"Likewise..." (from 05/29/2007)

That goes without saying
But
It’s one of those things
That while should go without saying

You have to say it

Or it wouldn’t be so.

Tackiness '07 (Some rather candid thoughts on aesthetics from four years ago)

From Aug 5, 2007 (Originally entitled I *%$ing hate that Vol. 6)

Amalgamating songs. Who comes up with this shit?

A few years ago, I nearly bled to death from my ears, repeatedly, when I heard on the radio this most horrific remix of a new Green Day single edited to accommodate alternating segments of an Aerosmith classic. As much affection as I hold for Green Day, I did not care for this new single, if for no other reason because of being exhausted from constant on-air play. As much respect for Aerosmith as I hold for their longevity, this classic didn't happen to be one of my favorites either.

So that was bad enough. I thought that the combined content of the songs being used at least, perhaps, presented some sort of common unified message of holding out hope for the future. Could be except that, if you can survive listening through the whole atrocity of sound, out of nowhere comes a deplorable sampling of an all but forgotten Oasis single from 1996. What. The. Fuck.

I have no idea under what name this freakish experiment went, so for argument sake we'll just call it "Offensive and insulting statement to creativity constructed in inexplicably poor taste."  Fortunately in time, its inexplicable popularity waned and I was spared the necessity of reaching for the nearest plastic spoon with the feverish intent of manically digging into my ear canals in order to mercifully finish what task the radio had begun. That was until tonight.

Riding home on I-44 as I often do, I'm changing the radio stations and I think I'm picking up on a station playing The Police's "Every Breath You Take."  Well, obviously I immediately get it in mind to change it again until I also hear what sounds like this year's most overplayed song so far--that Snow Patrol song (do they have another one?). For a moment I think that I must have hit the tuning button and that the radio's caught in between channels picking up both. Now this I know would be something I need to rectify quickly because now I've got two songs that have already won the Jeeper grammy for most effective nerve grating nearly twenty-five years apart--no small feat.

Only it's not two separate stations. No, in fact it is one music station playing this newest of horrifically crafted atrocities, released for absolutely no other purpose which I can conceive of other than to force me into autovehicular suicide on the freeway while I'm out enjoying an otherwise pleasant Sunday evening drive.

Now, please don't misunderstand: I am all for tackiness. But it has to be for the sake of tackiness. If whoever committed this criminal exploitation against freedom of expression did it for the explicit purposes of being tacky, then kudos all around. But I have my doubts. I think whoever did this thought they were one profound motherfucking genius. Be it for art or commerce, I think this person took this project seriously.

There is a clinical term for this in my field and we call it "crazy."  Possibly "evil."  And crazy must be stopped in all its many forms.

Autobots...roll out.

Lullaby for Taz in the Month of his Impending Adoption

From June 11, 2007

Birds on wires are in full view
     We're flat on our backs outside
            I want you to listen to what they have to say
    Imagine that we're up there with them
        What wouldn't be the first thing you couldn't do?
             And what could you take with you to remind yourself…?

Off the walls and on a tear
     You've got the dog barking
        DHS* wants you here and it wants you there
             And they want you there without stopping

And I couldn't be happier that the right mom and dad have found you
     But they underestimated the amount of meds
         For the number of days they'd have you
I'm thinkin' they'll never make that mistake again for the next camping trip…

So confusion meets withdrawal meets 10-year-old baggage besides
     And I'm sure the ADHD isn't helpful either
        You're teetering on breakdown, I'm teetering on hands tied—
             I don't know if I can direct this traffic around you for much longer

I have to take you out, little man
     But every wrestling move we've taught each other
         is doing no good today
You're light as a feather jumping on to my back off the trampoline
    Playing solitary volleyball all around and over me
        Thumb war, knuckle war and slaps** are doing nothing to calm you

I know all of that is easier than slowing down to think about
    Stuff that's hard to think about
         But I have to say it:
                Things are going to change
                        A lot
                             And we're all going to miss you

                              I am
                                       going to miss you

I can't use words like "always"
    And live with myself, or sleep at night
        So tell me your full name and focus in between deep breaths
            You're here right now and that's who you are

             No one's going to take that from you

For all your birth parents' faults
    That is what they gave you
        And that's who they meant you to be

         They meant it to be your own.

