Posted on November 19, 2023
I Have Questions
Isn’t it odd how occasionally the answer to a strange question results in stranger questions? You think you’ve answered your bovine conundrum only to find yourself tumbling down the Holstein hole. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My wife and I took our son on our usual Sunday morning walk today. We enjoy the outside air, he enjoys yelling at chickens, everyone wins. Today, however, the barnyard festivities did not end with our feathered friends. To our surprise, a full-grown cow stood alongside some traffic off the little side road where we take our walks. It chewed on grass and stared back at us much as I imagine it would stare at an oncoming car.
Having been around cows sporadically throughout my youth, I immediately took charge of the situation.
“That’s a cow,” I told my wife, a full-grown human being with a functioning understanding of basic animals.
“It certainly is,” she replied sweetly, likely rethinking years of marriage.
Now, this isn’t necessarily the shock it would be in most areas. Our little town is on the border of where Oahu turns from city to country. In fact, our walking path had a “Missing Cow” sign posted on it over a year ago. My first thought went to the missing cow of yore, but this specimen was no hard-bitten renegade living life on the ragged edge after a year on the lam. No, this cow looked content as it watched us approach. It also looked like it had a leash on.
This, dear reader, is where my questions began. I could rationalize away a cow wandering from its field through a broken fence to chew the greener grass on the other side. What I could not wrap my head around was someone taking their cow for a walk and then…forgetting their cow. Cows are, after all, rather large.
Where had the owner gone? Where did he or she come from? Why were they walking a cow? Should we call animal control? What do you even tell animal control when someone forgets their cow on a walk? Do cows need walking? Was I a bad grandson for not walking my grandpa’s cows when visiting his ranch in my youth? Why was I so worried about the logistics and rational behind cow walking?
The questions kept coming as we passed a few feet from the cow. The cow, of course, provided no answers. We continued on our way, and I decided that if the cow remained upon our return, I would call animal control and let them debate the philosophical ramifications of the situation.
When we made the loop back around, however, the situation resolved itself. As we approached the cow for the second time, a man walked across the small road from a house on the other side. He waved at us, then moved towards the cow. I waited for a visceral reaction, much like I would have gotten from my grandpa’s cows.
This cow apparently had not received the same training as grandpa’s cows. Instead of bolting for safety, it came up and nuzzled the man’s hand. I blinked. This was new information, and it did not mesh with my understanding of the bovine breed. Clearly, he was the cow walker, answering one train of questions but setting in motion several more.
Why leave a cow standing next to a road with its leash not tied to anything? Why put out traffic cones? Were the cones an imaginary fence? Did he train the cow to stay within an imaginary fence depicted via traffic cones? How does one train a cow? Can cows formulate the concept of an imaginary fence?
Does this cow like being walked?
We turned the corner and lost sight of both man and cow, but the questions still remain. Maybe one day I will have answers, but I suspect that those answers will only lead to stranger questions still.
Posted on November 5, 2023
The Reserves: Inprocessing (Part 1)
This is the beginning chapter of my online episodic novel, The Reserves.
For the complete collection, please click here. Enjoy!
Clay looked at himself in the mirror and practiced smiling again. He sighed as it turned into a grimace and slid off his face. “You look like a beaver that lost a fight with a parking curb,” he said to his reflection.
“Clay!” a voice called from downstairs. “You’re going to be late!”
“Be there soon!” he yelled back, taking one last look in the mirror. Today was the most important day of his life. He wondered if he should be wearing a polo.
“Clay!”
“Coming, coming!” He opened the bathroom door and hurried down the stairs of his parent’s house. Clay’s dad stood at the front door, bouncing the van keys in his hand. Clay’s mom and younger brother stood to the side getting their shoes on.
“Where are you two going?” Clay asked his mom and brother.
“With you, of course,” Joey said, coming over to grab his brother’s shoulder. “How could we miss such a formative milestone in your meteoric rise to greatness?”
Clay looked at his brother. “You’re going to grab food after you drop me off, aren’t you?”
“We’re going to grab food after we drop you off,” his brother confirmed.
“What about grandma?”
“She’s feeling a little tired today,” Clay’s mom said. “We’ve got her order.”
Clay frowned, then jogged toward the living room. “Back in a second,” he said over his shoulder.
“What part of ‘late’ do you not understand?” Clay’s dad called after him.
Clay found his grandma sitting on the couch, playing a game on her phone. “Those screens will rot your brain,” he said.
“That’s long gone,” his grandma said. “Oh, shoot!” She turned the phone around to show Clay an animated character being violently disemboweled. “I can’t get past this boss. Any tips?”
“Try not dying next time, always works for me.”
“Smart aleck,” she said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled.
“You feeling alright, grandma?” Clay asked, sitting next to her on the couch.
She waved his concern away. “Oh, I’m fine. Get as old as me and you’ll look for excuses to nap, too.”
“Is that all it is?”
Clay’s grandma reached out and patted his leg. “I promise. Haven’t burnt out yet.” She snapped her fingers and an aurora borealis burst into technicolor brilliance across the ceiling.
Clay laughed. “Careful, grandma. Keep showing off and the Alliance may call Starshade back onto active duty.”
