The rage of the privileged class

Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates was arrested in his home this week after police responded to a call about a man breaking into a house. That man breaking into a home was Gates breaking into his own house. This incident has led to an outcry from many about racial profiling by police.

The thing is I do not believe this incident adequately represents racial profiling. The officer approached Gates not because of his race, but because of a specific report of someone breaking into a house. This we cannot fault the officer for.

Gates identified himself and produced evidence that he was in his own home, the problems started after this. Apparently Gates got belligerent with the officer which then led to the officer arresting him for disorderly conduct. The complaint is that the officer would not have arrested Gates had he been a white man getting belligerent with him. There is a certain deference that is expected from black men that is not expected from white men--this I do believe.

An unasked question, however, is would Gates have reacted the way that he did if the officer had been black? Certainly both parties brought racial "baggage" to the encounter, which contributed to the unfortunate escalation and then the ridiculous arrest. I am very clear that I react differently to white folks than I do black folks. In fact a white and black person can have the same position on an issue and it is completely possible that I will interpret their positions differently. It is possible that Gates could have fallen into the same sort of behavior.

I have not been as animated as others about this incident because I do not believe it really goes to the issue of racial profiling, which is quite real. My fear is that the Gates arrest will become more about Skip Gates and his status as a Harvard Professor who went through this, than the issue itself.

Black Boy, Part II

The next day on my way back from a walk at the track near our house, my wifecalled to tell me one of the lawn cutting boys was knocking at the front door.

"The guy from last night?"

"No, the other one."

"Don't answer the door, I'm on my way back now."

By the time I got home the boy was gone, she confirmed it was the other boy from the lawn cutting duo, the one who did all the talking. I waited around for about ten minutes to see if he would come back then left to go get some "ghetto fish," from Horace and Dickeys.

I cut through the alley down the street looking down the back alley I saw the boy and two others on bikes at the back of our house.

"Mr. Clare, Mr. Clare, when you want me to come cut the grass again,” shouted, pedaling toward me. Of the things I prepared myself for this was not one of them. Before I could say anything he spoke up again. "It really don't need it yet, it's kinda short."

Listening to him talk reminded me of the obvious--this was a little boy. His voice, high pitched, almost cartoon like came with a smile bright with eagerness.

"How about on Friday?" was all I could think to say.

"What time? I get out of Summer School at 12:30. I could come between one and six."

“What are you the phone company, come at two o’clock.”

There were two conflicting things at play with inviting him back to cut the grass. One was that I was potentially inviting back one of the boys involved in stealing the bike and allowing him the opportunity to plan more mischief at my families expense. The other was that he was not involved with the incident at all and by cutting him off I was doing the whole guilt by association thing. Of course I decided to put on my “save a kid” jersey and see what I could see.

The boy showed up a little after two on Friday ready to cut the grass. Before he got started we sat on my front steps and I asked him if he knew anything about the robbery. He said no, but looked away and then down at the ground. I asked him if his friend was involved. He said he didn’t know anything about that.

We continued to sit quietly for a little, the air felt damp and I knew was coming.

“I’m going to let you cut the grass because I want to support a young man trying to make honest money, but I don’t want to see your friend again.”

“Ok,” he sat a little while longer then got up to get started.

When he was finished we sat on the deck in back, under the canopy as the rain started to fall. I told him there was one other thing I wanted him to do before he got paid. He was quiet surprised when I broke out a chess set and started setting up the pieces.

He learned the game very quickly and we spent about 40 minutes playing. Whenever I complimented him on a move, or he got something right, that big smile would take over his face.

While we played we talked, well, I asked questions and he answered. Turns out he is going into the 9th grade at Spingarn High School. I tried not to cringe when he shared that, Spingarn is one of the worst high schools in the city, and asked him if he had looked at other schools, which he had not. When I offered to show him a couple other schools he replied, “I don’t want to go nowhere.” So I left it alone for the time being.

The rain let up as we finished the last game and I enjoyed that clean, after rain smell. I paid him then we walked around the side of the house where all the commotion had taken place a few night before. The last question I asked him was what he wanted to be when he grew up.

He put his hands on the lawnmower, paused a bit, then said, “I just want to have a regular life.”

When you hear something you really don’t expect, it takes a couple seconds to respond while your brain processes what you just heard. In those few seconds I got a clear picture of the life he did not want and a clear picture of the life he did want and most of all it was clear he understood the difference between the two.

“Come see me again.”

With drama, sometimes comes opportunity.

