Can We?

"I had a friend once say to me: 'The one thing I understand about being black is that I will never understand it.'" 

-my dear friend, Dakarai Aarons

* * *

Hoops and hollers. Hands raised to the ceiling and above. A jubilant scene at Boston's J.A. Stats at 11:39 a.m. this morning testified that Barack Obama has indeed accomplished something significant in his first moments as U.S. President. In 38 words, uttered previously by 42* white men, President Obama signaled to an America within this great nation that the color of your skin is no longer an insurmountable obstacle to reaching any height. The spectacle I witnessed this morning was mainly created by my African-American coworkers whose collective story can only be read (not sensed, tasted, or smelled) in history books. I don't question their tears of joy, nor do I envy them. I simply intend to live in a nation where everyone feels empowered and encouraged to Do more. I sincerely hope that President Obama has inspired more Americans to Do just that today, and continues to in the months ahead.

That said, I usually roll my eyes when someone "the first ___ to ever be ___." And I'm glad Obama never leaned on his own race during his campaign up through today's inauguration speech. But I believe that if today's event has any positive and lasting effects on the psyche and morale of our nation's traditionally disenfranchised populations, Obama's race would undoubtedly have played a role. That said, I also believe Obama's performance as President and Commander-in-Chief will help dictate how "lasting" any effects may be.

I'd like to share one comment I received on November 5th, from my friend John in El Paso:

"[A friend of mine] once told me that she spoke at a local middle school [in El Paso, TX]. She went around and asked kids what they wanted to be when they grew up. The vast majority had no aspirations to anything else than getting some kind of a job. This doesn't seem to be a big deal to most, they shrug it off as a minority laziness issue. It's not. It is being socially institutionalized. These kids see their family and can't expect anything better for themselves, they have given up before they start. They don't know that they can dream and make it a reality. Whites can not see this from the outside, and minorities don't see it from the inside."

-John T.

If today's events help perpetuate positive change in that department... we'll all be better for it.

One final note... was I the only one who thought Rev. Rick Warren announced Obama's daughters like he was the MC of a sexy dance competition? No? Okay, just checking...

Let's put 100 days on the clock... Obamas ready? America ready?...

*Grover Cleveland was President #22 and #24. Fun fact.

Drive In, Drive Out

After 2.5 years of blogging, I'm officially taking a break.

I simply have nothing new to say. At least not to the masses. So... thanks for reading. It's meant a lot. Call my cell any time for exclusive personal updates.

Adios,

Rube

Fantastick News

I miss singing.

This is not news. The news is that I've found an outlet for the summer. I'm performing in the Westborough Players' Club's musical production of "The Fantasticks" on July 31-August 3.

"The Fantasticks" is Romeo and Juliet with a twist. The lovers' fathers want them to fall in love and fake a feud--and a kidnapping--so that they will. But the lovers learn of their fathers' ploy, so it goes with all theatrical deceptions. So the lovers split off to experience the world beyond, with the assistance of the play's narrator and mysterious bandit "El Gallo" (Me). Will they reignite their love or discover it was contrived and, thus, worthless? Come find out.

I cordially invite you all to come see the show. I'm excited to rejoin two of my former stagemates, Jon Eldridge and Brian Higgins, and perform one last 'Borough show before shipping up to Boston.

One final fun note: our director, Pat Stevens was the voice of Velma on "The Scooby-Doo Show" for 40 episodes (1976-1979). So if that question pops up at trivia night, you can Wow your friends.

*

Looks like my streak of days without wearing make-up will end at 368. Can anyone tell me what the over-under was on that?

Rube

Perfect

The reason I haven't written in a while is because "oh nothin, same ol, how bout you" isn't my idea of a rousing entry. But amidst adapting to the new boss, fruitless apartment searching, and fruitless jdate surfing (a blog I've tried and failed to write several times), there are two sweet moments I've soaked in of late. One is my sister's graduation (the subject of my previous entry, below). The other happened just 6 hours later...

A golf ball sat at the bottom of the 10th cup at the Highfields Golf & Country Club in Grafton, MA. I was standing in the rough... on a hill... 105 yards away. This was no ace, not even a birdie... "just" a par save (which--if you don't golf--means I was royally f-ing up this hole prior to the aforementioned shot of my life). A younger Jayme would have certainly lamented: "That's an eagle shot if I didn't screw up my drive." He would eventually pat himself on the back for overcoming thick grass and a headwind. But on this day, after a single Mickelson-esk leap, I stood there for a solid minute (it's cool, there was no one with or behind me) and calmly absorbed this perfect Now. I didn't overcome the wind, the rough, nothing... I existed with it all. Pros know how to place the ball on the right slope of the green. Even plenty of amateurs can spin the ball back or sideways. Frankly, folks, I ain't that good. But on Saturday, May 17, 2008, I co-achieved perfection in a single shot.

I'm still striving for that hole-in-one. And when I get it, I'll strive for another. It's not about obtaining (the mantra of my former self), but creating--again and again. One of my two sports heroes, Nolan Ryan didn't set out to toss a record 7 no-hitters. He took the mound each day to co-create the most perfect Now he could. He just did it 7 times... with a lot of talent, 8 teammates, and a little luck each time.

