Zuzu’s Petals

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George Bailey, the regular-guy hero of Bedford Falls, New York, as portrayed by James Stewart in Frank Capra’s 1946 movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” is one of my role models. I know I’m not alone in this. While I never saved my little brother from drowning (I don’t have one) and I’ve never been known for distributing cash among my neighbors (but I would if I could), I’ve always admired how George was able to balance the big dreams of what he thought his life should have been with the reality of what it was. And how, by his actions, he intuitively made his little world, the one he privately complained of being “stuck” in,  a better place for himself and for everybody around him. It would be ridiculous of me to suggest that I’ve had anywhere close to the same effect on my little world as George had on his, but I’ll tell you what: I’ve done no harm, and like George, I’ve been blessed in having made a lot of friends around town, though I hope I never have to ask them for $8000, ’cause that would be awkward.

And of course, everyone knows that George never leaves Bedford Falls. And me, I have found myself as an AARP-eligible adult landed on a comfy couch right here on the same 60 x 100 plot of land in Valley Stream, Long Island that I started out on 54 and a half years ago. I have a beautiful, funny, successfully employed wife and a smart, good-looking son with who is finding his way through adolescence pretty well despite a school system and social system totally unsuited to his particular genius (which is fixing every single mechanical thing on the planet that has broken). I have a good job, a nice little house, more toys and diversions that I ever have time to get around to (like this blog). I have a big happy yellow lab who is my personal ambassador to the human race and three cats for entertainment and interesting conversation.

Just like George Bailey, I could have done a whole lot worse. I’ve really had a wonderful life and I have no intention of throwing it all away. But I also have no intention of letting it be taken away from me piece by piece by the Forces of Pottersville, at least not without a fight. This is me fighting.

I first saw, “It’s a Wonderful Life” when I was about 14 in 1977, around the time the 1946 movie became public domain and Channel 11 in New York would show it over and over before Christmas. I started telling everyone in my family and anyone who would listen that they had to see this movie. I dare say I was in on the ground floor of the revival that made it Everybody’s Favorite Christmas Movie. And I dare say I do a dead-on Jimmy Stewart impersonation, which I promise I’ll do for you when I branch out into podcasting. I was immediately charmed by the story, the town of Bedford Falls and George Bailey’s character. And I guess the lesson that George learns from his nightmare in Pottersville became part of the unshakable truths that I’ve built my value system on: Success has nothing to do with money or career status and everything to do with the cumulative effects of being a good person and trying to do the right thing. I don’t know if George had anything to do with me never moving more than twenty miles away from where I was born, but that’s entirely possible.

George had his chances to get out of Bedford falls (‘and see the world!”), but he realized early on that the big dreams he had a young man were not as important as being a good guy, which is the most important thing of all. He didn’t necessarily want to be where he was, but until Uncle Billy handed Mr. Potter an envelope with $8000 in it, he didn’t take that dissatisfaction and frustration out on anybody around him. He treated people the way you should treat people. Despite his desire to “shake the dust of this crummy little town off my feet,” George took comfort in people and places and protocols that had remained the same in Bedford Falls throughout his life. He knew where he stood with everybody and everybody knew where they stood with him. Me, too.

George could’ve done something more with his life than holding together the Bailey Building and Loan. (It’s always presented with a pejorative: “Broken down”, “measly”, “penny-ante”). I probably could have been something “more” than a junior high school English teacher if I had applied myself a little more as a younger guy. Before I started phoning it in and getting crappy grades in high school (just like my beloved Dude does now, bless his heart), I was supposed to write great things or be a famous something or other. By the time I was going to Queens College at night to cobble together the credits for an English BA, those dreams of writing novels, or sitcoms in Hollywood, or being a famous FM disc jockey were all pretty much dead, and after two years in the production department at New York Magazine, finding out how unpleasant life could potentially be in the editorial department, I got my master’s and went into teaching ’cause I knew I’d be good at it and I could finally get out of my parent’s house. Those aren’t noble reasons to enter my profession, I’ll admit. But you know what? I followed in my mother’s footsteps, and I’ve helped thousands of kids learn to read, write and think a little better and a little deeper in my “shabby little office” for over 23 years.

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So George and I find ourselves with something else in common: Our professional lives are a tribute to a parent that instilled a sense of values and beliefs in us that neither one of us could ultimately escape from, simply because it made so much sense. George keeps the Bailey Building and Loan going so people have someplace to go without crawling to Potter. I ultimately decided teaching was a better use of my life  than helping to produce a magazine that would be thrown away when the next one came out (though it’s a mostly insane existence from September to June every year, which my archives will tell you doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for blogging).

Plus, I couldn’t help noticing that some of the people who wrote this magazine were terribly impressed with themselves and their Manhattan lifestyles. I spent Sundays waxing floors with a friend of mine from Valley Stream because I wasn’t making enough money. That friend was smarter, funnier and more original than anyone at New York Magazine, but they would never understand why. They wouldn’t get him. In the end, I needed to be with real people. To “fritter my life away playing nursemaid to a bunch of garlic eaters.” as Mr. Potter puts it to George. It was good enough for my mother, and it’s been good enough for me. And I love garlic.