Black Boy, Part I

Our lawnmower got stolen a couple weeks ago, which is a problem since we live in the sort of neighborhood where if you don't cut your lawn regularly, your neighbors look at you funny as you walk from your car into the house. So I was relieved when two young boys (about 13 years old) stopped by and offered to cut the lawn at a reasonable rate. They did a good job and I tipped them happily, pleased to support young boys making honest wages. We made arrangements for them to come back in a week and I exchanged phone numbers with the boy who acted as the lead.

Three days later, my wife and I are sitting in the living room, reading at about 9pm, when we hear a bunch of voices in distress running at the side of our house. About five minutes after that, Jean, our neighbor from across the street, rings the bell and informs us that some young boys were in our yard. I go out back to check things out and when I get back to the front yard, Jean and my wife are chatting.

My wife updates me on their conversation and said that Ted, Jean's husband, had seen the boys walk through our front gate and head into the back yard and he had followed them and apparently scared them off. The boys hopped the back fence and ran off, leaving a pair of bolt cutters in their wake.

Although our neighborhood is quiet, tree lined and thoroughly middle class it sits right next to a neighborhood that is decidedly the opposite. Twenty blocks from where we live is a large public housing development, not one that has been redeveloped, but one of the old school, no grass, young men standing around with no shirt, teenage girls pushing baby strollers.

After joining in on the conversation I asked Jean where Ted was. "Oh he went after the boys." This had not finished registering on me when I saw three boys half a block away run through an alley across our street and continue on through the alley followed closely by Ted, his arms pumping after them.

Jean's response was a nonchalant, "there he goes," my wife issued, what in the legal profession is called and excited utterance, shouting, "What the fuck!" With mixed emotions I walked down the street toward the alley, with no desire to catch up with Ted. When I got to the alley, Ted was leading one of the boys back in a half nelson. The boy was all protest, shouting that he was no thief, he was simply on his way to his cousin, that he wanted to call his mother. I looked at Ted wondering how long had he been Batman.

He walked the boy back to the front of my house, my wife called the police and as is traditional in our neighborhood, whenever there is any excitement folks come out their houses to see what is going on. Ted had the boy sit on the ground between us while he continued to proclaim his innocence and make his case. Ted informed him that we had his hand print.

"On the bike?" the boy asked nervously.

Ted meant the bolt cutters, but the boy mentioning the bike reminded me that we had three bicycles chained up in the stairwell leading to the basement in the back of the house. So now everything became clear, the bolt cutters were to cut the chains off the bikes. The boy was getting more and more anxious and asked my wife for a phone so he could call his mother. I, frankly was concerned that his associates would retaliate against us in some way for getting their friend arrested.

I started talking to the boy, asking him which school he went to, what did he want to be when he grew up (football player and if that didn't work out, basketball player) when it occurred to me that this boy was one of the two boys who cut my lawn. But then I was not sure. I had dealt with just one of them who negotiated the price, who did the walk through with me after they finished cutting the lawn and who seemed like he was in charge of the enterprise. It made sense, while they were cutting the back yard they saw the bikes and alerted their friends to the possible booty.

The police arrived, took statements from Ted, Jean, my wife and I; interviewed the boy and informed us that they did not have enough to charge him. My wife being a criminal defense attorney was not surprised, but Ted was disappointed, after all he spent about twenty minutes running after kids not even a third his age. The police put the boy in their squad care and assured us they would give him a harsh talking to and take him home.

Folks started drifting back into their houses leaving Ted, Jean my wife and I standing outside our house. It was at this point I took the opportunity to tell Ted that he was crazy to run after them. He readily agreed. We ended up inviting them over for dinner on Sunday and made our way back inside.

"Well," my wife said, "we should get an alarm system." Re-starting a conversation that we had been having for about a year.

"Yeah," I replied, "I don't think this is over."

What Sotomayor Cannot Say

The essential problem of the Sotomayor hearings is that it is being played out on the mythological stage that defines American politics and law. The particular myths at play are: Justice is blind; all Judges do is “apply the law.”

If all Judges did is apply the law, then why aren’t all Supreme Court decisions unanimous? If all Judges did is apply the law, then why do we need more than one Supreme Court Justice?

In a 5-4 Supreme Court decision is the dissent not applying the law or the majority? How can we tell. Why should the standard be who has the most votes? The myth is that the application of the law is a function that can be separated from who you are.