One final thought: This is my 13th year playing golf. My longest hole-out prior to this day was from 30 feet. And I never owned a sand wedge until 2 hours before my 55-degree Nike hit that shot. If that's a not a reminder that passion only goes so far without the right tools... I don't know what is.

Rube

Chapter 3, page 1098

My sister, Emily, graduated from Boston University's Center for Digital Imaging Arts this weekend. Besides certified photographers (like Em), CDIA has produced a slew of talented graphic and web designers, audio producers, 3-D animators, and digital filmmakers.

While all of them have proven quite capable of creating product, commencement speaker Steve Maler of the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company challenged them to collaborate in order to reach a higher goal: tell a complete story.

Three years has passed since Newhouse Dean David Rubin charged me and my colleagues to do the same. Since then, I've filed more than 1200 reports. I've edited a few policy briefs and co-created three brochures... but I still haven't told a story the way I want to. In fact, I'm not sure what that way is. Not only am I still searching out the right story to tell--I'm still searching for my voice.

That's the one challenge I was not prepared to face.

They told me it's tough to crack in. They told me the money would suck. They told me to combat competition with persistence. But no one told me I would devote some of my work shifts to proofing meeting agendas, FedExing packages, and covering for the receptionist along the way to finding my story and my way of telling it.

I am not discouraged. When friends complain about the menial tasks they perform at the job they thought they wanted, I remind them (and, in turn, myself) that "all of this will make for a great Chapter 3 in your inspiring memoir someday."

My one piece of advice for Communicators of the Class of 2008 is this: Chapter 3 can be lengthy.

You can choose to see that as a daunting challenge or an exhilarating journey. The choice is yours. I've felt both at different times. But whichever way you prepare for it... prepare for it. Appreciate that your experience as a key grip, a copy editor, or photo assistant will not only influence today's product but also your own method of storytelling down the road. And, to quote a magnet Mom keeps on the fridge: "Find Joy in the Journey."

I'm writing this as much to myself as I am to you...

J


To read Emily's take on her journey, I encourage you to click:
http://www.frozenoranges.com/2008/05/nowhere-to-go-but-up.html

Talk to Me

I propose we reframe the "language" debate in America.

The two sides have seemingly been whittled down to: "Speak English, it's America's language" vs. "America's culture is that of all the world's cultures."

I think each side has valid arguments. But I also think this language/culture war has buried the true goal of language... to connect people. A short story:

* * *

Last Friday, I parked my car in an $11 lot (they do exist... South Boston across from the courthouse). I planned to leave it overnight but wanted to check the rates. Not seeing a sign, I asked the attendant.

"Top of the building. I can't talk to you," she said, seemingly pointing to a garage across the street. There was no one around besides us, so "I can't talk to you" didn't mean she was busy. Needing to know the rates, I ignored her lack of English proficiency and pressed on.

"I have to park there?" I asked after making her repeat "Top of the building" 3 times to be sure that's what she said.

"Top of building. I can't talk to you," she continued, more annoyed each time she had to open her mouth.

Finally, I smiled, waved, and walked around the back of her booth only to realize what she was trying to tell me. The SIGN with the rates was on the back of the booth.

So I got what I needed. But because we don't speak the same language, both of us squandered an opportunity to connect with another human being and, on the contrary, started our day pretty annoyed with one.

* * *

As we become more isolated from one another by self-checkout lines and touch-tone dial menus, I'd like to think I can still share a moment with a stranger on the street, gain a little knowledge, shake hands, and walk away feeling better about living on this rock. But to do that, it helps to decide how we can best converse. 

So to all you non-English speakers out there (and obviously, you read my blog) I apologize that the vocal fringe in our society has arrogantly told you to speak English or turn around. I'd like you to stay and chat. And since most of us are more versed in English, would you mind trying it out? Tell me how much it is to park in your lot. I'll tell you how to find Downtown Crossing. Maybe we'll share a bar top, bitch about the weather for 10 minutes, and exchange cards. No matter what, we'll both be happier for having met. 

I know that hanging onto your language for whatever reasons is your choice... but it's certainly not bringing us any closer.

Size Matters

Subway Restaurants... you're on notice.

I walked into my Franklin Street hookup today, geared up for the one "Daily Sub on Wheat" I allow myself per week when I realized the 6-inch sub special sign was nowhere to be found. In its place loomed a bright, triumphant banner announcing a NEW special: $5 Foot-long Subs!

Now granted, I seldom accept change immediately. I was late coming into the world. I wore diapers until I was 14. And I refuse to purchase a PDA. But my annoyance with foot-long sub specials is rooted in my displeasure for the general health of our nation's populace.

I believe one of the silent culprits tipping scales across the country is deceiving serving sizes and astronomical restaurant portions. "Hey, these cookies are only 50 calories a serving!" (18 servings per cookie) And now Subway, a diamond in the rough industry of fast & fat food that once encouraged sensible eating is now making it easier to fill up on enriched carbs.