She rolled her eyes. “I put myself out to pasture a long time ago, Clay. Better to have a new generation to take over.” She smiled at him again. “It’s your turn, now.”
He tried to match her smile, but dropped his head instead.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I…” His voice trailed off. Clay cleared his throat and started again. “I’ve always wanted to do what you did. To be in the Alliance so I can be a hero. What if I don’t measure up?”
She reached over and gently lifted his head up, nudging him to look her in the eye. “Clay, the Alliance has only been around for fifty years or so. People with abilities like us have been helping others all throughout history. There’s more to being a hero than fancy costumes and media appearances.” She poked him in the chest, hard. “I spent a lot of time working on that heart of yours. Don’t let your head get in the way of it.”
He nodded. “I’ll try.”
“Clay!” his dad yelled again. “If you still want a ride, we’re leaving now!”
Clay jumped to his feet, then looked down at his grandma. “You sure you’ll be alright?”
She shooed him along. “Go ahead, I’ll be fine. You’re just distracting me anyways.” She picked up her phone and tapped on it, eyes going back to the screen.
Clay chuckled and ran to catch up with the rest of his family. They had already loaded up in the family minivan, so he hopped in to the middle row.
“Glad you could join us,” his dad said. “Not like this whole thing was your idea.”
“Sorry,” Clay said. “I’m still living out of my bags and forgot where I put most of what I needed for today.”
“Make sure you lead with that for the testers,” Joey said from where he laid across the back row of the minivan.
“Joey, someday you’ll go far,” Clay said. “We all just hope you’ll stay there.”
“You wound me, brother,” Joey said, placing a hand on his chest. “And I was just going to compliment you on your outstanding hair.”
Clay ran a hand through it. “Really?”
“Obviously. How did you get it to come out of your nostrils like that?”
Their banter went back and forth for most of the ride. Clay grew quiet as they approached their destination, though, his mind churning over the worries he’d felt building for weeks now.
The battered minivan rolled up to the community college parking lot. Signs and streamers lined the sidewalks, costumed heroes smiling out from them with teeth so straight they would work as a level in high-end construction work.
“My teeth will look like that,” Clay muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, mom,” Clay said. He straightened up as his dad eased the van towards the curb. “Thanks for the lift, I’ll take it from here.”
“Did you hear the subtle tenor of command there?” Joey said. “The comforting swaddle of assurance? All your catch-phrase practice in the mirror paid off!”
“Joey,” their mom said, her tone like a museum guard’s who has seen too many children touch the exhibit to have much hope this time will be different.
The van came to a stop, but before Clay could open the sliding door, his dad looked over his shoulder from the driver’s seat.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this, son?”
Clay smiled like the heroes on the signs. “I was born ready.”
Joey howled with laughter. “You’re gonna get eaten alive, man.”
Their dad frowned, his eyes still on Clay. “I mean it. Your powers have never been …consistent.”
“I’ll be fine,” Clay insisted. “I have it under control.”
His parents exchanged a look.
“What?” Clay said.
“You know we love having you back home with us,” his mother said, “but it’s only because you set your apartment on fire.”
“That was an accident!”
“And we’re dropping you off because your car is in the shop after you ripped its door off,” his dad added.
“Also an accident.”
“And we still don’t know where the cat is after you skipped her into another reality,” Joey said from behind him.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Clay muttered.
“All we’re trying to say is you don’t need to do this,” his dad said. “There are plenty of other ways to help people.”
“Appreciate the pep talk, everyone,” Clay said, sliding the door open hard enough his breath caught in case it went the way his car door had. He hid his relief it stayed on its track and stepped out into the parking lot. “I’ll text you when I’m done.”
Clay shut the door and turned away from the minivan. He walked across the baking asphalt, its tar-like smell filling his nose. He heard a window roll down behind him, then back up. A few steps later, he heard the van move forward and out of the parking lot.
Ahead, the signs of Clay’s future beckoned him forward. He recognized every hero on display as members of the Alliance, America’s premiere hero organization. Defiant, Eclipse, Tempest Knight, the Warden—all household names he’d grown up hearing about.
“And now it’s my turn,” he said, taking the stairs up to the campus two at a time. Clay stumbled at the last step and looked around to see if anyone noticed before hurrying along the path marked out by more smiling heroes.
A giant banner with METAHUMAN REGISTRATION printed on it hung over a side entrance to the campus’s administration building. Clay pushed the door open and walked inside.
A small crowd of people stood chatting in the small foyer. Past them, plastic folding tables blocked off a maze of pop-up cubicles with numbers taped to their cheap fabric. A couple of people gaggled in the center lane dividing the cubicles. One wore a Federal Bureau of Metahuman Affairs windbreaker.
A voice cut through the ambient chatter like an overused sawblade. “If you haven’t registered yet, get over to the desk. Anyone not signed up in five minutes won’t be processed.”
Clay scurried around the milling people in the foyer and stopped in front of the FBMA agent who made the announcement. She was large enough the metal chair she sat on disappeared beneath her, and her hair was pulled back into a bun so severe Clay wondered if she summarily executed any stray strands that escaped.
“Name,” she stated, less a question than a statement indicating she didn’t care about the answer.
Clay leaned across the table. “Which one?” he whispered.
The agent stared at him. “No one cares about your muppet name. Birth names only and your social security number.”