[* Department of Human Services  **game activity done with hands, not the physical aggression]

TV Shows: Who am I to argue? (profile on a changed heart)

I was just watching an episode of The Vampire Diaries with my housemates.  The high drama genre eye-candy made me miss Smallville.  That made me think of this. From Mar 9, 2007


I don't think it's any secret of my...disdain for certain television programs.  It's been widely documented through a couple of entries on this very blog, a chain of responses to comments on said entries, several different private email communications in response to one bulletin posting which left little question as to my thoughts on how certain fictional characters should be dealt with.


But this week has been something of an eye-opener.  I went into it with just as dismissive and cynical an attitude as ever toward select elements of pop culture.  I therefore could not have foreseen what was to happen yesterday at lunch as my co-workers and I gathered in our breakroom.  We were all trying our best to weather some recent very sad news for our office manager, going on with our normal lunchtime banter which, on Thursdays, usually includes what happened the night before on Lost.  I was retrieving something from the refrigerator when Andy asked, "Is tonight's Grey's Anatomy a new episode?"


"Who cares?" I mumbled snidely beneath my breath, and it was not until I turned around back to the table to see not just a few suspended gazes directed my way that I realized what was supposed to be my inside dialogue had found it's way out of my mouth (this has happened frequently since my father literally dropped me on my head when I was six; I've tried to retrain myself to curb this, but to no avail).  To my credit, I estimate only three of the nine people present were regular and enthusiastic viewers of the show.  The five remaining besides myself held no significant opinion on the matter.  I don't think any of them bore me any ill will for whatever opinion I myself might have had (unlike some I've encountered).  But all of them seemed somewhat taken aback by my apparently sinister and hostile tone.


As soon as I realized their reaction, I slackened my posture and went into my cute little nervous laugh in a quick attempt to recover from my social faux paux and to summon myself back from the dark side.  Hopefully by now my eyes had stopped glowing and changed back to their normal sea blue hues.


No dice.


"John!" Andrea authoritatively snipped at me. "We don't ever talk bad about Smallville."


"I hardly ever bring up Smallville," I said defensively.


"Is that show even still on?" Caran asked, snickering.


"Shh--!" I shot my crooked index finger at her.


"What's the issue with Grey's, John?" asked Andy, quite amused at this point.  I heaved out a sigh of exasperation and dropped my head slightly, trying to collect myself for the apology (classical meaning: defense) which lay ahead.


I explained in short order my belief that the show had little at all to do with modern surgical medicine and the frustrations of the young interns employed.  Rather, it has more to do with mostly young attractive people in scrubs and white coats behaving like common whores...and oh the drama and romantic "comedy" that ensues.


"Okay, so there was a whole ferry load of people in critical condition, and all of the doctors were focusing their efforts solely on Meredith..." Andy conceded.


"But John," Kristi patiently tried to explain to me. "It's Grey's Anatomy... 'Anatomy', John...!"

Instantly, it was like a fog had lifted.  This was the most compelling point I'd yet heard, beating out every other thing I'd tried to use to convince myself not to take the show so seriously.  It was right there all along!  A double entendre...I love those!  Elated, I apologized to all of my comrades for any offenses I may have incurred, and then took my seat to enjoy my lunch.


Last night I spent the evening with my good friend Stefanie.  I caught my dark side mischeviously re-emerging as I saw a trailer for the next episode on television.  Taking notice of my hateful remark, she confronted me on it.  I explained again as best I could.


"But it's the only thing I ever watch," she pleaded. "I love George," she said, remarking about how she always gets a crush on gay actors.