Sure, some people NEED their calories. But these people know who they are. They're eating consciously. It's those who don't think they have to, due to lack of an immediate and known medical condition, that are gonna walk in and say "I get an extra six inches for another buck? Aww hell. Make it a foot-long." (But instead of the triple-chin, can I get the love handles aaand some extra napkins?)

I'm sure some of you are saying "Lose the soapbox, Jayme. Subway's doing what's good for business. People wanna pay more and buy the damn thing. Let 'em eat it." And so I shall, but not without lamenting the truth that Americans are never going to collectively wake up and say "we need to be healthier." And the burden of our apathy falls on us all. A buddy of mine involved in public health says that three conditions that are often voluntary--obesity, smoking, and teenage pregnancy--account for 30% of our annual healthcare costs (insurance rates, tax money, you name it, you pay it).

At the counter, I coughed up the hiked $5.24 for my six-inch sub meal. The foot-long meal behind me came to $6.32. "Buy in bulk," I mouthed silently as I walked past a cardboard cut-out of Jared holding up his size 108 jeans. "God Bless America."

Spring Cleaning

I feel like I'm at the starting line. In a very good way.

"Operation: Shippin Up" is in full swing. I intend to live in Boston before the college kids rush back in. I've got feelers out in Cambridge/Somerville, Brookline, and East Boston. I've starred places in Allston, Medford, and Revere. For those who know the area, I'm obviously casting a wide net. I plan to narrow my search in the next month. If you'd like to share any advice... I am all ears.

This weekend, I'm finalizing my taxes and choosing my retirement plan, which activates on Wednesday... my 6-month anniversary at JFF.

Speaking of work, my new boss starts later this month. My old boss left 2 weeks after hiring me, at which point I was adopted by one of his No. 2's. I'm excited to hear some outside ideas, what the new VP thinks of mine, and a general spreading out of our team's workload, because lately, our approval process is a bottleneck.

* * *

But before my Spring fun begins, I'm spending the last 7 days of winter in New Mexico. Everyone here asks me "Why?" as if I said "I'm getting a sex change" or "I hate commas." I just smile back. I think golden visors, free 1st rounds, Thursday nights, All-Ins, and 381s speak for themselves.

It's an incredible feeling to know you can travel 2400 miles and not need a hotel. And for you down there... you've got a crash pad in Beantown once "Operation: Shippin Up" is completed.

* * *

In the meantime, folks. Please sample some my friends' music (links on the right).

CONGRATS to Jarrett on his group's CD release tonight! Can't wait to get my hands on it.

Rube

E... S... A...

Whenever tragedy reenters our lives, someone nearby always laments that "it took this to remind us how fragile we are."

Fewer people, it seems, would choose to ponder solemn thoughts on a sunny day versus a rainy day. And since death and sickness are widely considered "solemn" topics... they usually take a back seat when you're in a park or at a beach.

It may seem odd, but I find these the perfect times to consider our frailty-- not to bring down my happiness but, on the contrary, to maximize my appreciation for what we have.

It is in that spirit (of taking stock in everything we have while the weather's fine) that I recommend a movie to you, my 2nd favorite movie of all time: The Diving Bell & the Butterfly.

It's a real-life story of a man who loses everything but his mind--and one eye--and still squeezes every ounce he can out of life.

Like the other movies on my proverbial top shelf, The Diving Bell challenges you to look inside yourself and decide if you could do what he did. If the only ability you had left was the ability to dream, could you? Would you? And why?

I suggest you stake out some time to experience this film. Usually, if we feel like a movie-night, it's because we want to unplug our reality; we'd rather someone else do the thinking (make me laugh, make me cry, etc.) You'll get more out of this film if you engage with it, so I'd set aside a movie-night, rather than save this film for one.

I left the theater on my own two feet, re-inspired to do/feel/taste/see as much as I can while I can. And it hit me shortly after: Jean-Dominique Bauby just touched someone else from across an ocean, 10 years apart, and with a blink of an eye. 

Your story, Mr. Bauby, no matter how close to "real life," has breathed new life into me.

A School with a Promise

"...indivisible 

with Liberty 

and Justice

for all."

Each word rang clear through the PA. Each phrase, a stanza. Each pause, a silent declaration that everything we say and do here at University Park Campus School, we do for a reason. 

From the outside, UPCS seems the norm for a poor neighborhood in Worcester, Massachusetts; a 20-room schoolhouse built in 1885. Of the 231 students who enter, 61% are minorities, 67% speak English as a second language, and 73% qualify for free or reduced-price lunch (an accepted gauge of children in poverty).

Yet every student who enters graduates. The dropout rate at UPCS since it opened in 1997 is zero. 0.0%

The number of students who have failed the state's high school exit exam in English: zero. Science? Zero. Math? One... who passed the second time. And that's not last year's stats... that's since the test was required for graduation in 2002.

How do some of Worcester's poorest pull this off? How do 95% of them go onto college (many becoming the first in their family to do so)? Those are some of the first answers I read upon entering JFF in September. Document after document reinforces ideas like constant group work, teachers as facilitators, writing across content areas, peer reading.

