New York State of Crime

One moment I was texting my daughter about a her new part-time job at school; the next there was nothing.  So I followed up with email and Facebook messages.  Where did she go?

Well, she went nowhere; her phone took off.

A ne'er-do-well (aka vile thief) stole her phone at a local coffee shop.  It was a slight of hand that, while irritating and unfair, thankfully did not culminate in her being harmed. 

Image courtesy of
 Iamnee/FreeDigialPhotos.net 

She demonstrated calm and decisiveness in seeking help.  She also experienced her first trip to a police station to file a report since the thief's sticky fingers were hard at work elsewhere in lower Manhattan. I pray it is her only ride in a police cruiser. 

A friend's daughter smartly categorizes these types of life events as "First World problems."  It is a perspective builder I often use in conversation.

Yet, I realize my perspective is damaged. 

I am transported to a zany car ride to JFK airport in 1989. My husband and I were headed there en route to our honeymoon destination.  We were uber late and pathetically lost in a non-GPS world.  The ride to the hospital years later when I was in active labor now seems leisurely compared to the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride to JFK on that autumn afternoon. 

As we screeched to the airport departure curb we breathlessly agreed he would return the rental car and I would check in the luggage.  A quick bag count netted a false confidence. Bags were tossed. I ran hither and yon. He ran hither and yon - we looked one stooge shy of Mo, Larry and Curly.  (Skycap? Not for the thrifty, self-sufficient newlyweds.)

Upon checking in I noticed my tan camera bag was missing.  I scanned the area of our messy luggage exchange - nothing.  "He must have it," I thought.  I rushed  directly to the gate.  (Shoe removal and body scan security measures were 12 years into the future.)

My husband breathlessly arrived as the final boarding call was announced.  We finally exhaled until I asked about the camera bag.  He didn't have it. 

The phrase "This is a First World" problem was not remotely in my mind. 

Mo and Larry were had.


Image courtesy of 
nonicknamephoto/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This all bubbled up in anger and letdown as my daughter told me her tale.  A social trust was violated. Her surprise at broad daylight crime reminded me of mine.  And hearing that one of my cubs became a thief's target inflamed this Mama Bear. It made for a short trip to yesterday.

The Minolta 35mm camera and lenses, college graduation gifts from my family and tools in my young, small newspaper job life, held sentimentality and utility. I told myself they are just things but I know I marked the bruised spot on my ego.

Years later, a house fire, where many more sentimental things vaporized, gave me another chance to weigh not only personal safety fears but also my hold on the value of valuables.  It's psychological ping pong.

Anger over having my camera bag stolen has been locked up tight all these years later - to what end?  It's like an engine that revs wildly yet remains in neutral. 

On the other end of the crime spectrum, I am reminded of the time my husband lost his wallet in New Jersey only to see it returned completely in tact via the US mail.  The only thing missing was $2.00 used to mail it. There was a brief note explaining the missing $2 but no name or return address.  My daughter lost her driver's license at the Philly airport this summer; a few days later it arrived via the US mail. No note or return address. 

I can't help but think these phantom finders simply followed the Golden Rule.  

They were satisfied with doing the right thing even when no one was watching.  I pass it forward every chance I get.  It softens my anger to remember their kindness as the perfect counterbalance. 

 I manage to get a chuckle from my daughter as I greet her with "Hey there, world traveler!" when Portland, Oregon or Denver, Colorado show up on my phone while she borrows friends' phones to call me.  She is riding the waves.  She is building "city life" muscle. 

Lots of learning is happening inside and outside my girl's college classrooms.  I am happily caught off balance by the lessons sent my way via her world.  

Why I Love "Breaking Bad"

In a drug-laced world of hardcore bad guys (and some ruthless women) Walter White aka Heisenberg (actor Bryan Cranston) is a car wreck, and I cannot stop rubbernecking.

I am addicted to the AMC series "Breaking Bad" and know that I will experience some serious withdrawal when the series finale airs this Fall.  For now, however, I wait along with millions of other rubberneckers for Season 8 to begin on August 11th.