Sotomayor burden is that she confronted this myth with her “wise latina,” 2001 Berkley speech. The underpinning of her comment was a quote from Professor Martha Minnow of Harvard Law School, who states “there is no objective stance but only a series of perspectives - no neutrality, no escape from choice in judging,” Sotomayor then said that she, “…further accept that our experiences as women and people of color affect our decisions. The aspiration to impartiality is just that--it's an aspiration because it denies the fact that we are by our experiences making different choices than others.”

There is no essential view point; everyone has experiences and views that inform their perspective on events. I feel quite comfortable in saying that if there were a majority of black people on the Supreme Court at the time of Plessy v. Ferguson there would have been no separate but equal doctrine. I also feel quite comfortable saying that if women were the majority at the constitutional convention, women would not have had to wait for the vote till 1922 and that the presence of Native Americans would have changed the outcome.

Identity politics, i.e. perspectives other than that of white males, is anathema in politics. As Eugene Robinson points out, “Being white and male is seen instead as a neutral condition, the natural order of things. Any "identity" -- black, brown, female, gay, whatever -- has to be judged against this supposedly "objective" standard.”

That white men have absolutely dominated the courts and the legislature of this country for the vast majority of our history has had a profound affect on the laws we have.

What Sotomayor cannot say now, but has said in the past is that Justice is served by having a diverse Judiciary. I certainly see parenting differently now that I’m a parent than before. I see and understand marriage differently after being married.

The simple truth is that everyone wants certain outcomes: Law enforcement wants rulings that reinforce and enhance their ability to go after lawbreakers; insurance companies and doctors want decisions that limit their liability; landlords want rulings that make it easier from them to evict tenants and tenants want rulings that make it harder; business owners want less, not more regulation.

What Sotomayer cannot say now is that her “wise latina,” remark was intended to inspire a women and minorities and let them know that their view point is as legitimate if not better as any white mans and that if anything is essential to decision making, it is diversity.

Of Discipline and Routine

Master Po is right, the purpose of discipline is to life more fully. Or to paraphrase the Dalai Lama, the key to enlightenment is routine. Routine and discipline by themselves, however, is not the answer. One must have an understanding of what their bliss is and then apply routine and discipline to the pursuit of their bliss.

Religion is, or should be a practice, it should inform how you behave. The disciplined pursuit of one's bliss is a personal religion that needs markers, ceremonies and reminders to keep you on "the straight and narrow."

Some of my daily markers are: Five minutes of silence every day, exercise, spending and time creating what I want in my mind. I've come to realize, however, that there is a need for more discipline in my bliss journey. It bring me to the question, 'what is religion.?

The purpose of discipline

The Utility of Marriage

Intrepidblackwoman and I host a Salon at our house once a month. The last topic was entitled, "The Utility of Marriage," and led to great discussion. We followed up the discussion with an email to the folks that were not able to participate, but wanted to know about the day.

Hello all:
Quite a few folks who did not make the utility of marriage salon have asked for details about the discussion, so we are going to try to oblige.

There were some broad themes that ran through the day:

For those gathered that day, the narrative of marriage - i.e. romantic, love-driven marriage - is not what is going on. There was a recognition that a large part of marriage is a business and its utility is as a vehicle for organizing property, managing children and ordering one's life. Inasmuch, exchanging credit reports and medical records before marriage makes sense.

A majority of us thought that nationally the part of the marriage narrative that assumes a man and a woman is coming to an end. As one of us put it, the actuarial tables will take care of the pitchfork wavers who oppose same sex marriages. This fight for equality and dignity is be no means over, but most of us felt that the ball is rolling down hill—same sex marriages are legal in 4 states!
The thing that sticks in our minds the most is a statistic that one of the participants shared, that marriage men are three times less likely to commit murder. This sobering statistic was followed this up by someone else sharing that championship basketball teams have more married men on them. I did a little research and found that married men live longer, are healthier, visit the doctor more, and make more money. So the utility of marriage for men is clear---CIVILIZATION.

After the Salon, I got an email of a terribly interesting website that goes into the various sort of marriages that are recognized by the Bible. There was also a Catholic marriage rite for two men

Lastly on this topic, there are studies that suggest that married people (at least loving couples/people) are connected on a subatomic level. The utility of this is that your partner can help heal you with their thoughts. This we believe to be true.

Torture and U.S.

The Bush Administration took us down the road to torture in a fast car and now various people associated with the previous Administration are defending the speeding. Obama is backing us away from torture, or at the very least water boarding and attempting to steer the country back down the road to the moral high ground. These moves I applaud, but I do have some cognitive dissonance going on.