It's one thing to read about UPCS. But Monday and Tuesday, I finally went there. And it's downright magical to see these proven practices in action. In my 12 hours at the school, I don't think I heard a teacher utter a single answer or even say "that's correct." They simply moved to the next step in the problem, or the next paragraph in the reading so seamlessly, I felt like it was solely the students moving the class along. And more importantly, the students sense that as well. I jumped into their groups and every student, loud or shy, was happy to explain to me how to figure out this math problem, or what that author is trying to tell us. Except for initial instruction, I only remember teachers asking questions:

"Miss Bird, I'm stuck on this."

"Class, can anyone help Chris?"

"Mr. Glick, I think maybe the old man was trying to embarrass the thief."

"Hmm... anyone agree or disagree with Sarah?"

When teachers constantly throw material back on the class to work out as a team, the message, albeit subconscious at times, is clear: The answer lies in you. You and your classmates have the tools to succeed.

And they are constantly driven to do so, taking all honors classes from 9th grade on. Many of them take college courses down the street at Clark University (free of charge) during their junior and senior years. I ate lunch with a group of seniors yesterday who couldn't stop talking about the colleges they're about to attend. One is heading to Union in Albany, NY on a full-ride scholarship she beat out 2500 kids for nationwide.

The logos of colleges this year's seniors are heading to are proudly displayed on the 2nd floor bulletin board. What's better than a poster that reads: "You can succeed." How about a bulletin board that says: "You already are."

I made it a point to greet each student I passed. And every darn one of them looked me in the eye and said "Hello." You won't hear a single curse word in the halls of UPCS. Respect is so deeply embedded, PA announcements begin with: "Please pardon the interruption..."

The UPCS philosophy and mission is quickly spreading around this country. It's example has helped shape 159 early college high schools from coast to coast and up to Fairbanks, Alaska. Our goal at JFF is to help start up 100 more.

After witnessing these shining up-and-comers who statistics believe should be scrapping the barrel of American society... I hope we don't stop there.

The Sun Also Rises

Even if I could find the words... they probably wouldn't be this good.
I give you James Palmer Hallock:

* * * * *

Not really sure what to say, or what to do. All I know is that the
Giants played at another level last night, and the Patriots weren't
prepared to compete at that level. In a sense, we got out-Belichicked
by Tom Coughlin and that Defensive Line. The offensive line was
completely overmatched, and weren't focused. Justin Tuck dominated
Logan Mankins, who is probably one of the top 2 left guards in the
game. From the start, you could see it happening - the chips were
falling into place for the Giants. Four 3rd down conversions on the
opening, 10-minute drive. The back of the endzone interception that
Hobbs just missed. The fumble that Bradshaw somehow stole away from
Pierre Woods. The Thomas sack, followed by the Bradshaw penalty that
somehow kept the ball away from the Pats. Randall Gay's injury.
Kevin Faulk's injury. Tom Brady clearly not at 100%. The sacks. The
errant passes. The overwhelming arrogance that we could just send Tom
into 5 and 7-step drops and that he'd find the open receiver. The
poor use of the run. Going for it on 4th and 13 from the 31-yard
line, when you just tried to hit a deep pass on 3rd down instead of
trying to get a small chunk of yards to make it either A) a better
field goal chance or B) a better 4th down opportunity. The trash
talking, inviting the Giants to our postgame parties and telling them
that they should get ready to go home. Asante's near miss
interception. Meriweather's near miss interception. The ALMOST sack.
Tyree's catch (how did he hold on to that ball?). Burress wide open
in the end zone - why was he in single coverage on an OBVIOUS slant &
go? There it is. It's all there. Read it. Digest it. Be pissed.
Be disappointed. Be upset. You've tasted it. It was right
there...dripping from the bottle onto your tongue for a 6th time in 6
years. And it was snatched away.

Now, get up and pull yourself together. Because we will be back. And
we might not ever see 18-0 again and you know what? I don't want to.
I want to see 11-5. I want to see adversity, fear, losing. I want to
see playoff games that are up for grabs. I want to come from behind
and kick Peyton's ass. Watching his face, torn & broken as he and the
heavily favored Colts throw that final interception to seal their
fate.

I want to see 100 wins. I want to see tight games with the Yankees in
the regular season, fans hanging on every pitch. I want to see the
new generation of our great rivalry - Ellsbury, Hughes, Buchholz,
Chamberlain, Lester. I want to see the ALCS in Boston & New York. I
want to piss my pants when Rivera comes out of the bullpen and we need
to score a run to send it to extras to keep us alive.

I want to see Banner # 17. I want to see KG lift this basketball town
to heights it hasn't known since the mid-80s. I want to see the
Pistons take us to the wire, night in and night out. Emotionally
drained. Leaving it all out on the floor. For Red. For DJ. I want
to face the Spurs in the finals. I want to go down 2-0 and come back
to Boston weary, but hungry. I want to shock the World - Worst to
First.