Why do I love this show? Ten reasons:

 1. Whether he is running for his life or negotiating his share in the meth cooking business, Jesse Pinkman (actor Aaron Paul) defers to his days as a high school student and always addresses his former chemistry teacher and current business partner as "Mr. White."

2.  The Albuquerque desert is a major character.

3.  The writers manage to inject humor into every episode regardless of how dark the storyline.

4.  These infamous lines: "You clearly don't know who you're talking to, so let me clue you in.  I am not in danger, Skyler; I AM the danger.  A guy opens his door and gets shot, and you think that of me. No, I am the one who knocks."  

Walter White

5. While drug use is part of the show,  the primary focus is the drug production/distribution world's underbelly.  Viewers have a front row seat to the deadly compelling business. 

6. Another beauty: "Just because you shot Jesse James, don't make you Jesse James."  

Mike Ehrmantraut (actor Jonathan Banks)

7  Brilliant, unexpected music choices.

8.  Each character grabs viewers by the lapels - there is no rest.

9. Bryan Cranston's range of characters from "Malcolm in the Middle's" clueless father, Hal, to the ingenious, delusional meth cook, Heisenberg - priceless.

10.  Saul "Better Call Saul" Goodman (actor Bob Odenkirk) and his endless supply of legal sleaze.
Here is a YouTube video link showcasing his better lines: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBeQO1nBThQ

How will it all end?  I'd love to see the desperate video Walt takes of himself in the pilot episode somehow woven into the conclusion, and for Jesse to wind up with a better life.  What is certain is the conflicted relief I'll feel when Sunday nights simmer down to a lordly gentility as "Downton Abbey" returns in 2014.

This YouTube link is of Vince Gilligan (show creator/writer/director/producer) and the cast in a panel discussion at the 2013 Comic Con in San Diego, CA.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EXZPJwfuTY

The Profile

It was a late afternoon in early December, 2006.  Autumn's last gasp.

Leafless trees along with lawns long past their prime offered little wonder.  It was as good a time as any for the two men to take a walk.

They were far from home, yet Drexel Hill would be home for the next week.  Jet lag gnawed at them. The brisk air clipped any memory they had of  a tropical climate.  Gloves on, hoods up, scarves tucked in, they went out into the chilly afternoon and kept a pace strong enough to warm up.

As they walked along the even grid of short blocks they talked of sports and their excitement over seeing an Eagles home game at the Linc in Philly.  Typical guy talk.  Few, if any, other folks were out.

They didn't notice the police car as it approached from behind.  Only when it stopped alongside them, window rolled down, were they alerted.  The officer asked where they were from, where they were headed, and if they had ID. 

The two men walking in Drexel Hill were my brother and his 22 year-old son.  My brother produced his driver's license showing the officers his Hawaiian home address.  Still puzzled by what initiated the police interest, he simply answered the questions saying they were in town visiting family.

The officer said that a resident called the police when she saw two dark skinned men wearing  hoodies walking past her home.  My brother's skin tone reflects his Italian heritage and the fact that he's lived in Hawaii since 1978.  My nephew's deep skin color reflects his mostly Hawaiian heritage.

The exchange with the police was polite, brief.  Yet, the discomfort for my brother was the fact that his son had to experience this moment.  That walking in his grandparents'   neighborhood minding his own business was cause for a visit from police. That dark skin and hoodies made the pair suspicious.

 Seven years ago the incident was briefly discussed and dropped.  We see my Hawaiian family too infrequently for this to alter our precious time together.  The events in Sanford, Florida however brought back the memory of that profiling.  Granted, on a "life altering" continuum, the moment in Drexel Hill is a speck of water compared to the torrential downpour of horror that took place between George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin.

Yet it cast a sliver of light on what those with dark skin experience in America.

 

Levar Burton sat on a CNN panel earlier this month for a special one hour report titled "The N-Word."  Here is the actor's frank answer to anchor Don Lemon's question regarding if he had ever been followed:

"Listen, I am going to be honest with you.  This is a practice I engage in every time I am stopped by law enforcement and I taught this to my son who is now 33 as part of my duty as a father to ensure that he knows the kind of world in which he is growing up. So when I get stopped by the police I take my hat off and my sunglasses off.  I put them on the passenger side."  The actor then turns his body to demonstrate: "I roll down my window and take my hands and stick them outside the window and on the door of the driver's side because I want that officer to be as relaxed as he can be when he approaches my vehicle.  And I do that because I live in America."