And of course, when not at work, when it’s safe to speak my mind, I continue another one of my mother’s traditions (besides an addiction to Jeopardy, which she actually got from me, and blasting WQXR Classical in the kitchen while cooking dinner, which my Bose Soundtouch has taken to a whole other level, thank you Trisha): The tradition of Good Old-Fashioned Democratic, Bleeding-Heart Liberal Politics.

Growing up, I soaked up both of my parents complaints about that Crook Nixon in the 70’s and that Buffoon Cowboy Reagan in the 80’s. I saw the damage they did, (and later felt that damage more acutely as an adult while W. wrecked the country in the 2000’s). By virtue of working in the New York City high schools, my parents were immersed in diversity before it was even close to a thing. They believed that without labor unions, “the bastards” would rob you blind. They took their children to the Adirondacks and grew flowers and vegetables in the backyard and studied the comings and goings of the ducks on the creek and thus turned us all into environmentalists, around the time it was becoming a thing. My parents always rooted for the underdog and they despised guns and the abuse of power. They were devout, religious catholics who practiced their faith in their lives and knew Billy Graham and the evangelists were full of shit.

Mom was more vocal about all this, as she was about everything. My dad was more of a “do as I do” guy. But I’ll tell you what: If my mother, Joan Marie Duffy, were alive today, she’d be screaming bloody murder about what’s going on in this country. She’d be a voice of Resistance on Twitter, probably with a couple of thousand followers, probably using the expletive “fuck” in all it’s forms to comment on the disgusting developments of the past year. She can’t so I do. They’ll vote with Potter otherwise.

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Because as we all know now, this is what happened: The GOP knew Trump was disgusting, and they pretended to complain about him at the start of the primaries but they knew that their primary voting base was equally disgusting, and the more primaries he won, the less they complained (and the more free air time he got on cable news for the Hitler rallies). And the more disgusting things he said, the more the people in this country who had already been thrown into their own Pottersville Of The Mind loved him for it.

A lot has been said and written about the people and the vibe in the Nightmare Pottersville of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” (For example, the friend who I used to wax floors with thought it seemed like a lot more fun). One has to admit, Capra’s vision of dystopia is a bit over the top, from the amphetamine-driven boogie-woogie piano player in Nick’s Bar to the over-capacity dance halls on Main Street to Burt the cop opening fire into a crowd. I personally always found it amusing that there even was a Pottersville Public Library, never mind the fact that Mary Hatch was an old maid who was just about to close it down. I think it’s more likely that the town council, all in Mr. Potter’s back pocket, probably would have closed it as part of an austerity budget designed to line their own pockets. 

But I think that the point Capra was trying to illustrate with all this silliness was simply this: The rich assholes pit everyone against each other. People lose trust. They turn on their neighbors. They come to believe that not giving a shit is much easier, which it is, and why make the effort to make your town or your country better if those rich assholes are pulling all the strings? Fuck ’em all. Nothing matters. Just lay down a few bucks for some mindless entertainment, get shitfaced and forget about how much better your life could actually be if you got educated and exercised your First Amendment rights, ’cause it ain’t never gonna happen, bub. You’re just too lazy, and they’ve got you by the balls.

Nick the Bartender showed compassion for George Bailey as he breaks down on the bar stool. Nick the Boss is the twisted dictator of his own little band of small-time assholes, a big fish in a toxic pond of deplorables who gets off on spraying Mr. Gower in the face with a seltzer bottle, ostensibly because Mr. Gower deserved it, even though he’s obviously paid his debt to society and is a threat to no one in his current condition. He has no patience for Clarence the Angel, even after George suggests he has a mental disability. If you’re different in Pottersville, you get thrown out on your ass in the snow.

 

 

And Mary Hatch? Why is she an old maid? Capra is suggesting that it’s because there weren’t enough decent people left in Pottersville. She couldn’t find George not because George didn’t exist but because people who, in a fair, compassionate society, may have been more like George were instead being reprogrammed into mean, suspicious, wounded and dangerous animals like Violet Bick, Ernie the Cab Driver and George’s own mother have become in George’s Pottersville nightmare.

As the media narrative goes, in the Rust Belt states where Trump won the electoral college; Pennsylvania, Ohio, Wisconsin, and Michigan, the people were fed up with the status quo and didn’t trust Hillary Clinton. Some of that may be true, but here’s how I and many other people have come to see it: Some of those people are exactly what Hillary said they were, the famous “Basket of Deplorables”. They’re pissed off because they have come to believe that people of color and immigrants are treated better than they are by society at large, ignoring the small fact that those people of color and immigrants happened to have spent the previous ten years working their asses off to get educated, learn trades and build up businesses instead of watching “The Apprentice” in their double-wides and smoking crystal meth in the Wal Mart parking lot. The Deplorables are bitter, nasty, poorly-dressed, poorly-educated, poorly-spoken people who resent everyone, blame everyone but themselves for their troubles and saw Trump as a way to take all us liberal coastal elite smart asses down into the Pottersville Pit of Despair right along with them.