If my son, best friend, my best friends wife or child were being held hostage or in some way had their life threatened and I had a person with knowledge that I thought could save my best friends life, torture would be an option for me. There would be no hesitation on my part. It's like the me being against the death penalty, unless the person killed my mom.

Theoretically policy should not be made by the people who have a personal stake in the outcome, a classic conflict of interest. But the reality is I'm against torture in general, but if they were holding my mom, I'd break out a blowtorch.

What the F__k?

Black men and College

Intrepidyoungman is finishing up the 9th grade and has three more years before he leaves home and goes off to college. This gives me pause on a few levels. I remember being in my mothers house, walking to school and dreaming of college myself. I remember going off to college, studying, not studying, hanging out; things that seem at once so far away and so close. I remember my son's birth, him so small and fragile. Now he stands almost eye to eye with me, lean and muscular, sensing his impending manhood.

In three years he will leave for college, but the world he steps into is vastly different from the one I stepped into at his age. The competition is much much more fierce. Whereas I was able to get into an elite university with less than a 4.0 and good, not great SAT scores, that is almost unheard of now. I read of young folks being rejected with near perfect SAT scores and 4.2 GPAs. On top of that schools are much more expensive, topping $40,000 a year; some kids graduate with over $150,000 in debt and then weigh the prospect of graduate school.

I feel a special responsibility to prepare my son well for the simple fact that he is a nascent black man and there is a limited supply of black men going off to college. One of the imperatives of African American families and African American organizations, I feel, is to send young black men off to college. To the extent we wish to survive as a race this seems to me a must.

The Salon

The last week has turned out fairly well. Intrepidblackwoman is back in the house (toilet seats are down again) and the place has that womanly energy again. I was never a believer in that sort of thing, but, hey, there is a difference. The presence of a woman just makes men act differently (this can be a good and a bad thing, but in Intrepidyoungman and my case its a good thing).

This past Sunday we kicked off The Salon. Every second Sunday we are hosting a group of folks to chat about a topic and eat up our food. Sunday's topic was "What is the Green Economy." The discussion was cool, we talked about the tension between just branding old jobs green (i.e. is a sanitation worker a Green worker?) and actually creating new jobs, methods of production that reduce the carbon footprint.

There were some hot side discussions about commercial rap music (the stuff you actually hear on the radio) and of course no group of black folks can get together without talking about "the struggle," in some way. It was all terribly good and I'm looking forward to the next Salon. The topic is, "The utility of marriage."

Like Magic

My son and I had a great weekend, Intrepidblackwoman (his stepmom) is out of town, so it meant we could leave all the toilet seats up all over the house and walk around scratching at will. On Saturday we ate out for lunch and had some good conversations in between him texting. He did share something that disturbed me though, that he did not want to get married---more on that in another post soon. Other than that, the topics ranged from literature to the economy. Later that night we went to see the play Antebellum, which we both recommend. I have never seen a play as intricate or a play covering the subject matter. Those in the Washington DC area would be well served by checking it out.

On Sunday Intrepidyoungman cranked out his homework, cleaned his room, the downstairs bathroom washed his clothes, then went and hung out with a friend.

I felt like Pat Riley coaching the Lakers when Magic played for them, all he really did was throw out the ball, no coaching needed.

Of Black Men and Commitment

In the District of Columbia approximately 50% of African American boys graduates from high school of these young men approximately 30% go on to college and then a third of those young men graduate withing six years. The statistics are similar in other states which then leads to a dearth of African American boys in college. In some schools the ratio is up to seven black girls for every one black boy.

Into this steps an organization I volunteer with, College Tribe, a mentoring organization, African American men mentoring African boys. For the last two years I've been in charge of recruiting and managing the men that mentor the boys. This has turned out to be an exercise in herding cats. The issue is the difference between theory and practice. Everyone understands the importance of the issues we face, but the actual practice of showing up when you are supposed to is a different thing.

What I've learned over the last two years is that the men who come with a lot of rhetoric about the plight of black people are the ones who cancel at the last minute. For these men, the theory is the thing, not the practice. Some of the men are just really busy, with businesses to run and a host of other activities. These men treat their mentoring appointments like business appointments, something they can cancel, reschedule and re-arrange.

My challenge is to weed out the committed men from the theoretical men. In general the quiet serious men are the one's I need. The strong quiet type wins again.