Then and there, it seemed to me that if this show were indeed the only source of entertainment for some people...people who are important to me for that matter...then I really should try to meet its audience halfway.  


Can I do this?  Can I get over its ridiculously phenomenally insane popularity with its ensemble of award-winning stars who just recently renegotiated their six-figure salaries...?  My personal history tells me not to hold my breath.  I will say however that as long as ABC chooses not to pre-empt Boston Legal for it (again), or put it up against Smallville, anything's possible.


Oh yeah Satch, I forgot to tell ya'...! (The Baller, the Buck, and the Earthquake)

From Feb 26, 2007

Two of my clients (brothers) had a successful discharge today.  This means that their mother, whose custody they were taken from by the state, did everything she was supposed to do to complete her treatment plan to regain custody of them.

This was a rare case for me and sadly rare for many in this line of work.  Rare because I had nothing but good feelings and absolutely no mixed emotions about sending them home.  I'd met their mother, something I don't often like doing at all, got to know her and got the feeling from her that this was indeed a case in which, although certainly she'd made some drug-related mistakes, she was not only a pretty decent person but definitely a pretty good and capable mom.

Of the two, it was the older one I enjoyed more.  He turned 16 while in our care and I'll refer to him as "The Baller"--mainly because he had to explain to me what this meant.  Apparently this is African-American slang for, according to Wikipedia, someone who's made it and lives a pretty flashy, showy, luxurious lifestyle.  I do not remember what conversation we were having which brought this up.  He was probably easier because he'd just baaaarreeely met criteria for our level of care and consequently was easy to deal with therapeutically.  Depression was his main burden but, he'd seemed to have established such a relationship with his foster mother, and she with their mother, that this was eliminated in pretty short order and my only task was to watch Smallville with him (oh yeah, that was a really tough one for me).

His foster mother, whom I shall refer to as "The Earthquake", deserves to be the sole topic of another blog.  In short, she's...something of a force to be reckoned with and for her to have provided for him the environment needed to feel secure enough to show patience for the reunification process...that's a God thing.  Which should surprise me none for she is a woman of great faith...it's just always had to be on her own terms.

"I'm always happy," the Baller told me in a recent session.  It was in response to a remark I'd made about his disposition and his attitude when saying it was one of incredulity, implying as if I could be anything else...shee-ahht (which of course he would never say to me in that home).  He conveniently forgot his fairly devastated mood when he was first placed with us, but I allowed it.  Even while in his funks, his smart-ass antics were always good for a grin.

The two boys are of mixed African and western European ancestry.  Their enviable light-mocha complexions and greyish-green eyes make for a somewhat surreal bewitching quality.  The Baller normally wears his hair in cornrolls, but he once answered the door with his hair completely undone in a huge 'fro.  His complete nonchalance about his appearance as he greeted me had me struggling to keep my reaction to a slight chuckle.  In my first intake interview with him, he made no bones about how he felt one of his strengths to be his looks..."because I'm just so fine."  I'll miss this kid, because he was fun.

His little brother was a different story.  I'll call him "The Buck", because he would often look as a deer in headlights...not really scared so much as frozen and uncooperative (granted you don't really think of a deer as "uncooperative", but I've never really known of them to be "cooperative" per se, have you?).  He turned 13 while he was with us.  As hinted, I never really got anywhere with him. My rapport with him usually came after several card games of Speed and Nertz shared also with the Baller.  He had a huge chip on his shoulder, in no small part due to the fact that the Baller was a huge pain in the ass for him, as in over-protective and domineering big brother.

"Why wouldn't he wanna' be like me?" the Baller asked in reference to the Buck, with his aforementioned nonplussed attitude, completely deadpan.  However, even despite the the Baller's self-assuredness that he was not only an appropriate role model for his younger brother, but the only role model necessary (for anyone), the Buck was quite adamant that he "wanted to be his own man."    The Baller could not seem to accept this, and though he never admitted it, I think he felt it of utmost importance to keep as much of a reign on his younger brother as he could for the duration of their stay in foster care.  The more he tried of course, the more unruly the Buck would become.  Understandable enough, and I tried my best to validate both of their feelings and motivations for their tension-inducing behavior but, I put the question to them, was there some other way they could show they cared?