I find this matter-of-fact commentary chilling.  Burton's primary default with police isn't to rest on his notoriety as a respected, award winning actor.   His default is to put the officer at ease because he knows his skin color is already cause for tension.

I've heard many versions of what is often referred to as "The Talk" when mothers and fathers talk primarily to their dark skinned sons about the real world of profiling.  It is distressing to think how dangerous a simple walk or drive home can be for some Americans.

Here is the link to the CNN special containing Levar Burton's comments - minute marker 5:40 to 6:25.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ims2qlfIjEU

Paula, Paula, Paula

As sponsors drop/suspend relations with Paula Deen like a steaming hot hush puppy, I wonder why she keeps making missteps.

My favorite recent Deen-ism summed it up when she spoke on the Today Show:  "I is what I is."  This 'regular folk' talk sure sells a ton of products but this time it just seems to add more cement to the coffin that is her vision of herself. 

Whoever Paula is, it is currently not working on her chosen medium - television. 

A mea culpa that does not address the possibility that she may hold/have held a smidge of racism in her heart is a butter-less dessert.  I would have liked to hear her express a newfound understanding  that her deposition answers were objectionable.  And that using offensive language, no matter how long ago, is still offensive. If she could have spoken only about how the backlash has raised her awareness, I would have listened more.

But she insisted on using the utensils that brought her success: the sassy, sweet, unprejudiced, "Ginnie" (her grandma name pronounced with a hard G) loved by all.  She thought by pouring more molasses over her explanation it would make her more beloved.  And why not?  This is the recipe she has used to formulate an impressive culinary empire. 

Paula the chef did not confer with Paula the business woman (as she did when she announced in 2012 she had type 2 diabetes and simultaneously became the spokesperson for a diabetes drug.)

I don't care about how she was raised, how she raised her kids, who her African American friends are or how she comforts them. I don't care what offensive language she has witnessed in her kitchens if she stayed silent until now.  Her silence showed tolerance.  It was the playground defense: "I said it but they said it too!"

I do care that she show up like an adult and simply say "I am sorry."  Period.

Pleading with a biblical reference to "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" makes no sense.  In trying to say she is just like everyone else, she separates herself from her apology.  The Southern celebrity thought sweet would trump sensible. 

Sensible isn't sexy but it is easier to swallow than a five pound bag of sugary words.

The Pig Speaketh

Well, sometimes I think the pig speaketh. 

He really just holds the sign on my kitchen counter which "speakeths" whatever I choose.  His droll look tells me he silently endures being the vehicle to display some occasion.  Lately, there's been a busload of occasions to mark.

I know this occasional game.  The excitement of a celebration pulling in and the merciless exit that always follows. 

Birthdays, first and last days of school, holidays, a college student coming home,  a dance performance coming up or just a weather report - the pig marks the moment.  And he does so via an impressive Twitter reduction - instead of 140 characters the pig's board space holds no more than 8 characters.  As far as social networking goes, he is way ahead of his time.

The hog is the new breed of 21st century techno-minimalism.  (Hmmm...perhaps that is a bit overstated.)

On the understated side, sometimes there's artwork. Well, okay, it is more like a caveman drawing.  It's always a challenge the pig and I happily take on. 

Christmas Eve: Seven Fish

There have been some favorites over the years. On Christmas Eve, when we prepare a seven fish meal, everyone gets involved because few fish recipes can be prepped ahead of time. (The pig particularly enjoys seeing his sea-bound brethren as a meal centerpiece.)  His sign displays the Roman numeral VII and a simple fish drawing.

Christmas Day will find the letter "L" crossed out: No-L aka Noel.

Summer has a sun rising on the horizon and Halloween is either "BOO!" or a pumpkin.  Not very original but heartfelt.

Lately the sign theme has been things ending - a college graduate and a high school graduate have summoned an array of "this is the last time for (fill in the blank)."  The pig has been busy. 