But these people had been like this for years, as anyone who ever watched “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo!” or “Duck Dynasty” for five minutes can attest. And Fox News stoked the fire against The Black Guy for eight years, convincing the most hardcore stupid among them that Obama wouldn’t say Merry Christmas because he was a Muslim, even if he was saying it on every other news channel.

 

And if these people really had that much power in the electorate, how did Obama get elected – and win those states – twice? Those elections, in 2008 and 2012, were won with voter turnout, and with the votes of intelligent, compassionate residents of Bedford Falls America who saw right through The Republican Lie that bankrupted the country at least three times in the last 100 years. There’s way more of us than there are of them and that remains true right now. But especially after Obama’s re-election over the guy with the dog strapped to the roof of his car (who honestly doesn’t look nearly as bad in retrospect), we thought we’d finally turned the corner. The new, diverse, young optimistic America was ready to drive policy and public opinion away from your crazy ass, obnoxious bigoted old uncle who blames everything on minorities and immigrants and suggests that maybe Hitler had the right idea.

The Republican Party was well on its deserved way to being irrelevant on the morning of November 8th, 2016. And then, it happened: Your crazy ass, obnoxious bigoted old uncle who blames everything on minorities and immigrants and suggests that maybe Hitler had the right idea was declared the winner of the Presidential Election.

My take on why: There were people on the fence about Hillary. I could understand that to a certain extent. I supported Bernie in the primaries because I’m a socialist. I know Hillary wouldn’t take that personally.  I had no problem with her prospective Presidency. I figured she’d still have to deal with Republican control of the House at the very least and probably would be limited, like Obama was after 2010, in what she could actually get done, but that I’d agree with 90% of what she wanted to do. I’m sure lots of people felt the same way about her.

But the bastards saw their opening: Besides their usual voter suppression tricks, they leaked the emails that made Hillary look like the politician that anybody with a brain already knew she was. They pushed the server story over and over, despite the fact that it wasn’t really a story at all. And of course, with Putin’s help, they planted lie after lie on people’s Facebook pages and bot after bot on their Twitter feeds.

And those people who were on the fence about Hillary, but at the same time thought that Trump was a disaster, they figured no sweat, there’s no way the same America that voted for Obama twice is ever going to turn 180 degrees and elect a racist, ignorant buffoon. They stayed home and didn’t vote at all because the Forces of Pottersville had sown their doubts about the intentions of the Big Clinton Machine.

As for those that did vote, contaminated by those Putin-inspired doubts, I suppose they found themselves walking into the voting booth like Uncle Billy walking into the bank. They got distracted by the drama of the moment and handed Trump and the Republican Party the United States of America stuck inside a folded up newspaper. The majority of the country woke up the next morning rifling through the garbage can incredulously, with a sense of panic growing by the second, while they smirked at us from behind the door, knowing that they had us where they always wanted us.

Pottersville.

 

 

And here we are, a year later. The evidence in the public domain that Trump stole the election with the help of the Russians is overwhelming, so one could only imagine what’s in Robert Mueller’s filing cabinets right now. I can’t begin to imagine how that whole thing is going to play out. (But most people realize it would be hard to have a Civil War with no Mason-Dixon Line to stand behind). And, just in time for Christmas, the rich assholes who paid for their Republican candidates, from Trump on down – they got what they wanted: Their big, fat, immoral corporate tax cut. My parents always warned me: The bastards will rob you blind if you let them.

Our accountant is a decent fellow. I’ve known him for many years. We both love dogs. But he is a Trump supporter and a Hillary hater. And I know if I asked him, he’d tell me (passionately) that we’re going to do great on this GOP tax cut, although I don’t see how that could possibly be. (My usual reaction when I hear a Republican say anything). Statistically, It turns out that my wife and I, by virtue of getting up really every working morning, keeping our mouths shut, and being really, really lucky, are rich; a notion that’s “rich” in itself as we’re always broke. We may not be part of the doomsday scenarios of what this tax plan will actually do to the middle class, because again statistically, we’re not in it. Despite losing the deduction of the $9,000 we pay in school and property taxes, not to mention losing the deduction for state income tax here in the Incredibly Expensive Empire State, our very successful accountant will probably tell us that we’re going to come out ahead, or at least even. We’ll wait and see.

The problem for me is that the, “I’ll be fine so screw everybody else” mentality is exactly why America has been allowed to turn into Pottersville. It’s very nice if we pay less federal income tax. It would be even nicer if I could be assured that people less fortunate than us will be able to stay in their houses, never mind heat them. It would be really nice if people in Puerto Rico could put food in refrigerators and turn a light on when they use the bathroom right now. It’s what my mother would have been screaming about right now, but no one making decisions in the federal government seems terribly concerned.