Clay looked over his shoulder at the small crowd, then leaned a little closer. The agent didn’t flinch. “But what if someone hears it and my secret identify is blown?”
She took his concern with the level of indifference only a lifetime of government service could foster. “Kid, I woke up at three this morning so I could drive two hours out here to set this up. If there’s a villain in this room, it’s whoever didn’t restock the instant coffee. Put your information down or leave.”
Clay pursed his lips, then grabbed a pen off the table and started filling out the form. He saved his name for last and covered it with his hand as he wrote. The agent sighed.
“Go wait with the rest of them,” she said, making a point of putting his form on top of the small stack to her right. “We’ll start soon.”
Clay considered the group of people waiting for the registration to start, then opted to stand off to the side. They’re the competition, he thought to himself. Everyone knew the teams like the Alliance only took the best of the best. The rest got delegated to the Regionals. Or worse—the Reserves.
A few minutes of people watching made him feel better about his odds. Most of the Metas in attendance kept their abilities under wraps, but a few put on little displays. Clay thought they capped out at tier four abilities, maybe tier three if the testers felt generous.
One young girl struggled to keep a sputtering flame lit in her cupped hands. A pair of twins clearly had some sort of telekinesis they used to keep a stapler hovering in the air. The most unique one he saw was a man well into his golden years putting on a show with tiny clouds he formed into shapes. If anyone had abilities that might qualify as tier one, they weren’t advertising them.
“Please do not be dumb enough to use any unregistered abilities at an FBMA function,” the agent said. The young girl’s flame went out with a loud bang and the agent closed her eyes, visibly counting to ten.
“Last call for any stragglers,” the agent continued, opening her eyes. “Anyone else want to sign up?” She waited for a few seconds, then plowed on. “Alright, gather in. We have a few admin bits to cover before we start testing.”
Clay joined the other Metas in a rough semi-circle around the agent. Her coworker with the FBMA windbreaker rolled a TV on a stand next to her and hooked it up to a laptop on the table.
“Thanks, Christian,” she said. “Any ESL folks here? People who’d prefer the legal stuff in a language other than English?” A few hands went up. “Head off with Christian, he’ll get you sorted.” The windbreaker agent smiled and waved, then coaxed a few Metas like lost sheep back towards the cubicles.
The lead agent turned her gaze back on the remaining Metas. “We do that for a reason. What follows is your last chance to step back from the legal obligations that will follow if you choose to continue, and we make sure to cross every T and dot every I so anyone who claims they didn’t know gets laughed out of the courthouse.” She hooked a thumb at the TV, now displaying the faded gray triangle of a play symbol. “After the intro fluff, this video is going to articulate a choice you have to make. You will have five minutes to make your choice, which I will time to the second. If you choose to bow out, no harm, no foul. You can always come back at a future registration if you change your mind.
“If you choose to move on, though, that’s it—you’re in the system whether you want to pull out or not. I cannot stress this enough: this choice is irreversible. Does everyone understand?”
Clay nodded along with the rest of them. It had been hammered into everyone’s head from an early age that once you signed on with the FBMA as a Meta, you were in until your term was up.
“Good,” the agent said. “Now pay attention.” She tapped a button on the laptop and the TV screen went black.
A chorus of horns played out of the speakers, then an image of the American flag waving in the wind came onto the screen. Someone snorted a laugh and someone else shushed them. The FBMA logo flashed on the screen, followed by the horns fading as a narrator took over.
“Citizens of the United States, thank you for your attendance today. Your country is grateful for your desire to serve. As Metahumans, you have been gifted with abilities beyond those of the rest of humanity. To take those gifts and help others is a noble calling, and your fellow countrymen salute you for taking this step.”
The flag and logo disappeared, replaced by a rotating montage of pictures at least fifteen years old, based on the animation style and the subjects of the photographs. “For as long as there have been Metahumans, there have been those willing to use their abilities for the good of others. Heroes from every walk of life, reaching out with a helping hand to lift up the downtrodden.
“But just as there are those who do good, there are those who use their abilities to hurt others. Villains put themselves above everyone else, often at the cost of lives.”
An antiquated who’s who of villains played across the screen, most of whom had been captured or killed years ago. By sheer coincidence, the video focused in on one who remained at large, though he hadn’t been seen in decades.
“Villains like Abyss, whose actions have caused billions of dollars in damage and thousands of deaths. If not for the brave efforts of Metahumans like Captain Avalanche and the Alliance, the damage such villains inflicted would be immeasurable.”
Grainy footage from the New Years Eve fight between Abyss and Avalanche played out, a titanic struggle between two of the most powerful Metas of the modern age. Clay felt chills as he pictured himself in Avalanche’s place, trading blows with the villain.
“Your country—no, this world needs heroes to stand against those who would do it harm. Perhaps the next Captain Avalanche is in this room, ready to take on that responsibility.” Clay puffed up a little. “But help comes in many forms, each as valuable as the rest.”
The fight footage finished, replaced with the logo of the FBMA at the top of a blank screen. “In response to a rising tide of Metahuman-imposed violence, Congress passed the Metahuman Act in 1921, establishing the Federal Bureau of Metahuman Affairs. Our mission: to organize, train, and equip America’s Metahumans for the betterment of all.” The mission statement flashed onto the screen. “The agents assisting you today work hard to accomplish that goal. They are all heroes.”
