it's time to get back to the business of growing up. I see walking is right around the corner and within a couple months I expect some subject-verb-predicate sentences out of you. You've given us so many wonderful moments this past year and that's both good and bad. You've set the bar pretty high there, buddy, so it's not going to be easy to keep up those standards. I don't want to be writing this next year and having to tell these nice people that you've sloughed off.

Like I always tell you and your brother, you two are the best things in life. Be good to your mother. Listen to her. Always tell her you love her. She's the reason you're here. And the reason you're awesome. Happy Birthday, buddy.

Love, Daddy

A few spare notes about my recent posts, which didn't make it in thanks to non-relevance or forgetfulness on my part or, mostly, space. Honestly, thanks to everyone who read the running post. I know it wasn't easy. It took Emet three days to get through it and she likes me more than you guys (most days). I had another 800 or so words in there that I took out, too. So, you're welcome for that.

I figured one thing out a few days later about the running and that is that I was not prepared for the mental aspect of it. The discipline, I got, but more in the manner of "doing" the run, rather than "running" the run. By that I mean I didn't have any problem doing each of my runs. I did have a problem varying them, both in the way I ran them and where I ran them. Too much of it was the same and that contributed to a less enjoying experience--as I alluded to. The experience of actually running was less enjoyable because I didn't have a plan most of the time, aside from, "Hey! I have to run 2.5 miles tomorrow."

What illuminated this was the way I attacked the actual race. I had a plan. And I ended up way better than that plan. Because I kept my brain focused on what I was doing--pace, form, positive thinking. Beyond that, there's the mental strength to overcome the pain, which I also talked about. So yeah, I think that will help going forward.

*

I had mentioned on Twitter (and shown a pic on Facebook) that the results showed I finished in 3rd place in my age group and 38th overall. I found both of those statistics to be shocking and somewhat ridiculous and it turns out I was right. They had some issues with the timing and when the official results were posted a few days later, I was listed 8th amongst the 40-49 males of the Inland Empire (and 62nd overall), which is fine and appropriate and doesn't bother me at all. Except for missing 7th by eight-tenths of a second. I could have totally caught that guy.

*

The Magic Baby post over at Ocelot Sports is probably my favorite thing I've written in I don't know how long. It just ran out of me and was mostly done in 15 minutes and ready to post with a couple tweaks here and there which is really fun when it happens to a writer but also terrible if one forgets to even think of including a couple salient facts, which is what I did by not mentioning that the very idea of a Magic Baby was first given voice by Dawn, who asked to rent him out for a Yale/Harvard game and then became an Early Adopter of his Gospel and I should have noted that, since she is the sole reason he's become a worldwide phenomenon and also so she wouldn't have sub-tweeted the ever-loving shit out of me.

Having said that, I don't think she became a True Believer until the Magic Baby whooped up on Tawmmy and Giselle's ugly ass kid.

*

The Rooster was trolling me the other day, because he likes to do that (randomly, inexplicably). Here's what he said:


I can dig that. I know everybody liked my train wreck of a life and I did too, in a way. If I wasn't able to throw all of that shit out there, get it into the light of day, so I could a) deal with it and b) figure out a bunch of it didn't matter so I wouldn't have to deal with it, I would not have been able to get to where I am now which is such a gift (just like life! So wrap yourself carefully!). But nobody wants to hear that happy crappy shit. And I certainly don't want to write it. Partly because I'm not a big fan of bringing the sappy, but also because I like having it for me and those close to me. So, you know, The Rooster can go fuck himself.

*

Me: (Screaming at the TV with the sports people running fast)
Emet: Are you calling him 'La-Mike?'"
Me: Yeah. His name is LaMichael James.
Emet: (Pause...beleaguered look) You're an idiot.

Fine. I ran a 5k this weekend. I hate you all.

*

Now, I am not a complete newbie when it comes to running, racing being one of the many indulgences I entertained in the brief windows between soccer seasons. The first, when I was 10 years old, was an AAU cross-country competition. I saw a newspaper ad, pestered my Mom into taking me. The race was two days away. Not a problem. I was plenty fit from soccer. So we went. I finished 10^th, posting a mile-and-a-half time of 8:51.