I want to be scared again. Not of losing, but of never reaching the
plateau of greatness. All this arrogance. All this "Titletown" crap.
There's no room for it. It doesn't taste as sweet as it does when
you leave it all out there. When you fight for respect. When you
fight for what is yours. Like the Giants did.

I for one am spent after this season and I'm glad it's over. Pitchers
and catchers in 10 days. I just hope we don't start the season on a
winning streak.

I Make You Believe

A guest blog by my sister, Emily:


having an eating disorder comes with some incredible talents. part of being sick is being proud of these talents that are really nothing to brag about. it's an amazing thing to watch your blood pressure drop, to have a successful 48 hour water fast, and (of course) to get away with it all.

the lies are what keep the disorder alive. if we're caught, it's over...at least until we get back on track. there's practically a handbook of answers for any question that gets thrown our way, and we're required to memorize them if we want to hang on. we lie to our parents about having plans to eat out with friends; we lie to our friends about already having eaten at home. we avoid eye-contact while we convince our doctors we've eaten 100% of our meal plans and stayed consistent with meds. we've mastered water-loading so the number they see on the scale is higher than our true nose-diving weight. and each time you're fooled, we come a little closer to winning.

it's a sick and twisted routine that we can't help. the eating disorder has a voice screaming at us 24/7 and we have no choice but to obey. it's loud and it owns us. you don't hear ED patients often talk about this voice because people don't understand. we don't want to be confused with schizophrenics. it's different, but it's hard to have "outsiders" understand what it sounds like, and it's hard for us to know we shouldn't acknowledge it because the voice sounds immensely like our own.

then, one day in treatment, after days of fighting and crying during meals, there's another voice. "shut the hell up. i have to eat this meal." and you do. and that ED voice hisses louder, but every time you tell it to fuck off, it's forced to loosen it's grip a tiny bit more. over time, that healthy voice becomes the dominant voice and eventually, there's that light at the end of the tunnel. the voice from hell is dying and that, my disordered friends, is the real win.

now, for those of you that have been blessed with "normal" eating habits, this is an extremely brief and rapid version of this process. the biggest part i have left out of the process was learning that that voice isn't ours and that it's lying to us. just because cream in our 10am coffee adds another 55 calories does not mean we'll suddenly put on another 10 lbs and we probably shouldn't eat again until our morning coffee tomorrow. that not only takes a long time to learn, but it takes a long time to want to learn. we control this. that's what it's all about.

the tie in here is that i no longer hear that voice. that voice officially died about a month and a half ago - maybe a little further back. but it was in my head and it made me lie for my life to everyone that meant anything to me. so how do people know it's gone, especially when they didn't know it was there to begin with? how do people know they can trust me again? how does a pathological liar prove that they're done lying? especially when my body's giving me such a hassle with weight-gain.

the intelligent doctors know that maintenance weight doesn't mean the eating disorder's gone, but it's also said that "body image is the last to go." clearly, it's not the same for everyone, just like eating disorders effect everyone in different ways. i have no body image problems, i am doing just fine dealing with my mentality without restriction, but my body's so used to being emaciated that it wants to get down there. and i keep fighting and stuffing...and my doctors keep wondering what's wrong. i feel like they're not completely understanding how detached from AN i really am, despite the fact that i am, by dictionary definition, still anorectic. i just need to push past that 85% mark.

all i can tell them (and everyone) is that i'm done lying. it creates toxicity that i've padded my life with for far too long. it's not saving me from anything. it's not worth losing trust over and i'm tired of being babysat because my staff can't trust anyone with an eating disorder.

* * *

For more, go to: http://emsr.blogspot.com/

Midterm elections

Time for another installment of "Guest Blog." One of my dearest friends, Crissy Delaney, never writes about politics, just like me. But we both did within hours of each other. Crissy's entry touches on the same themes as my last blog, except far more "poet's lament" than "curmudgeon's rant."

* * * * * * * * * * *

I am not in the habit of writing blogs that have correct punctuation, grammatical structure, or a coherent political point. Today, simply because it is the day after the midterm elections, will be an exception.

In my humble opinion this election was run extremely poorly. Neither side seemed to offer any coherent platform of ideas or general principles on which it would model its ensuing policies. Instead, there was petty back-and-forth name calling and shaming. Has our political system been reduced to a he-said-she-said argument? I ache for an election of ideas. We desperately need policies based on facts, truthful assessments, critical thinking, moderation, and creativity.
Our country is at a very precarious stage and needs clarity of purpose.

The lack of a coherent platform led the Democrats to a negative victory. Negative in the sense that it was clear most people voted against the Republicans and against Bush, not necessarily for the Democrats. This in no way provides the Democrats with any type of moral, political, or intellectual mandate. They struggle to make sense of their own party and carry the critical issues (war, education, the scope of presidential prerogative, the treatment of prisoners, international relations, security, the economy, the competence of the judiciary, the list goes on and on…) into the unknown.

I have grown weary of this nation without purpose. It is as if every political and social issue is decided on an ad hoc basis, without recourse to any fundamental principles or values that the nation can generally agree on. The United States seems to be in a severe identity crisis. With each new issue there is a new battle for the meaning of the country itself.