The Baller's coping skills with the inherent frustrations of their situation were rather effective.  The Buck on the other hand didn't even know how to begin and had little recourse but to allow that which is known as Attention Defecity Hyperactivity Disorder do the coping for him.  The tensions mounted to the point that fists were swung and police were called.  The Earthquake briefly felt she could no longer handle the Buck and gave the agency notice of termination to this effect.  After a reportedly intense prayer in church the following Sunday however, she reconsidered.  And after that, there really weren't too many more problems outside of normal teenage/parent squabbles.

The relationship between all three (and the Earthquake's own two teenage boys) in the foster home developed to the point that we always hope for. The Baller felt he could ease up on the Buck.  This did wonders for the Buck of course. He actually opened up in our monthly January group meeting.  When asked to draw a depiction of what he felt was a miracle, he drew guns...lots of guns.  I confronted him on this demanding how this qualified as a miracle, to which he very calmly replied with a shrug, "These cure people."

Also helpful to him no doubt were a couple of medication changes (I actually had the privilege of making an honest to god drug-run for the Buck to save the Earthquake from being guilty of medical neglect earlier this month, yet another story).  Certainly the Buck was still a tough crowd to warm up each new session, but I'll miss him too.  He taught me a lot about this one Star Wars video game in which the characters were lego figures.

And so, a success story and a welcome one.  A little bittersweet for me, sure.  But the trade-off I'll take.

Holy crud, Satchel.  You may not believe this, or maybe you will, but the house across the street seems to be burning and the firetrucks are on the scene.  Yes, I will be looking for a new place once the lease is up.  Gosh I hope you're not out of town again when I move this time.  And if you are, will I actually tell you where I've moved to this time?  Mwah-ha-ha-hah!

Safe trip brother.  Love ya'
10:01 PM

This just in: Apparently I'm not nine years old anymore... (Mac and the Taz)

from Jan 17, 2007

...but two nine-year-olds for whom I have a soft spot sure did try to convince me otherwise.

I made my regular visit to them today. Like most every other public school kid in the [Oklahoma City] metro area, they got to stay home for the third day in a row and, consequently, were climbing the walls. Their dutiful foster parent, herself recovering from the crud, only allowed them to play out in the backyard for less than half an hour at a time throughout the day due to the extensive supervisory requirements for kids in their level of care (admittedly at times it can seem oppressive, but the reader will have to trust me that it is necessary more often times than not). Not knowing I was in only slightly better condition than their foster mother, they were just waiting...hoping...scheming that maybe they could persuade me to forego our normal therapeutic activities and instead accompany them to the backyard for all manner of unlimited ice-hovering mayhem.

They were crafty. They'd gotten wind from their FP that my executive director would be accompanying me today--this being a newer foster home with which my superior was heretofore unfamiliar and just wanted to tag along to become better acquainted. They waited with surprising and uncharacteristic patience, turning on the full kid charm for my director--taking her on the tour of their bedroom, introducing her to the goldfish and the gecko, tutoring her on the finer points of Tony Hawk Skate Pro and Smackdown! Pro Wrestling on Play Station 2.

At the first sign of my director's impending departure, which they intuited by the unmistakable sign of grown-up banter at the front door, they slipped out the backdoor with the stealth of wolves after a rabbit. Before the door slammed shut, there was only a faint announcement of their intentions audible enough that I could hear it, but not audible to the authority figure over there by the front door.  They knew that I was ethically bound to follow them.

"Little bastards--!" I muttered beneath my breath as my head swung around toward the back door.  I found them outside in their full winter gear of coats, gloves, and caps, already preparing their make-shift ice sleds they'd made out of a de-wheeled skateboard and large tuppleware tub.  The quicker and more spastic one, which my co-workers will recognize by the codename I've given him--"The Taz(!)"--was at the apex of a small slope starting at their fence and he was readying a running start onto his snowboard.