Clay looked at the agent standing next to the TV with her arms folded. She looked bored enough by the proceedings Clay wasn’t sure if she was conscious.
Three lines extended down from the FBMA logo before they attached to new logos. “As part of its duties, the FBMA directs the efforts of the three Tier One Metahuman Organizational Constructs: the Foundation, the Visionaries, and the Alliance.” Each logo expanded as the narrator mentioned its organization’s name.
“The Foundation focuses on the well-being of citizens during a crisis, with humanitarian assistance and disaster relief efforts as its core competencies.” Clips of Metas wearing the orange Foundation uniforms scrolled across the screen as they used their powers to help in the aftermath of hurricanes, fires, and villain attacks,
“The Visionaries use their unique skills to look towards the future, bringing it closer with every advancement.” The footage shifted to men and women in a variety of laboratory or industrial settings. Clay recognized some of the cutting edge tech of fifteen years prior from equipment sitting on his parent’s kitchen sink.
“And finally, the Alliance stands as America’s shield against Metahumans who use their gifts with criminal intent.”
Clay’s heart raced as he watched the highlight reel of Alliance members fighting the forces of evil. He was so close to being a part of that world now, the one he had dreamed about for as long as he could remember.
“While these three organizations handle the most pressing emergencies,” the narrator continued, “they could not do their work without the tremendous support from the Tier Two Metahuman Organization Constructs aligned to functional groups or different regions of the country. This allows for specialization, like the Hermes Collective of flyers, or the San Francisco Rumblers earthquake response team.
“Of course, no discussion of Metahuman contribution to national security and prosperity is complete without mentioning the Metahuman Auxiliary Reserves, America’s Tier Three Metahuman Organizational Constructs.”
Clay rolled his eyes. Everyone knew the Reserves are where the Metas without real powers got stashed away. They did things like tell civilians to back away from barricades while the real heroes did the work.
“To serve at any level is a great honor,” the narrator said, “but with honor comes responsibility. Your registration session proctor will now hand out a form for your signature.” The FBMA agent took a stack of papers off the TV stand and started passing them to the waiting Metas. “This is your official Federal Registration of Metahuman Capabilities form. By signing it, you are registering your abilities with the FBMA and volunteering your services for a period of no less than ten years.”
The agent walked past and handed Clay a form without looking at him. He glanced at it, a little disappointed with its plainness given its role in his origin story.
“As a reminder, federal law prohibits Metahumans from using their abilities outside of their home unless they have registered with the FBMA. Failing to abide by this law will result in fines and sentencing proportional to the damage caused, with minimum sentencing requirements of ten years.”
There’s the rub, Clay thought to himself. The Feds got ten years from you either way, so most Metas chose to sign up for their little tour of duty without much fuss.
“Most importantly,” the narrator said, “the FBMA will determine your assignment and it is non-negotiable. While Metahumans may submit their preference, allocations are determined by the needs of the FBMA.
“Your proctor will now give you five minutes to make your decision. If you decide against registering, please turn your blank form into your proctor and enjoy the rest of your day. If you choose to proceed, please wait until the five minutes have elapsed to turn in your form. Again, thank you for your service.”
The video trailed off with another patriotic fanfare, complete with the same flag waving footage from before.
“Timer starts now,” the FBMA agent said, clicking a stopwatch with fingers the size of sausages. “If you’re out, come let me know.”
A couple of Metas worked through the small crowd and turned their blank forms in. Clay shook his head and filled his out, signing it with a flourish he’d been practicing for future autographs. He spent the remainder of time scoping out the competition.
As he convinced himself his biggest threat was the old lady crocheting in the corner, the agent raised a hand. “Five, four, three, two, one, time.” She lowered her hand and pushed the TV stand away from the table. “Welcome to the FBMA. Turn in your forms here, then wait for us to call you back to an inspection area.” She gave a vague wave towards the cubicles taking up the floorspace behind her. “An FBMA agent will assess your powers and input the results into a Visionary-developed system for assignment to the Tier One, Two, or Three level. We’ll provide results after all testing is complete. Get moving.”
Clay rushed up and slapped his form down on the table first, right in front of the agent. Her eyes drifted down to the form, then back up to Clay. “I take it you’re ready, then.”
He grinned. “I was born ready.”
*** *** ***
Clay sat on the parking lot curb with his head hanging between his knees, gripping an envelope between two dangling fingers.
He heard a vehicle roll up, then come to a stop. The door on the opposite side opened up, then gentle footfalls worked their way toward him.
“Clay?” his mom asked. “Are you alright?”
Clay grunted and kept staring at the asphalt.
His mom waited for a moment, then sat down next to him on the curb. “What happened, honey?”
He grumbled something incoherent.
She put her arm around him and gave him a quick squeeze. “That bad, huh?”
Clay looked up at her, his eyes haunted. “I set the tester on fire.”
His mom blinked. “The test?”
“The tester,” Clay repeated. He already knew that memory would forever lurk in his subconscious, waiting to bubble towards the surface. Decades from now, as he tried to sleep, it would strike. He’d lie there alone, wallowing in shame and staring at the ceiling as it judged him for his every failure in life.