As I sit here, disagreeing with many of my peers on current events and politics in general, I am wondering what it truly means to be from the United States. When discussing minority rights today a professor of mine quoted a scholar who said (paraphrased) that the only thing common among women of the world is that some of them, at some point in their lives, may give birth to a child.

Does our nationality unite us more than that? Is being "American" just saying that some of us, at some point in our lives, have lived on United States soil?

Is there nothing more we can build upon?

I look to the Constitution, I look to the Declaration of Independence, I look to the Federalist Papers, I look to the engraving on the Statue of Liberty, I look to the Civil War, I look to the writings of the Civil Rights Movement, I look to Beat Poetry, I look to decades of photojournalism, I look to American art, I look to the atomic bomb, I look to our movies and our songs, I look to our literature, I look to the history books, I look to the NY Times, I look I look I look I look I look

in search of a purpose to unite.

This election has tarnished the quality of our democratic system. It was fought as if it were a team sport…cheerleaders, drunks, overzealous fans and all. I await, in hopeful anticipation, change.

"America the plum blossoms are falling."- (Allen Ginsberg)

No horse for Jayme

As you all know, I avoid voicing my political preferences on the Internet and have always encouraged you to do the same for many reasons. For this post, I'll break that rule ever so slightly in order to express my disdain with the grand illusion of democracy we call "the Presidential Election."

Bill Richardson for President.

Those 4 words charged me up for 2008 more than any others (besides "Johan Santana trade rumors..."). I believe in his diverse and worldly experience. I believe he's most equipped to lead an empirical debate on illegal immigration and the future our nation's workforce and education structure. I believe he's leading a state into the 21st century that is so rooted in old-style thinking, it allowed cockfighting until last summer (Mississippi is the final safe haven for enjoying this savage ritual).

But I'm not writing this as a Richardson supporter, but rather as a member of the 10-15% of Americans who has lost his Horse. Who's to blame? The Media? The voters? Bill Richardson? I don't think we can accurately answer this question without first eliminating the most obvious variable in campaign politics: money.

I understand that fundraising is, in its own right, a fair resume booster; it displays a candidate's ability to network, inspire, and surround yourself with competent people. But if you have $10, $20, $50 million more than your opponent, that money can buy more time to fend off attacks, explain one of your more complicated agenda items while your opponents' remain... complicated in the public view, or ram one of your simple stances down everyone's throat 10, 20, 50 times more (I hope that you hope that someday we can all hope for hope in this hopeful land of hope).

With no caps on private campaign spending to give each candidate a more equal-sized microphone and less time to woo voters with each state moving up its primaries, candidates only have to win over the media, which represents what? 0.6% of the American population? (If anyone has the real stat, please post it; I wanna know). It doesn't matter that no one trusts the media. These are the people that pick the soundbites you judge, that decide what commercial clips in Iowa will be broadcast over a 24-hour period on national cable. They decide. To some extent, they always will. And believe it or not, I don't hold it against them (we have to get our news somehow). But their insane level of influence only proves to me how important it is that we eliminate other variables like campaign spending. Give each viable candidate a similar-sized microphone. If it lets a few "I with free so-and-so from prison" crazies in just so the Bill Richardsons can finally be heard, I'm all for it.

Unfortunately, that's up to the very people that benefit from exuberant fundraising. So I guess we're all fucked... unless, of course, you truly believe in one of the "Top 7."

Well I don't. So I've sentenced myself to reading up on the remaining bobbleheads and deciding which one seems least likely to sign a law I wouldn't like. What an inspiring commercial THAT would make:

"Hi, I'm Secretary of State Bill Galvin, reminding you that this election includes some people that might... sign a law... that you think is, like, really bad n stuff. So uh... please vote."

*sigh*

2007

The simplest way I segment the stages of my life is in 3 parts:
1982-2003: I counted on myself (and my nuclear family) for just about everything
2003-2006: I sensed that my ego and impatience was eating away at some of my potential; I began to chill out, talk less, and listen more to try to learn what opportunities I'd been missing (or at least not fully appreciating)
2007- : I truly began to feel like a part of whatever environment I'm in (foreign or familiar, be it a room or an entire city)

Phase 3 began with my "New Life's Resolution" (see 1/27/07 entry) and the book that helped me realize what parts of my personality I (and everyone around me) could do without. As a result, I've had a very relaxing and rewarding year despite its many changes and challenges.

I kicked off 2007 in Maine, watching my father get a stem-cell transplant (the results of which are ambiguous at best and seemingly ineffective). I performed a demanding, high-profile job for 7 months, knowing all the while that it was last 7 months I'd probably ever do it. I solidified a second home for myself 2400 miles from where I began, a home filled with the very people that helped me transition from my second Phase into my third. That Key from the City of Las Cruces is the single most meaningful physical gift I've ever received. It is proof to me that I've come into a very healthy and productive place in my life, as well as a salute to all the friends I made down there. I simply would have had little desire to accomplish what I did without your love.