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Rich assholes congratulating themselves on stealing money while people live out of coolers and plastic bags in Puerto Rico.

And it It would be especially very nice to know that this mass redistribution of wealth upwards will not be followed as it always is by municipal budget cuts, reduction of school aid, home foreclosures, small business layoffs and personal bankruptcies. We’ve seen this movie before. We know where they’re going with this. Cities and towns all over America cutting back transpotation service, library service, after-school and elderly programs, public assistance for the poor, drug and alcohol treatment. Then they start telling you that you’re getting too much in Social Security and we just can’t afford to support all these people on Medicaid and Medicare. But look! The stock market is doing great! Corporation are making record profits! There’s never been more choices of shit to watch on TV!

Fucking Pottersville. All over again.

So what do you do if you go to sleep in Bedford Falls and you wake up in Pottersville? What do you do when your beautiful, compassionate country has turned more mean and more ugly in a year than you thought possible? What do you do when America is starting to feel like Nick’s Bar and you just want to sit quietly with a friend, sipping at your flaming rum punch, heavy on the cinnamon, light on the cloves, but the motherfuckers are harassing you at every turn and it’s looking more and more like you’ll get thrown into the snow with everyone else who doesn’t fit their Nazi, Deplorable prototype? If they don’t get me because of my political views, maybe they’ll just smirk at me from behind a cracked-open door when the next big hurricane wipes away everything I have, despite paying FEMA $2000 something a year to protect against that. Or maybe flat out kill me with radiation poisoning, in which case, I suppose they win. That’d be just like something they’d do.

Well, for one thing, you take Barack Obama’s advice: “Don’t boo. Vote.” While I regularly employ my First Amendment rights and Internet access to tell Speakers McConnell and Ryan and the Liar-in-Chief to go fuck themselves, I realize they aren’t bothered particularly by my provocations. Though it would be fun to get into a shouting match with Paul Ryan and watch him get all flustered and hysterical.

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I do hope all the people who are screaming outrage and hashtagging themselves with #The Resistance are people who voted in the last Presidential Election, but statistically, I know many of them did not. They did put a nice dent into the Republican Lie this past November, which was nice to see. (And especially nice to see Alabama rise up to stop Roy Moore just this past month). Even here on Long Island, voters booted out Republican administrations in Nassau County and the Town of Hempstead that were as hard to get rid of as cockroaches.

And in the year that starts tomorrow, every seat in The House of Representatives that has stood by and done nothing as Trump has wrecked the country by executive order, enriched himself and his family at taxpayer expense, and proven himself to be batshit crazy – every seat in that political body is up for grabs, gerrymandering and voter suppression notwithstanding. Alabama has shown that anything is possible and maybe people aren’t quite so stupid after all. So if you read this and you agree with me, vote. And if you read this and yout think I’m a naive hippe liberal that has no idea how the world really works, vote. Because it’s your right. I’m going to bet the odds that more people think like me, and would much rather live in a place like Bedford Falls. And that the criminal tragedy of the 2016 Election and all bullshit that’s been thrown at us will still be very fresh in people’s minds come this fall.

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In the meantime, consider Zuzu’s petals, the metaphor. When George finds Zuzu’s petals (in that cool little pocket sewed into his suit pants for which I couldn’t imagine another purpose) he knows he’s home. He knows everything is going to be OK, even though he’s still missing $8000. (“Isn’t it great? I’m goin’ to jail!”) As long as he has his family, and the people and the life he loves in Bedford Falls, it will all work itself out.

Zuzu’s petals represent home. Here in our home, we don’t watch 24-Hour Cable News. We get our daily Trump Disasters on a need-to-know basis from Twitter and respond in kind, often using a form of the expletive “fuck”, just like Mom would have. We watch Stephen Colbert mock the Fat Dotard, the Turtle and the Smirker, reminding us that they might have the power to poison our air and water, and possibly deport our neighbors, but they can’t kill our spirit, the American Spirit. It runs way too deep, and goes back way too far to ever die. We’ll be back in the fight tomrrow, no matter what happens.

The people who brought you Trump and that Tax Nonsense, they weren’t listening to Martin Luther King when he said, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” They thought they didn’t have to listen to him because he was black.

But we were listening, and we believe it.

Zuzu’s petals are the birds and ducks living around Duffy’s Creek, and the garden of colors we let loose in the summertime. Zuzu’s petals are driving down to the Long Beach Boardwalk on a warm day or going out to sit awhile with my elderly father at the nursing home then going for a hike up in Stony Brook. Zuzu’s petals are watching my nephews become husbands and fathers and knowing Joan and Francis Duffy’s family will live well past my own expiration date. Zuzu’s petals are stopping in to our favorite businesses around Valley Stream, where they know us and we know them, just like in Bedford Falls. Zuzu’s petals are in the food we cook, the music we play, the one-liners we trade, the neighbors we wave to, the church we go to, the roof over our heads and the hot water coming out of our faucet. Everything that is good in our lives, that still stayed good this year, despite all attempts by the Forces of Pottersville to turn us into a bitter, selfish assholes just like them.