"Push me, John!" he called out to me.  The other one--"Mac"--was just as ready. "John?  Can you push me? John?" I can only liken Mac to that one pup on 101 Dalmatians ("I'm hungry, mother...but I am just the same...") in that he can often be a bit one-track minded.  Emotionally, he is quite a bit younger than nine years old. With a small amused groan and a slight shake of my head, I surrendered to their skillful maneuvering, and to all 29 degrees of Farenheit.  They had me.  I was already out and the other grown-ups would likely be bantering a while longer.

"Now you!" said Taz, indicating to me to try the snowboard.  So, I gave it a shot with a little guidance from my resident sensei.  After half-supervising my two semi-successful attempts, he'd already moved onto the the tuppleware sled with his foster brother preparing to push him.  I gave the board one more shot.  I was a little more ambitious this time because the board slipped out from under me on impact.  Up in the air my feet went and slam! went the rest of my body onto the surface of the frozen yard--a very hard surface (I only imagine the sight was not unlike the two burglars slipping on the hot wheels cars in Home Alone).

Mac and Taz had halted their own agenda momentarily to look over my way.  I saw the two miscreants grinning and gazing at me, if anything somewhat bemused, once I lifted my head slowly to meet their eyes.  Though I laid there completely vulnerable, they paid little to no mind to my circumstance and instead Taz only gave me a quick rejoinder: "Come on, John, help me push him!"  Shaking off what might be a slight concussion and a sprained knee, I slipped and slid with them for another several minutes.  They had no reservations about getting on the trampoline. 

Taz, true to his codname-sake, has required at least two ER trips since being in our care.  The most recent was because of an accident in which he bumped...well, rammed... his head against the coffee table.  He was just playing with the family dog.  The first was because he'd been bitten by a mouse which he'd caught with his bare hands.  The mouse was not to our knowledge sick or dying.  It was a perfectly healthy mouse as far as we know.  "Look!" he'd shouted to the FP approximately two seconds before the rodent was in his grasp.

Nevertheless, of the two, it is Mac who requires more intense supervision and redirection (among other kinds of nurturance; his family of origin was not schooled in boundaries).  This is why it's Mac who, despite my warnings, manages to get his sleeve caught on a tree branch as he descends haphazardly from the trampoline.  Taz comes to stand by me when we notice him across the yard caught by the tree.  "John?  Can you help me off the tree?  John...?"

Before I know it, they've begun picking up chunks of ice and are hurling them at one another.  I immediately begin to point out to them the differences between snowballs and ice clods .  No, they contend, there is no difference, they look just the same.  Well don't I feel stupid?  To defend their position, they gladly begin pelting the wooden storage shed with their baseball-sized hailstones.  They are not persuaded by the dents left by their frozen projectiles, which by the way remain completely intact after falling back to the ground after bouncing off the shed.  "Okay, let's go in," I say.

We make our way back in.  The grown-ups are still chatting.  Taz is breaking out the hot cocoa mix for everyone, asking me if I want one bag or two.  "One's fine, bud," I tell him.  But he cocks his head and smiles, trying to coax me.  "Two'll taste better," he says slyly.

I drop my head and stifle a belly laugh.  I smile wide at him, "Surprise me, little man."

He always does.


I May Have Been Wrong

from Fall 2005
(in a minor key)

I wanted this life
     to be
          nicely suited
Neatly tailored
     and
          undisputed

No strings
No questions
No resigning
     to luck
     or fate

I had this idea
     of
          just what I wanted
So boldly planned out
So undaunted

No gray lining
No middle ground
     for debate

I wanted my attentions
     to be
          undivided
Solid foundation
     never derided

No minor detours
No frivolous distractions
     not for long

I was so certain
     I needed
          no contingency
Plan B
     or some such
          would not concern me

And now I'm thinking
What you must have known all along