Of Capitalism and Greed

Capitalism's fatal flaw is its ultimate building block--greed. The goal of Capitalism is for the Capitalist to make as much money as possible. Capitalism goal is not to create meaningful employment for people, nor is it to educate or care for the sick. Capitalism purpose is to serve Capital. The very concept of a "Free Market," demands that individuals be free to set up whatever arrangement are best to produce wealth.

Capitalism inherently pits individual interest versus the national interest. The individual wants to make as much money as possible which causes tensions with large parts of society. What else would explain the existence of the minimum wage. If there was no minimum wage, wages would drop all across the country, as businesses moved to maximize profits.

Look at our many product safety regulations, seat belts as an example. Car manufacturers fought seat belts tooth and nail because they felt it hurt profits (well they phrased it as the additional costs having a negative effect on the consumer). Think of the various food safety regulations, building codes, and inspections. These are all things put in place to temper greed.

Financial regulations work the same way, to temper greed and protect the public. Why does the FDIC and other bank regulators exist? Because we (the non capitalists) cannot leave the capitalist to their own devices--at least not completely.

No doubt there will be new financial regulation in the wake of the worldwide
recession (depression?). But I just know the big law firms are waiting for the new legislation with bated breath, waiting to find ways around it and inform their clients. The next financial catastrophe is really a matter of time. Greed will win again.

An unusual week

This week has been bit different. On Sunday I saw the Pompeii exhibit at the National Gallery, on Tuesday night I saw a 400 year old play, "Dog in the Manager," a Shakespeare Theater production and then on Wednesday my partner and I traveled to Philadelphia to see a Cezanne exhibit. This is more art than I've seen in the previous year.

It has left me feeling like an adjunct to a stream that has been flowing all around us, but that most of us do not participate in on a regularly. During the Cezanne exhibit I really did get the feeling that everything is part of a whole. Roman art was completely derivative of Greek art, its meaning seemed to only be in relationship to the Greeks. Fast forward to Cezanne it was manifest that his work's meaning was in his break from the Impressionist and he heralded the cubists. Each gained its meaning because of its place on the continuum.

I wondered if any of it would be "good art" in and of itself. Can Jasper Johns work actually stand alone, or is it only good if you know the art that came before him and what he was trying to do intellectually. Would a person unfamiliar with the "tradition" look at cubist work and love it?

My instinct is no. It all reminds me of poets who explain their poems before they read it. If you have to do that, then you need to re-write your poem. Few things stand by themselves. I'm thinking that those things that do, have an a priori relationship with us.

Today my partner and I went to see an exhibit on Pompeii and the Roman villa at the National Gallery. Seeing statues, bowls, silverware and paintings, retrieved from peoples home, that are 2000 years old, gives one pause. It reminds me of both our impermanence and our legacy. We as individuals are fleeting, but our culture has a longer life. This brings me to a question I overheard a woman at the Gallery ask her husband, "Two thousand years from now, what of ours will people come to Galleries to see?" Will Picasso be as enduring as Rembrandt? Time will judge, but it feels like less of our culture has enduring qualities, than the Romans, Greeks, Incas, Mayans and Egyptians.

The twentieth century heralded an informality both in our individual lives and in production that makes our more fleeting. Why have a family portrait done when you can simply have a picture taken. Why spend the money on individual pottery, when you can buy a set at IKEA for $20. Figurines have replaced statutes in our homes. While we gain accessibility, we loose uniqueness.

After seeing several statues of Dionysus, Athena, I commented to my partner that we do not have myths that help define us. She disagreed and pointed to Jesus, the Virgin Mary and that many black people have pictures of John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King in their homes. These things she believes replaces Apollo. Perhaps she is right.

At the end of our discussion and the exhibit I thought about our home and to what extent it speaks to who we are. Our home should tell our story. This thought made me want a statue of Anansi

The Pharcyde

Something fairly weird has been happening lately. My son and I have been having meaningful conversations over the last few weeks. The discussions have ranged from the difference between Liberalism and Conservatism to the ethical questions presented by the movie Watchmen. I have enjoyed this since it feels like most of the time I've been admonishing him about this or the other.