“Oh,” she said. She rubbed his back a little. “That doesn’t sound good. Is everyone ok?”
“One of the other Metas being tested had healing abilities,” Clay said. “The lead agent had her follow me around.” She impressed the FBMA team so much with her ability to rapidly assess and triage wounds of a startling variety, they offered her a position with the Alliance on the spot.
“I’m sorry, Clay,” his mom said, pulling him into a hug. They sat there together for a moment in silence. Clay appreciated her not forcing him to relive all of the last few excruciating hours. He had no idea what he was going to tell his grandma.
“What’s that?” his mom asked, pointing at the envelope in Clay’s hand.
“The next ten years of my life.” He lifted it up and stared at the nondescript harbinger of his fate. “I haven’t been able to force myself to open it.”
“Do you want me to?”
He handed it over to her without a word.
His mom ripped the side of the envelope open and slide a few sheets of paper out, flicking the first one open and scanning it. “This one is labeled ‘Assessment of Metahuman Abilities’ and has a few charts on it.” She paused, then said with a little more excitement, “They say you have four tier one abilities!”
Clay lifted his head, eyes widening. The FBMA rated ability strength on a one through five-tiered scale, with one as the high end. The fact he scored so high was a good sign. Maybe there was hope after all. “What did they rate my control?”
“Hmm, control, control…” She flipped through a few more pages. “Ah! Here it is. You got a—” She cut off abruptly.
“What?” Clay said, his hope dangling by a thread. “Why’d you stop? What did I get?”
She winced. “Tier five.”
Clay dropped his head back down between his knees and moaned. He heard his mom rustling through a few more pages before stopping.
“At least you’ll be doing your FBMA service close to home,” she said.
Dread filled his stomach. There were no Alliance outposts near where they lived. “With the Foundation or the Visionaries?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“The regionals, then, right?” he continued, voice desperate.
Instead of answering, she handed over the last sheet of paper to him. Clay took it and read the couple of lines on it several times, refusing to process the information.
“You have been assigned to the local chapter of the Metahuman Auxiliary Reserves, Western Division, California Sub-Division 13,” he said, his voice monotone.
“I’m in the Reserves.”
Updated on October 27, 2023
Introducing The Reserves
Salutations, well met, and alternative third greeting! I’m excited to announce that soon these Wanderings will occasionally be graced by an episodic fictional story told by yours truly. While I’ll still be working my novels offline, I’ve always appreciated the authors bold enough (and crazy enough) to publish stories directly online. To that end, please allow me to introduce The Reserves.
Clay has always dreamed of joining the heroes of the world that battle the forces of evil in high-definition glory. When his chance comes to make the cut, though, he blows it. Now stuck in a ten-year commitment to the backbench civil hero reserves, he is up against his worst nightmare—obscurity. Clay will have to find a way to make his dream a reality in circumstances he never imagined and situations that draw a line between what society deems as a hero versus what is truly heroic.
There’s the blurb! If it’s something that catches your eye, I hope you’ll join me on this journey where both Clay and I will learn a lot. The plan is for at least one installment a month, so stay tuned for the first round to come soon. Welcome to the Reserves!
Posted on October 8, 2023
We Have No Songs for Great Halls and Evil Times
The past few weeks have been heartbreaking. Russia continues its unjust invasion of Ukraine, purposefully targeting civilians in an effort to break the Ukrainian’s spirit. Azerbaijan launched another attack against Armenia. And just last night, Hamas crossed from Gaza into Israeli territory en masse to murder and abduct civilians.
These are only the events that made significant news—we cannot and should not forget about the tragedies occurring in Sudan, Syria, North Korea, Xinjiang, Afghanistan, Myanmar, Haiti, Somalia, Mexico, Ethiopia, and everywhere else the scourges of conflict and oppression leads to human suffering. The world appears to be on fire, and that doesn’t even include the literal fires and storms brought on by climate change.
In the midst of this, one of the two political parties of the United States has decided to self-immolate. Regardless of your thoughts on what the U.S. provides for the world, it is inarguable that decisions made by the U.S. have significant ramifications on the global stage. To have one portion of its government crippled at this time could not have happened at a worse time had our adversaries planned it.
There is a line from the Lord of the Rings that comes to mind. Pippin, speaking with the Steward of Gondor, says, “We have no songs fit for great halls and evil times.” Our great hall of the House of Representatives sits empty and paralyzed. Evil men and women make decisions born out of their pride that inflict untold suffering on millions of their brothers and sisters. It is hard to find the words to think about these times, let alone sing for them.
In the Lord of the Rings movie, the quote I mention ends with the Steward making the comment “And why should your songs be unfit for my halls?” In the book, however, he continues:
“We who have lived long under the Shadow may surely listen to echoes from a land untroubled by it? Then we may feel that our vigil was not fruitless, though it may have been thankless.”
Though our land is not untouched by troubles, they are entirely self-inflicted. The cost of that is weighed in our own peace, stability, and yes, lives, but it is also born by those abroad that might have been saved had the power hungry and tyrannical not felt so emboldened.
There are those that think America should cease its vigil. More often than not, those thoughts are fueled by populist rage rather than logic, a shortsighted prioritization designed around campaign fundraising instead of actual statesmanship and strategy. But America—with all its faults and blemishes—has the potential to do so much for so many across the world.