So I wish you a Happy New Year and offer some unsolicited advice of how to survive a difficult time that may get more difficult before it gets less difficult:

Keep Zuzu’s petals in your pocket. Any pocket will do. You will have hope for a better future, and hope for a better future is really all you need to get out of bed in the morning.

And treat the place where you live like your own little Bedford Falls, even if the sign says Pottersville. Being a good person is the ultimate measure of success. As I regularly tell my son, please don’t be an asshole.

Your reward for being good? You’ll be at the front of the crowd, your heart filled with joy, together with all your good American neighbors, and together in spirit with all the people who made you who you are and imbibed you with that spirit, when we all rise up to tear that fucking sign down for good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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#Resistance is Not Futile. Or Maybe It Is. Depends on Whose.

urlForgive me WordPress for I have sinned. It’s been 202 days since my last blog post. Six months and 20 days. Unacceptable, Dude, he said to himself for a change instead of to his son. I really should not have let all this time go without one single, measly little post. Especially with all the happy positivity I’ve gotten back from other humans with computers since I started “A Creek Runs Through It” two years and two months ago. Never mind the OCD that claws at me when I see all the missing months in the archives. You’d think I would have wanted to keep that momentum going, to discipline myself to finish what I start, and to have found the time to pick away at it a little every day.

But noooo. I booted it. And there is absolutely no excuse.

So here’s my excuse: I have been overwhelmed by resistance. I’ve had all sorts of good ideas for blog posts that I just haven’t put together, that have gotten swept aside in days spent fighting the resistance that comes at me from all fronts every single day. It pops up like I’ve entered Dante’s Whack-A-Mole. I’m a simple, kind and well-meaning electrical current that keeps running into things that scramble me up and send me in different directions. I’m fighting against the resistance. It takes way, way too much of my time, and it’s exhausting.

Wu-wu-wait, you say. You might have clicked on this from Twitter. Or you clicked a Facebook post to see what Duffy was up to now, because didn’t he make an announcement through his cat back in January that he wasn’t going to post political stuff on Facebook?  (And he hasn’t). Or I might have showed in up in you inbox because you followed me. (Thank you). Maybe you know me from real life, or at least what’s left of it.

However you got here (and thank you again) you almost certainly know where I stand on the political spectrum, for better or worse. So you’re thinking whatchoo mean, FIGHTING the resistance? That’s sorta backass, isn’t it? I know you. You’re a lefty, an aging- hippie-schoolteacher-type, a borderline-socialist bleeding heart liberal. Just like your mom, except she was a little less of a hippie. You’re outraged by the State Of The Nation. You’re in there every day exercising your First Amendment Right to tell the President of The United States that he’s an evil, crooked, creepy, demented monster and by the way go fuck yourself. You’re PART of #TheResistance. You follow all the power hitters. You’re up to 2,000 followers yourself now, and at least 500 of them aren’t trying to sell you something, and seem to have some interest in what you have to say.

Well, a tweeted link that I read early in my “resistance career”, which started five days after my last blog post (one wherein  I naively attempted to toss an olive branch into the basket of deplorables) sums up my thesis today perfectly. I can’t find the original so I can’t give it to you verbatim, but here’s a paraphrase, with apologies to whoever the original thinker was. I’m pretty sure it was a link and not something the writer pulled off in 140 characters (A great art form until you realize that’s all the writing you did all day). Here’s kind of what he or she said:

“You’re asking me why I’m on Twitter harassing the President? Listen. I was just living my life and minding my own business.  He started screwing with my neighbors, my environment, my child’s education, my safety, my country’s future and my sense of decency. Hell, I’m not harassing the President. That motherfucker’s harassing ME.”

And so I’ve come to realize that the people who identify themselves with #TheResistance are really the people who are fighting resistance. The resistance is coming at them from the circumstances of the times. People who value intelligence and fairness and honesty, people who were traveling along through their lives on a nice, sensible electrical current, who never thought they’d see the vulgar stupidity and hypocrisy that is unfolding before our eyes, who were suddenly jolted with an unexpected surge, a sudden resistance that threw them off course.  

moransThe people whose thoughts I’ve read and shared on Twitter over the last 202 days (when I really should’ve been writing about my dog) are intelligent, sane folks who figured all but a couple of soreheads around them shared their basic human values, and that The American Experiment was working because the willfully ignorant, backward assholes among us were in the minority, and would never be strong enough to force their will on the country at large.