A fun discussion we had last night had us each sharing our top ten rap songs. I was in the 9th grade when Rapper's Delight came out, my son was four when Missy Elliot emerged on the scene, two distinct rap generations. Still oddly enough there was one thing in common:



My List
Can't Forget About You-- Nas
Paid in Full (Cold Cut Remix)-- Eric B and Rakim
Let Me Ride-- Dr. Dre
Sucka Mcs -- Run-DMC
American Terrorist-- Lupe Fiasco
The Show-- Dougie Fresh
Bring the Noise-- Public Enemy
Passing Me By-- The Pharcyde
Buddy-- De La Soul
Scenario Remix -- Tribe Called Quest(With, Leaders of the New School)

My Son's list
Ice Cream-- Wu Tang Clan
Music-- Eric Sermon
Feeling It-- Jay-Z
Theme Music to a Drive By-- L.F.
BMJR -- Lil Wayne
Rising Down The Roots
Grown Man Business-- Mos Def
Wat U Made Me-- Malik Yousef
N.I.G.G.E.R.-- Nas
Passing Me By-- The Pharcyde

Of adversity and raising a son

I stopped speaking to my Father at the end of seventh grade. At best he was an example of what not to do do as a Father. My most salient model of being a Father came from a Uncle who lived within thirty minutes of my mother, brother and I. From him I took this: Do some of the cooking, purchase a leather chair in which to listen to classical music force your children to think about saving money and "a good job."

The day to day relationship between a Father and son is something for which I had no real life experience of value. So I made it up as I went along with my son. Using my mother's relationship with me as a starting point. There were limits to this, however, because my mother often worked two jobs and had long commutes and so had little time to spend with us and no time to play.

In retrospect a part of my relationship with my son was me vicariously living out the Father-Son relationship from the perspective of the Son. I bought him all the things that I wanted when I as a child. A glaring example of this was I bought a train set for him when he was maybe a two years old. He had no interest in it, but I set it up and watched the trains go round and round.

To the extent that I am a strong man, with a good sense of self I attribute to living in poverty for a while and close to poverty for a long while. Adversity and the lack of things forced my brother and I to turn inward for satisfaction. This stands in absurd contrast to my son who had sushi at the age of six and had an X Box, Playstation and Gameboy all at the same time.

My son has never faced adversity or real challenge. He has never had to eat buttered rice for dinner for a week until I got paid. This is a good and a bad thing. It is a bad thing because he has not been made to realize--in practice, not just intellectually--what is important. It is a good thing, because, I'm here to tell you that eating nothing but buttered rice for a week is no fun at all.

Unfortunately the conclusion of this has no solution, at least yet. It is something that keeps me up just about every night and is one of the two things to drives and propels my desire to live. I will find a way or make one.

Not blogging for a long time is quite like not talking to a friend for a long time. You want to do it, but you feel that since its been so long you have to block out an hour to make that phone call. That then makes the call daunting, so you put it off and so it goes.

I've been wanting to re-start for a while, but who wants to spend an hour an the phone, so this is going to be a short call just to let you know I've been thinking about you and we should get together soon.

My last entry heralded the Change America Banquet, which succeeded beyond my expectations. College Tribe made some money for its scholarship fund and folks from all over the country got their drink on. Check out the pictures here, and the next time I share an event, you know to be there.

Between the Ball and my last Blog I spent a week in the Hospital and suffered through another brush with the unpleasant. This time it was Septic Shock, which led to me being quarantined (which explained why the food service people left my tray outside my room)

The ordeal started with what I thought was a bladder infection (albeit from hell). The pain was frightful, the kind where you think to yourself, "this just cannot be real." Over the last eight years my illness has made me familiar with pain and I've developed a few coping methods of coping with it. First, I'm thankful that I'm experiencing the pain and not my son or partner (she does not like to be called wife--another blog entry for another day). This then leads to the chant of "Thank You," where I give thanks that the pain is with me and not with them.

For the first time, however, this did not work. The first ten hours in the hospital were an absolute challenge to my will. At one point I had not slept in 30 hours and two 12 year old doctors were trying with disaterous results to place a Aterial Line in me. In addition to repeatedly unsuccessfully sticking me with a huge needle the procedure required a sterile setting, which included a plastic bag over my head. While I'm sure there is a medical term for this, for all intents and purposes it was a bloody plastic bag over my head.

Forty five horribly unsuccessful minutes into this I lost it and started screaming "Abu Grave!" My partner stepped in and found a grown up doctor who gave me some wonderful drug that put me under. When I woke up various things were sticking out of me, but there was no pain and I was on the way to recovery.

While recovering I decided to change my life. This is a decision that I have made many times before and never completely followed up on. Over the years I've come closer to living the life that I truly want, but have never made the absolute commitment to it.

So this is me following my bliss.