I believe that Americans in their hearts wish for their neighbors to be well. I believe that given the chance and freed from the steady drip feed of hatred and division so carefully delivered by algorithms and manipulators, service to others would become the norm instead of the exception. Perhaps I am naïve. But that is the world I wish to live in, so it is the one I will set as my standard.
I’ll finish with another Lord of the Rings quote, this time from the movie. After a significant setback, Frodo asks his companion Sam what they are holding onto to keep going forward. Sam replies, “That there’s some good in this world, Mr Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”
Fight for that good today. Fight for it tomorrow, and the day after, and every day you can until you have no days left. But most importantly, recognize that we only make progress in that fight through serving others. Rage, spite, and pride give us Hamas and Putin. There is no victory down that path, only pain. Fight with service, humility, and charity. It’s when we reach out to others that we become strong, and the world needs that strength now.
Posted on September 24, 2023
Pun Times
There are times when you have nothing to add to an already perfect moment. When you get to sit back and appreciate the spectacle before you, a simple audience member enjoying a work of art. Today, I had that moment. Today, I watched my wife embrace her inner corn and unleash a pun for the ages.
I enjoy making my wife roll her eyes with corny humor. It is the way of things—I have a son to raise, after all. Generally, the puns in our house travel in a strictly one-way direction. But earlier this week, my wife took me be surprise when she unveiled a pun of her own making that rivals anything I have ever come up with.
Being the kind soul she is, she provided a big selection of s’more themed items for her coworkers. But her presenting the idea to me is where I saw her true greatness. Brace yourself: she called it the s’mores-gasbord.
I know, right? It’s a close call on if I was prouder of her in that moment or our son when he took his first steps.
That, however, was not the moment of perfection. No, that came later. My wife and her mother videochat on a weekly basis because they have a wonderful relationship and we live in an era where technology is basically wizardry. I mention this because it allowed us to witness her mother’s reaction when my wife revealed her true punistry.
To say her mother’s reaction was exquisite does not do it justice. Not since Caeser uttered the words, “Et tu, Brute?” has there been such a palpable sense of betrayal. This poor woman has raised four sons and is no stranger to the pun. Her daughter had been an oasis of standards in a storm of corn, but the power of the pun cannot be denied.
She came. She saw. She conquered.
I Love her so much.
Updated on September 11, 2023
On the Ingratitude of Birds
As has been remarked upon by literally every parent, having a child changes things. In this case, it resulted in a child’s obsession, a wall of chickens, and my growing resentment towards ungrateful birds.
My son loves birds. I nurtured this feeling as I once shared his fondness. Growing up, I had a cockatiel named Bird that screeched sweet songs to the entire family at all hours of the day. As a young boy, this was a wonderful situation that brought me great amusement. So of course, I wanted to shepherd my son’s journey down a similar path.
Birds, though, have the gift of flight. Toddlers, thankfully, do not. This made it difficult for him to observe his avian friends, as his excited shrieking and flailing sprints towards them has a 100% success rate at scaring them away. What he needed was a way to observe them from inside the house. A station of sorts for the birds to alight upon, where he could behold their majesty without instilling panic in their little hearts.
He needed a bird feeder.
Into the car we went, off to the local Petco whose website assured me had multiple bird feeders in stock. Even better, this Petco also has cats from the local adoption agency (cats being my son’s favorite creature, because I’m raising him right). We would find much joy and merriment there, I figured, then return home to settle in for an afternoon of bird watching.
Alas, it was not to be. The cat area sat as empty as my hopes soon came to be, and the promised bird feeders failed to materialize. We wandered the aisles in a forlorn stupor, shocked that a corporate behemoth would have the audacity to lie to its customers. I did, anyways—my son burbled with excitement every time he saw a package of cat food with a feline pictured on it.
Many would shrug their shoulders at this point and head home, but not I. I am a good father, and like all good fathers, the appropriate course of action was to take my 15-month son to the back corner of a sketchy looking strip mall to what Google maps assured me was a vendor of fine bird feeders.
We couldn’t see what awaited us at the facility as it sat behind a decrepit stairwell and the chain link fence that kept the monster contained in The Sandlot. But what we couldn’t see, we could certainly hear—a cacophony of bird sounds. It was as though a Taiwanese parliamentary brawl had erupted just around the corner, but with words replaced by bird noises. And legislators with birds. Really, it was nothing like that, but I was excited to see it nonetheless.
Yet when we rounded the corner, what we saw instead was an entire wall of chickens. Dozens of them, stacked up in neat little rows, staring right back at us. If you’ve never felt the gaze of a hundred chickens, I assure you that it is an experience worth noting. It carries a palpable weight, as if to say, “Had this meeting occurred 80 million years ago, the roles of diner and dinner would be forcibly reversed.”
Once past the poultry descendants of mightier beings, we entered the store itself. A quick glance revealed feed options for a variety of farm animals, a triplet of workers confused to see a toddler in their place of business, and a lack of bird feeders.
One of the workers asked what they could help me with in the tones of someone trying to calm a spooked animal, which I appreciated. I asked if they carried bird feeders, to which they asked if I meant for chickens (of which they had a startingly wide variety). Once we clarified I meant wild birds, one of the workers perked up.