We suspect now that we underestimated these “deplorables”, not to mention the Fox News I.V. drip they’ve been hooked up to for ten years. (And there’s just no better word to describe them, though Hillary probably should’ve edited that one out. I guess she just couldn’t help it. They are fucking deplorable). We who call ourselves pound sign The Resistance also suspect that the whole damn thing – including the wacky-ass Flag-Wavin, Gun-Totin’ Jesus-Saved MAGA ‘Muricans who were suddenly all over the place with their cult-like worship of the most vile human who’s ever lived – all of it is part of a criminal enterprise without equal in the history of the world.

 

Well, I was out walking Mookie, and I was thinking about the word: Resistance. And my mind traveled to the little pins with the color-coded pegs in the middle that represent ohms of resistance. That’s right, ohms. You bend the resistors of various ohms so one pin goes in B9 and the other one goes in E7 on the motherboard. And I know a little something about electrical circuits because God blessed my wife and I with a child, who is now 13 and knows EVERYTHING about electrical circuits. And he has since he was about four (no shit), around the time he told the guy at Ace Hardware matter-of-factly that he already was an electrician, he just didn’t have his license yet.

So I have a basic, English Major’s / Involved Dad’s idea of the functions of  all the little components that The Dude solders into circuits that ultimately combine to light up little LED lights, or start the coffee maker. This is what I know (with my apologies in advance to my electrical engineer nephew who will read this and say, “uh, close there, John. Not quite”). An electrical circuit only needs a power source, a load, connectors and a switch. Why that’s simple enough. But along that circuit, you can add (integrate) components that will alter that circuit in different ways, usually in order to regulate the flow of electricity, or to store it and disperse it in other directions. These include resistors, inductors and capacitors, which are called passive components. They don’t introduce energy into the circuit, but rather control, retain or redirect the energy already in the circuit. The active components, like transistors, can take the energy supplied to them and amplify it, enough so with help from Russia they can win Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania.

So in terms of the political history of this country, I guess liberals and conservatives, progressives and obstructionists, Democrats and Republicans have taken turns being the active and passive components in the circuit. We’re either amplifying or resisting what comes at us, depending on who’s holding the cards. And of course, I’m very aware that #The Resistance is a direct reference to the French Resistance during the Nazi Occupation, so my whole nonsense about comparing it to electrical circuits is just that, but I like to think about words. And knowing that we are all following in the footsteps of the French Resistance against the Nazis, at least when I’m tweeting snarky comments I can sort of feel like Victor Lazlo or Captain Renault in Casablanca, or hell, even Bogie. And their side ultimately won, and would have even if they had called themselves the Capacitors.

casablanca-mainSo  through my online persona, Up A Creek (with it’s avatar of Woody Guthrie’s guitar, on which he wrote “This Machine Kills Fascists”), I am a proud and permanent part of hashtag The Resistance against the awful people who have overtaken over our beautiful country. It eats my time, but I feel like I have to keep up on it. I’ve always felt a need to bear witness to the parade of events in my lifetime, but now I feel like I have to throw myself in the road to slow it down, or at least hold up a sign to let the record show I did not go along with any of this. For historical value, the week I wrote this was the week we went from inappropriate comments to the Boy Scouts and the Suffolk County Police Department to insulting the Statue of Liberty and The White House, to suggesting that the entire State of New Hampshire is a drug-infested wasteland to #LocalMilkPeople to hey guess what asshole, Mueller’s impaneled a grand jury. The White Nationalist Occupation Of America will not last, but it will cause some significant damage, and it will take a lot of time and political will to repair that damage. The only thing that saves us right now as a country is our most sacred freedom: The First Amendment freedom to call bullshit what it is. Hitler didn’t have Twitter, but if he did, his amplifier would have soon enough been short-circuited by the roar of the The Resistance. Tiny-Handed Orange Hitler doesn’t stand a chance.

But meanwhile, while all this insanity plays out in Washington D.C. and on my magic rectangle, I got my own fish to fry back here on the creek. The Resistance doesn’t end when I put the damn phone down. Sometimes, it’s just getting started.

If you have children, and they’re already older than 13, and you’ve survived and conquered triskaidekaphobia, then when I tell you (which I already have) that we have a 13 year old living here, even if he or she were the very, very best 13 year old in the whole wide world, you would roll your eyes and say, “Oh God!” in a very folksy way. I know this because I’ve spent my entire adult life teaching 13 year olds, and even when they are very, very good kids (and the overwhelming majority are, so relax about the future and worry about the present), when I meet their parents, we all sit around and roll our eyes and say, “Oh God” in a very folksy way.

That is the nature of the beast. 13 year olds are annoying. I don’t know what yours does (though I could guess), but mine regularly snaps angrily at us, takes forever to do the simplest thing, forgets what you tell him from one millisecond to the next, leaves stuff lying around everywhere and blames us when stuff gets lost, gets caught in poorly-executed lies, slams and stomps, talks and talks and talks over you, belabors every point, gets pissy and yells “I KNOW!” when you tell him school work has to get done, then winds up in summer school anyway, even though he knew.