It is times like these that I appreciate the pig's facial expression.  It belies any emotion I am trying to express.  The pig keeps it real with his look of aplomb.  He is unaffected. Unflustered.  Unruffled.

The pig is an unwitting teacher of zen.

This weekend marks my younger graduate's last performances with her dance studio.  She is moving on to a BFA Dance program in college, so there will be more studio and stage time in her future.  Yet, leaving her current studio, where she has clocked a boatload of hours and nurtured a heart full of friendships, stings for now.

What, I ask my porcine friend, can I write/draw to capture this moment?  The hog is mute.

It's a lesson the pig repeatedly teaches: sometimes when words fail, our hearts succeed. 

I draw a dancing heart.

Mother's Day Exhale

Mother's Day can have the forced feel of New Year's Eve.  We're compelled to do something - after all, everyone started with having a mother.

I like the intention of Mother's Day but it can come with so much expectation.  Advertisers make sure we are bombarded with messages about how to thank our moms.  According to them, buying stuff is the answer.

I am a mother.  I have a mother.  We are clear about loving one another.  We agree. We disagree.  We like being together and we tire of each other.  We are nondescript in the grand scheme of mother/daughter relationships and I revel in the everyday-ness of us.  Setting aside one day for saying I love you just seems superfluous.

More importantly I think on friends whose mothers are gone, or suffer illnesses, or those who struggle to know/understand their mom. There are friends who have a tough time with their kids and those whose kids don't care. And yes there are friends whose child has died. What does this day mean to these moms?  Does it just press harder on them?  What good comes from that?

I guess what I am trying to say that if we listen to Hallmark , there is no room for a less than wildly perfect relationship on Mother's Day.  Let's dial it back a bit and recognize that this day is not rainbows and unicorns for many children and mothers. And that's okay. But let's be mindful of it.

Motherhood is so many things.  But it is not the only thing for women. 

Instead of overly glorifying mothers, how about we celebrate all women - those with or without children.  Let's have a Women's Day.  Let's really be a sisterhood and be thankful for each other.

Sports Talk

The title alone tells me this will be a very short post.

I am a sports appreciator.  Team stats, season tickets, pieces of sports trivia have no traction in my daily life.  As I've mentioned in a previous post, I do love attending most sporting events and am truly in the moment.  And when the game ends, well, that's it.

There's no ethics code or high water mark that I'm following about athlete millionaires, billionaire owners, and $5 ballpark sodas.  I am simply unmoved by the minutiae of sports.

I am, however, curious about what gets sports folk riled and the current NFL draft is a doozie.  It seems like a gladiator movie without the blood.  The only things injured are athletes' egos if they are left out of the selection process in Round 1.  But fear not!  Rounds 2 and 3 etc. are just around the bend.

I feel for some of these young men who have been pumped up by coaches, agents, and scouts supposedly 'in the know' to believe they will be a first round pick.  And then they are not.  It's a return to the schoolyard complete with angst; 'coaches' pick who they want on their teams one by one - and inevitably the cheese stands alone (Manti T'eo). 

The late night talk show hosts all mentioned the impending draft in their monologues.  Jay Leno hit the mark noting, "It's gotta be a tricky night for Manti T'eo, huh? When that phone rings is he really being drafted or is it just another scam?"

The fact that the draft is held at Radio City Music Hall (for 8 years!) and is televised really gets my attention.  What's the draw? There's no game. No points are scored.  Players are merely being chosen by professional teams and this warrants prime time attention?  I understand that it is a very, very big deal to the athletes and their families.  How is it a big deal to everyone else?

The local FoxNews station did a funny bit by placing reporters with fans outside the venue asking them how they felt about certain athletes up for grabs - only they used fake names and stats.  Well, what sports fan can resist commenting on any athlete, real or bogus? Apparently not many.  Like fireflies drawn to the light fans gave strong opinions about why these phantom players had a chance.  Some even included stats! 

I say Round 1 of the draft goes to the reporters.

Well, at least admission is free.  That makes everyone a winner.

Here's the link to my last dip into the sports pool: http://asubjectforconsideration.blogspot.com/2011/11/nature-of-sports-dreams.html