“Yeah!” he said, my new hero striding forward to save the day. “I think we’ve had these hanging here for three years now.”
Undeterred by the underwhelming sales pitch, my son and I waited for our hero to retrieve the Grail of our quest. He then proceeded to knock the bird feeder off a ceiling hook with a stick. “Ten bucks,” the modern Sir Lancelot said, handing over the cheap plastic.
Bird feeder and five pounds of bird seed in hand, we returned home in triumph. My son did his happy toddler dance as we hung it up right outside his favorite window. The stage was set for hours of happy birdwatching, now all we had to do was wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
Three days have passed, and not a single winged creature has taken us up on this generous offer of free food. I’d think we had entered a birdpocolypse if not for the hundreds of other birds I’ve seen flying around our house. They appear content with being everywhere except for where the birdfeeder sits, to include slamming headfirst into the very window the birdfeeder sits in front of.
On day one, I thought perhaps our birds needed time to adjust. There are plenty of neighborhood cats, after all—can I blame them for wanting to scope out the situation to make sure it isn’t a trap?
On day two, I thought perhaps our birds are just stupid. Their cranial capacity would struggle to contain a moderately sized peanut, after all—can I blame them for their inability to process higher order thoughts like my generosity?
Sitting here on day three, staring out the window near my desk at the still-unused bird feeder, I now have a different theory.
These birds are spiteful. They see my offer, this olive branch of kindness in exchange for nothing more than their presence at the feeder to fill a young life with joy, and they scoff. They laugh at my naiveite, scorning both my food and offer of shelter with their beaks in the air. I knew the animal world was cruel, but this…this is too much.
I am a creature of the internet, so I have turned to Google for advice on how to proceed. The first result? “Be patient.”
Birds, man.
Posted on August 27, 2023
Someday
Tom Cruise is apparently this week’s muse. My initial idea for today’s Wandering was to review the latest Mission Impossible movie. When I talked through it with my wife, though, the conversation strayed into territory covered by a separate Cruise movie—Knight and Day. In it, Cruise’s character makes the following comment: “Someday. That’s a dangerous word. It’s really just a code for ‘never’.” Someday has been on my mind a lot, lately.
There’s nothing particularly deep about either that quote or the movie it comes from. You’d be tempted to write it off as another teen exploring the depths of their shallow angst. But I think we’re too quick to dismiss simple concepts as somehow beneath us. It’s as if we’re so desperate to appear wise and mature that we automatically scoff at the simple clichés of youth. Yet we forget that some of the most impressive figures in history have praised the value of simplicity. Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Newton, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Bruce Lee—all people who led lives steeped in excellence with a fixation on simplicity. Sometimes, what we need most is a simple truth.
Someday hovers in the no-man’s land between a wish and a goal. We use it when we let ourselves taste the anticipation of an accomplishment, but refuse to put in the effort required to earn it. Someday I’ll travel to that exotic locale. Someday I’ll get that promotion. Someday I’ll write that book.
But not today. Never today, because today has challenges and obstacles too numerous to count. Today we are burdened with the reality of need instead of the hope of want. When faced with today, we take whatever comfort we can in the ethereal nature of someday.
I see this in myself. There’s a calligraphy pen set next to my computer that remains virtually untouched, an editing checklist for my novel stalled at the halfway point, and a host of other concepts and desires waiting for their someday. As long as they have that wisp of an anchor to cling to, I can pretend that they are a part of me. My identity claims them as future accomplishments, regardless of how much time goes into achieving them. After all, someday I will.
Let us all strive to be a bit more like Tom Cruise this week. Trade in your hundreds of translucent somedays for the heft and realism of one solid today. Who knows—maybe someday it’ll pay off.
Posted on August 13, 2023
Handicaps and Flaws
Generally speaking, interesting characters have to overcome obstacles. That’s why Superman bores me. It’s hard for the most powerful being around to face challenges that don’t immediately turn absurd. Something writers think about when developing those characters is whether an internal obstacle is a flaw or a handicap. Don’t confuse the two—a flaw can stem from a handicap, but a handicap itself is never a flaw. Let me explain.
Handicaps are limitations that a character has no choice in, but likely has to work around in pursuit of their goals. Examples include paralysis, mental illnesses, loss of limbs, etc. Flaws, however, are personal defects fully within the character’s ability to change. Examples here are rudeness, ignorance, pridefulness, etc. So when I say a flaw can stem from a handicap, think of Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump. After losing his legs, the good Lieutenant became bitter and unpleasant. The flaw was not that he lost his legs, it was his new outlook based on that event. We like him as a character because with Gump’s help, he overcame that flaw and got a new lease on life shrimping with his friend.
This subject hit closer to home for me this weekend as I considered my own minor handicap. I have relatively significant motion sickness, ranging from unpleasant to debilitating depending on the activity. This handicap has dogged me my entire life. My dad likes to tell stories about how as a child, I’d consistently vomit multiple times whenever we took extended car trips to visit family. That’s the reason I’m the primary driver in my family—my wife knows I’m still liable to get sick if I’m in the passenger seat.
