A Day in the Life of Chaos

When the plague descended on the world I felt it coming even before it was officially Obviously no social distancing called.  As I watched the red dots expand on the map across wide swaths of the world in my mind the pandemic was declared.  It took days before the press and government followed suit.  For the historians among us I knew what what was coming.   In my library there is a book called ‘A Nest of Corsairs.”  It is a brilliant account outlining the story of the Barbary pirates and the early elements of the Marine Corp.  This all occurs in the setting of North Africa and in my mind images of Lawrence of Arabia flourish.  Sand storms and never ending stretches of a lifeless world extending outward into infinity.  Swollen, cracked lips as men with their heads wrapped in cloth trudge across expanses of the world so vast they are seemingly impossible to comprehend.  There is a moment in the story when a consular officer describes his life locked away in an outpost of Ameri

Goonies Like many in America and pr obably the world I recently spent a chunk of time binge watching Netflix season 3 of “Stranger Things.”  It's a fun show that most directly in my mind connects me to the “Goonies” a kind of seminal experience of my child hood.  It came out in 1985 just as I was graduating high school and while most of the kids depicted were a tad younger than I, it still seemed to somehow frame my own childhood.  Maybe it was a last grasp at being young.   “Stranger Things” harkens back to the same time period in its depiction of average American kids battling the evils of the world or in the case of “Stranger Things,” another world.  On the surface I find the plot doesn’t capture as much of me as the depiction of suburban America in the late 1970’s and 80’s.  The time that was mine.  The show does an amazing job of capturing the nuance of the time.  From music to iconic events and images.  It touches on the heartbeat of what it was to be a child during

When I was a young man, maybe 13 years old, I visited my grandfather before he died. He was a salty old man, well he looked old. In truth I don’t think he was much older than 65.  Come to think of it that’s only 13 years older than I am now.  The thought makes looking in the mirror a whole new experience.  How could he have looked so old?  I think people of his generation just looked older.  Maybe they lived harder lives. Maybe it was the years of cigarettes or gallons of booze. Maybe it was being a Navy veteran in a war this world is starting to forget. Maybe he was just a sick man with paper thin skin wrapped like cray paper  over worn and fading tattoos.  A man dying of a disease that took him when war and motorcycles never could.  Before he died, as a young boy, I sat beside him and he presented me with memories he thought I might appreciate. One was his Navy Blue Jacket Manual, a guide to being a seaman.  Another was a large certificate I barely understood. It looked impor

It was a very special Christmas that year so long ago.  As a young man my family traveled to Europe in the winter.  There is something different about Europe in the winter.  It is a combination of many things.  The cold harkens back to my childhood Christmas’ spent in Alaska.  There is purity in the air.  The kind of Christmas that American’s imagine but left long ago.  One where commercialism and gifts are secondary.  Where cold weather is a sign for people to huddle together in conversation relishing a hot cup of mulled wine or coco.  The steam of their cups collides with frigid air as it drifts upwards into the night.  The smells of hot sausages  wafting through markets and ginger bread baking in ovens behind frosty shop windows.  Small market stalls and street side stores sell hand made goods that are as far from plastic packaged merchandise as we are from the round full moon hanging over our heads.   Some how in this panicked and manic 21st century, Europe has preserved the

In a professional career you come across all sorts of people but none have as much impact on you as the supervisors your work for.  They can make your professional life a pleasure and they can make it hell.  This year I am marking my 28th year on the job and with all sincerity I hope to stay around just just four more years.  Aside from loved ones and a few good friends I think 32 years is enough to devote to anyone or anything. My first two supervisors were illustrations of various styles.  The first was hell.  She was a demonic memory that made me question my initial decisions in life.  The second was a motherly personality never wishing to push the envelop.  After the fourth year of the second supervisor, I was convinced I might need a complete career change and contemplated trading my mind numbing cubicle for an academic life.  It was my third supervisor who changed my life.  She gave me wings by inviting me to work for her for close to six years on the  southern side of th

My son Noah and his girlfriend Momay I am still adjusting to having my son visit me.  No, it’s not like you think, I mean sometimes I just want him to stay.  Being a visitor still seems odd and when he leaves I still feel his presence only to realize he is gone.  Life is scary that way.  Each time he visits I know that the circumstances of life will pull us further apart.  Girlfriends, studies and future plans.  The process is entirely natural but it is still hard.  I wonder if animals ever miss their young or are humans the only ones.  I know my dog seems to miss me when I am gone.  Perhaps the apes join us in our despondency, I have a feeling they might.  Still their youth never leave for college and seldom strike out to new continents where they will make their way.   My life is a blessing and a social curse.  A blessing in that it has taken me to different ends of the earth and allowed me to live there.  To constantly feel different stimulation and to expand my life in ne