My Quote of 2007 encapsulates this sense of family among my Borderland friends. It may sound collegiate. But trust me, B-Rizz "said" much more than she said:

"We may run out of food. We may run out of blankets. But we will never-- never-- run out of booze."

* * * * *

A few toasts, darts, and racks later, I came home... Five months in, I still feel caught in a whirlwind of reunions. Living back at home has proved to me I never want to live outside driving distance from my parents. Reconnecting with my sister (who I haven't had a day-to-day relationship with since I graduated high school) has made this homecoming wholly worth it on its own. I saw 8 dear friends wed. And I truly believe this current job is taking me right where I'm trying to go. Don't bother asking... I have no idea where that is yet.

My defining moment of 2007 will remain the exchange I had with Dad when Colorado's Seth Smith stepped to the plate, shortly before Jonathan Papelbon struck him out to end the World Series:
Dad: "I'm glad you're here."
Me: "I'm glad you are, too."

I will never forget 2007. It was a year of extreme tests. But I am far stronger and more stable from it and I will always look back on it fondly. To half of you, thank you so much for having me. To the other half, thanks so much for having me back.

To '07. To '08.
L'Chayim...

This is a non-denominational tune...

If holidays are anything else besides convenient travel days to spend with family, they are blocks of times designated for pondering the subject at hand. So in the spirit of giving, please allow me to unwrap a bit of prose concerning one of our species' most influential figures:

* * * * *

I find the story of Jesus the most fascinating of all stories fact or fiction. Here, we have the story of wise and loving man who tried to perform a simple gesture: leave the world a better place than he found it. Instead, his legacy was left to those who made him the focus, rather than his deeds.

Whether this was a sincere attempt by his successors to add credibility to his lessons or not, it has led, I feel, to some schools of thought that view living as a means rather than an activity to be enjoyed.

I find it ironic, too, that the cast of characters following each respective religious school (be they Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, et cetera) want the same thing; one single, simple thing: Security. The feeling of waking up each day, walking outside to greet the sun and saying "We have food, we have friendly neighbors, my children can pursue their dreams here." Yet, the bishops, kings, and queens on the board have outlined such unobtainable criteria for achieving "security" that we, as a species, may never have it.

I'm not surprised by this; not one population of our species has ever been safe from attack. However, the fact that many still believe peace possible is endearing at best to me. And many find religious leaders who demand the conversion or annihilation of entire peoples as a path to this "peace" contradictory.

So let's follow these breadcrumbs back out of the rabbit hole... what would your message to the masses be on Christmas given that Jesus's lessons have been molded to fit countless (sometimes conflicting) agendas and that Peace on earth doesn't seem to be arriving anytime soon? A cynical question, perhaps, but one I think we need to address if this birthday celebration is to have any purpose beyond: "Here's to one who tried."

So... what would yours be?

Let it Snow

(Dedicated to my friends on the border... I'm sure you'll enjoy this one)
* * * * *

So my recent posts have all been rainbows and smiles... relishing in the life of one sentenced to a cubicle, doing humidity-induced sweat angels on the Commons, lauding the constant swearing and honking by the Newton tolls as the chorus to my favorite forgotten song...

Well, my old pal Snow thought it was time he came and shook my hand... and the very foundations of my mental stability.

Yes, it was only 4-6 inches of snow on Thursday afternoon. The snowologists were quick to point out this was not a big storm in terms of white stuff BUT that, due to the timing of the storm, it was one of the worst commutes they'd ever seen.

I got in my car in South Boston at 1:15. Trying for a short-cut on a back ramp with few signs, I accidentally missed the Pike and ended up on I-93. For those of you who "know" and see where this is going, I'll give you a second to laugh.

Done? Thankssss.

I dropped myself off at Government Center, which at 1:45 on Thursday was the driving equivalent of Eric Mangini dropping himself off at Cask 'n Flagon... I wasn't going anywhere fast. Now Gov't Center is north of my office, so imagine my morale level as I'm passing my office at 3:30... with an 1/8 of a tank left. Had my saint of a sister not rescued me from my storm-induced retardation and suggested I abandon the car in the nearest garage and take the train home, you could have added mine to the 728 cars towed off the highways by State Police later that night.

As I approach South Station with a film of slush on my head, a $35 garage ticket in my pocket, a glimmer of false hope that the trains are on schedule, and ready to punch out the first person that says "Boy, it's really comin' down, huh?" regardless of age or gender (I don't discriminate), a familiar sight started to bring me back to earth. It was the lady I see every day passing out free Boston Nows (I do the sedokus in the back). She smiled and said "it's good to see you." I told myself at that point that life truly does go on and all that matters is I'm on my way home.

As coincidence would have it, I saw my card buddies on the platform (oh that's right... for a month now, I've played a new card game on the 4:58 with this group of 7-8 that call themselves "Trainiacs"). Apparently everyone decided to grab the 4:10 and we had a nice, relaxing game home.