It goes far beyond carsickness, of course. My motion sickness is responsible for me having to abandon my first career choice in the military as a pilot (they tend to frown on projectile vomiting at the controls). It’s also the reason I haven’t pursued a slew of activities that I love to do. That list contains the following: skydiving, jet skiing, paragliding, SCUBA, surfing, roller coasters, and literally anything involving a boat. As of this week, I can now add kiteboarding and virtual reality to that list.
It’s a hard thing to desperately want to do something while knowing your body will make you miserable if you try it. Yes, I recognize that my handicap isn’t nearly as traumatic or restricting as many others. But it is an impairment that restricts me from a host of different actions that I would otherwise do, so it has an impact on my life and those around me.
And please, no helpful suggestions of “just take Dramamine!” Believe me, I’ve tried. When you’re curled up on the floor of your hotel room on your birthday praying for the room to stop spinning hours after your latest failed boat excursion while using prescription-strength anti-nausea patches, you lose a little bit of faith in medicine’s ability to assist.
Handicaps are what they are, and usually there’s no way to fix them. Flaws, though, that we can work on. This is where my thoughts went this week as I scratched another two activities off my list of potential hobbies. Every time something like this happens, I tend to sink into a funk. Wallowing in self-pity over my inner ear issues accomplishes nothing, but I still give it a try just in case. Thus, my flaw comes to the surface.
Does the situation suck? Undoubtably. Does that mean I have to act like it does? Absolutely not. There’s a difference between acknowledging the reality of a situation and allowing it to gain control over your attitude. The former is required to regain forward momentum and plan effectively. The latter bogs you down in a morass that will restrict your every thought and movement until it becomes as crippling as the handicap itself. One enlightens and emboldens, the other restricts and consumes.
I’m done letting it consume me.
Posted on July 30, 2023
Spirit and Letter: Israel in Crisis
“Israel in Crisis” has led many headlines over the years. Rarely, though, has it been so self-inflicted. I spent a considerable amount of time in Israel across a dozen-plus trips over four years. My Israeli counterparts and I worked hand-in-hand that entire time to help prevent indiscriminate violence, work I am still proud of today. The news from Israel over the past week has been heartbreaking to me on a personal level. Because a few men have chosen to pursue power by favoring the letter of the law over the spirit of the law, one of the few functioning democracies in the region is on the verge of collapse.
For those unaware, the crisis boils down to this: the Israeli Knesset (their parliament) just passed a law saying they can ignore Israel’s supreme court. While technically there is no law saying they can’t do this, the spirit of the law clearly says otherwise. Functionally, there is now no check on the ruling coalition’s power. They could, for example, pass a law with a simple majority saying all elections are indefinitely postponed. Assuming the ruling coalition maintained that position, the only way to overturn it would be through protest or violence. Given that the last six months of protests didn’t stop Prime Minister Netanyahu from taking this step, prospects for that first path appear dark.
The opposition has already challenged the new law, and there is zero chance the supreme court will not take up the case. I would say the odds are high that they find the new law unreasonable and strike it down. Netanyahu has refused to say whether he would accept such a ruling. Thus, a crisis ensues: who is correct? Depending on where certain elements of society fall—the police, the security services, the military, etc.—one side or the other will prevail. And unfortunately, the party that better commands the state’s monopoly on force tends to triumph in situations like this.
The situation is far more complex than a few paragraphs can relay, and the situation will likely shift prior to the supreme court’s decision and Netanyahu’s reaction. While it may seem like a problem for “over there” instead of at home, any action that tilts the global attitude towards authoritarianism is one that should concern anyone who values their freedom. Time will tell if this is the final crisis of Israel as we know it.
Posted on July 17, 2023
Hawaiian Studs
Hawaii is many things. Island paradise, tourist destination, and one of the most welcoming cultures around? Without a doubt. One thing it is not, however, is a mecca for standardized construction practices.
My son—bless his heart—hasn’t met a staircase he doesn’t immediately want to fling himself off of at top speed. You’d think given he just learned to walk two months ago, that speed would be limited. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. He’s a sprinting prodigy, especially when you look away for half a heartbeat. Enter the baby gate. With plastic and nylon, I will constrain his kamikaze runs to flat terrain. But given his proclivity toward mixing mass and inertia, a pressure gate ain’t gonna cut it. We went all in for the kind you screw into the wall, several inches of hard steel to hold the line against the rampaging toddler.
The thing about screws, though, is they need to screw into something. Not a problem, I thought. I’ve got a wooden post on one side, and the corner of a wall on the other. Surely, that corner has a stud to drill into. Surely, the builders of this 1989 home didn’t create an open cavity out of drywall paneling with no support. Surely, such madness only exists for those who have spiders in their heads.
Alas, seven drilled holes later and nothing but a dusting of drywall dandruff to show for my efforts. My head spiders are twitching.
I was so flummoxed by the situation, I called my dad—a man with significantly more experience being useful than I do. He looked at it through the video, asked a few questions, then concluded that the original builders must have been insane. While that made me feel better, it didn’t do anything to resolve the Evel Knievel toddler situation. So now I have to add a Home Depot trip this week to go grab a stud finder since my wife is out of town (heyo!).
I can’t blame the construction workers, though. With how many termites this island has, any construction out of wood is living on borrowed time anyways.