One thing that’s actual kind of fascinating about teaching (and any teacher will tell you this) is how you can see the adult hiding inside the child. Once you get to know a kid, you can sort of extrapolate -for better or worse – what they’re going to be like when they’re forty.  And this I also know from experience: Some kids are not good at being kids. The hidden adult is, on an intellectual level, ready to bust out and get things going, but is emotionally and developmentally trapped by lack of experience and the need to learn through trial and lots and lots of error. So sometimes the kid is the little adult that will emerge easily and naturally in the course of time, and sometimes the adult is there already, has been all along, trapped, doing time in the body of a kid.

The Dude has some trouble with life right now. It’s hard for him to smile. And of course, when you’re 13 and life gives you trouble, you respond by giving life some trouble. It’s not all the time, but enough so that it seriously effects his self-esteem, which should be higher because he’s so smart and so damn good looking if I do say so myself. Social cues are a bitch. Understanding and/or anticipating what the other person may be thinking in a given situation, seeing the big picture. He has trouble seeing himself outside himself. He gets stuck in his own head. And because (maddeningly) has not taken up the habits of reading for pleasure or following a game or losing himself in a song, he can’t get out.  It can be painful to watch and infuriating to deal with. Because he worries and overthinks so damn much, he’s not real good at being a kid sometimes.

Interestingly enough, when he’s moving, mostly on his bike or swimming, he’s at his most kid-like. Movement sets him free from worry. But a lot of time he’s angry or miserable or twisted in knots, and he’s convinced that there’s nothing we can do to help. Because he knows that the advice will give him will involve change from within, and emotionally and developmentally he’s just not ready to come to terms with that.

But in the meantime, between the storms, he can take an entire washing machine apart, switch out the motherboard and replace the broken lid switch. He can tell you the model of an air conditioner sticking out of a window as you pass it doing 40 m.p.h. He’s trying to internalize the map of Valley Stream so he can get further and further away from me on his bicycle. But then again, he’ll have a catch with me now and enjoy it. And something I especially appreciate, he’s developing the ability to have a rapport as opposed to a one-way, monologue conversation. (Two great examples from just yesterday: Upon seeing a guy walking into an intersection unaware that he was walking into the path of an ambulance,  Me: “Savage”. Dude: “Thug Life”. Upon seeing a woman walking a little dog on the Long Beach Boardwalk,  Me: “If I brought Mookie up here, they’d throw me out in two seconds. They’re dogists. That’s what they are.” Dude: “They’re breedists, actually”).

Every adult outside of school (and most adults in school, right before before they say “but”) has told us how smart and well-spoken The Dude can be, and how he’ll eventually be fine. We know this. He makes progress on an excruciatingly long trajectory, and there’s still lots of drama and lots of damage control to be suffered through. And of course, the curse of junior high is trying to fit in. Unfortunately, right now The Dude is trying to fit in by pretending he’s not as articulate as he is and turning his mechanical passions into a hidden secret life because he thinks if he gets found out it will stick him with the geeks. Bringing up this subject, or any subject remotely connected to school, is opening up a big can of verbal whoop-ass, which is ironic because he loves being a part of the school on an emotional level, and even became a Valley Stream South Falcon this year by joining the track team. He just avoids the work as much as he possibly can because he’s not perfect at it and it pisses him off, which of course leads him into a hornet’s nest of resistance. On and on the vicious cycle goes.

Valley-StreamObviously, there isn’t much you can do about somebody going through these kinds of storms at 13 but to just keep working like hell at it. And so I’ll have one of these verbal pissing matches with him, walk away, go out to the patio, open up the magic rectangle and see the latest insult or degradation to civilized life that’s trending on Twitter, then realize we’re out of cat food and take a leisurely twenty-minute fucking drive to the King Kullen a fucking mile away because Long Island is bursting at the seams with people and cars. Usually you get stuck for a good five of those minutes at the light at Merrick and Central Avenue. There’s a Walgreens on the corner. I’ve dubbed it The Corner Of Sick And Miserable.

I’d love to get off Long Island, and not because Twitler called it a blood-soaked killing field when he was out in Suffolk telling the police to rough up presumed innocent suspects and scaring the Trumpbillies watching Fox News in West Virginia with an unfortunate local gang issue being dealt with in Brentwood. And not simply because my fight-or-flight adrenaline suddenly disappears as soon as I reach Rockland County. I’d love to get off Long Island because there’s just too many people on Long Island. They create resistance. They don’t mean to. They’re just here. Like I’m here. But getting anywhere to do anything takes a ridiculous amount of time and effort and the whole thing wears you down. And once you get there, everything costs more than it should. A lot more. Trisha lives at the mercy of the Long Island Railroad every working day. She pays them $261 a month for the privilege of being a sardine in a can that may or may not get to Penn Station or back on time, plus another $100 to our fair village for the right to park her car. Enough said.

I had a cool psychology professor in a summer class at Nassau Community College. I took Intro to Psychology because I had to take something to finish enough credits to get a Liberal Arts degree. I also took Intro to Philosophy. And the professor was just as cool. I learned more in five weeks in those two classes that I learned over years of taking silly English Lit and Education courses for my Master’s. Those people were just stealing money. But I digress.

The cool psychology professor, large and unkept and not the slightest bit bothered by either, sitting in a turned-around backwards student chair and chain-smoking cigarettes that he extinguished on the floor, taught us one night about Sensory Adaptation, the idea that after you are immersed in something long enough, you respond automatically to it without really sensing it. It’s the reason why nothing feels as good the second time and the reason why I can find my way to the King Kullen on Merrick Road. The professor suggested that it’s sort of tragic that we can’t live without it, because while I can grab the cat food out of aisle six without thinking about it, I can’t appreciate that I have this nice big, well-lit store full of food and household products and friendly people a mile from my house. It’s not fun anymore. It’s just a given. I don’t see it. It’s just there.

And I’m not going to lie to you. I had to look up the term that my psychology professor was talking about when he laid out that painful paradox for me thirty-something years ago. And when I checked back on Sensory Adaptation, I also ran across Habituation. This is where an organism, like me or you, will no longer respond to a stimulus because it has no relevance. the organisms psychological and emotional response is diminished because the stimulus is no longer “biologically relevant.” Right now, if I listen, I can hear the constant drone of Kennedy Airport six miles away, plus the big highway and the train track a mile north of the creek. But I can also tune it out. The problem, I guess, is that by virtue of living 48 of my 54 years in the same house, I block out too much of the good stuff, too, ’cause I’m just trying to get through the day while the so-called president I hate screams at me about fake news and the child I love screams at me about losing the 5/8 ratchet that he left on the garage floor.

Sometimes I can’t see how beautiful the gardens we’ve grown around this house truly are because it’s freaking hot out and and I have to pull weeds to keep it beautiful. Sometimes I forget how cozy our house is because the clutter has piled up and the floors are disgusting and I’d just really rather crank up the air conditioner and take a nap with the dog.

Speaking of beautiful, Trisha nailed this phenomenon recently, in her way, which is a way that damn near ruptured my spleen from laughing. We were looking at a red and orange and purple sunset stretching across the northwest sky, reflected in the high tide flowing out along Duffy’s Creek. She said, “You know what it is? You see this sunset, and you think to yourself, “Wow. That is so beautiful!” And then when it’s over, you think to yourself. “Wow. Back to dead inside.”

And don’t think for a second that I don’t know that, as far as the Dude is concerned, I’m part of the problem. He loves Valley Stream, and everywhere we go on Long Island. As hard as his life can be, he loves his home. It’s all still relatively new to him. He’s just trying to find his way through growing up, and this motherfucker’s harassing HIM. He might get out and see the world someday, but something tells me, looking at the adult inside the child, that he’ll be another George Bailey who never leaves Bedford Falls. And of course, between that and the whole going to work thing, we’re not going anywhere. And sometimes that simple fact – you sir, are stuck – a wedged bear in a great tightness -leads to resistance that I’m really just creating for myself, messing up my own circuits by not trying to be content with what I have and stay easy with the world. I could be catching up on Richard Russo’s latest novel sitting next to me on the coffee table. I could pick up the guitar, work on the mandolin, open the piano nobody has touched in months and teach myself something, work on that big extended blog project about all the walks I take with Mookie ,who has the ability to make you lose all sense of Habituation even when you take the same walks over and over, because he keeps looking at you and saying, “Isn’t this great?”.

IMG_0546In other words I could be enjoying my life more. Like Mookie does. I suppose if the Mets were playing better, it would help, but you can never count on that. Too often, instead  of playing that guitar or reading that book or writing that blog, I spend down time looking up Columbia County and Saranac Lake house porn on Zillow and checking in with Twitter every half hour because the fucking world is going nuts and I feel a responsibility to voice my displeasure through blasting out a couple of ohms of resistance.

Turns out I’m not the most fun guy to live with if you’re a 13 years old. He throws me a lot of resistance, but I need to be a stronger conductor.

And like Jimmy Cliff in the song, I don’t know where any of this is leading, but I know where I have been. And I guess I’ve been a lucky son-of-a-gun, because I still look to the future with an overwhelming sense of optimism that usually has no basis in empirical data. My experiences have led me to believe that one may as well.  Our son is going to grow up just fine, the criminals who’ve taken over the country will be served justice and I’ll wake up tomorrow and see the beauty in every flower.

This is how the song goes, by the way:

“Sitting here in limbo / waiting for the dice to roll / Sitting here in limbo / waiting for the tide to flow / Meanwhile they’re putting up resistance / But I know that my faith will lead me on.”

You got that right.