Emy was here when I got home at 6:15 (I left at 1:15, so you don't have to scroll up), so it was all 5 of us watching The Office in Dad's room. Plus, I needed my car in Boston on Friday anyway. So everything worked out and I escaped with some pretty valuable lessons I once learned, passed on, and apparently forgot while playing in the sand for 2 years:

a) don't let your tank slip below 1/4 between October 1 and March 31
b) top off your washer fluid every day on your lunch break during the same time period
c) there is no quick way out of Boston Monday-Friday in a snowstorm unless you live in Charlestown and have a kayak handy... and the bay hasn't frozen... which it has. So scratch that too.

I'm gonna go print c) and glue it to my steering wheel so I can read it to myself every time I utter the words: "Hey, I think I have an idea."

Today's mission: Snow tires for my winter monster, the Corolla, before Shitshow Part Deux slams the commonwealth tonight.

"Well, it doesn't show signs of stopping..."

~Rube

So Drink Your Gin & Tonikah

[From December 16, 2006... if you haven't seen it, it's new to you]

* * * * *

Few holidays capture the American spirit quite like Hanukkah.


Hanukkah is the story of an army outnumbered fighting against a world power on its adopted "home" turf to gain social and religious freedom. Sound familiar?

Sure, 80% of Americans may celebrate Christmas (US Census Bureau, 2001). But 100% of Americans aspire to live with the spirit of Hanukkah. We breathe free thanks to the sacrifices of our own "Maccabees" who traveled an ocean to escape oppression. And thousands every year flock to this country to share in their victory. Just like Israel has grown to more than 6 million people, 75% of which are "home"coming Jews.

Going back to Christmas. Ignorant people wonder (and intelligent people joke) that Hanukkah is the Jewish Christmas. Consider this: Had the Maccabees fallen to the Assyrians, might that have set monotheism back a few hundred years? I don't mean to suggest we'd be worse off as a species worshiping multiple deities, only to point out that we've all come this far partly due to "the great miracle that happened there."

* * * * *

And so, my fellow Americans, I propose a toast to true warriors of freedom, predecessors of the American spirit. L'Chayim.

Happy Hanukkah to all. And to all, a good week.

JaRube
-30-

My New Cyber Home + My Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and welcome to my new Blogger blog.

I made the change so:
a) you don't have to join MySpace to view Blogs
b) my "Notes" don't get lost in the madness on your Facebook homepage
c) I could give my old ramblings new hotness

My old blogs are also posted here. The important ones, anyways.

While you're reading this... I might as well renew an old request for any topics you'd like my take on. Or you can always send me a "Guest Blog" if you'd like to share an experience, a stance, a thought, et cetera: jarubenstein@gmail.com

* * * * *
MY THANKSGIVING

...was perfect. For most of the day, it was just Mom, Dad, Emy, me, and Sammy splitting his time equally on all of our laps. We had no energy to cook and would have been perfectly content with tuna fish and cheese sandwiches and football, but Gramma and some friends stopped by with an entire Thanksgiving dinner.

I've reunited with a lot of old classmates and friends this weekend so far. I've fielded more than my share of "I'm sorry"s. And I returned each with a Thank You and my best reassuring smile. But I'll tell ya what... I have so much to be Thankful for today. When I think back someday on the 5 of us together, I will never picture holiday/event dinners. I'll see us all sitting in a room talking about just about everything, giving each other crap for this or that, while Mom's doing a mailing, Dad's lying down watching a game with me while Emy and I are on each other's laptops and Sammy's hopping from lap to lap. And that's exactly what we did today.

I am Whole. I am so glad to be Home.
Here's to what we have, and whatever comes...

Have a great weekend. Thanks -as always- for reading,
Rube

Update

For starters, I'm no longer playing cribbage on the train. Two weeks into our game, my card partner suggested we hang out some upcoming weekend. I gracefully turned him down, asking that we keep our arrangement to weekday card-playing. He replied that the other players all socialized off the clock and that he took my refusal as a personal insult. I wished him all the best and walked away.

While it's no skin off my back, I was slightly saddened that people throw out perfectly good relationships because they try to make them something they're not. Now I sit across from a nice girl my age. Half the ride, we discuss our days, our friends, and how it feels to stare up the company totem pole. The half, she reads and I do Sedoku. Six straight weeks of reading up on the current of the American public education system will cause one to take up Sedoku for at least a month. That means I have another 24 days of Sedoku. This is not a bad thing.

* * * * *

My father is not well. A virus put him in the hospital for a week or so. He's home now. But again, he's not well. It doesn't seem like the January procedure did it's job. We think it's because, while scleroderma can be contracted from the environment, it's in Dad's genetic code. So I guess we took scleroderma stem cells out and put them back in. What can you do? The doctors have no timetables, no chances of this or that. They're only certain of one thing: the scleroderma is taking its toll. So we're rolling with the punches and making the most of this time.

I constantly remind myself certain things: 1) We've truly done everything we can. 2) Our efforts to save Dad simultaneously brought together friends and strangers, spread such awareness about this disease, and raised a significant amount of money for the National Federation of Transplants. 3) We all gotta go somehow. Death is part of life... this is what we signed up for. And that's why I'm honestly at a loss for words when people say "I'm sorry." Sure, many of you have told me that, and I do appreciate the sentiment. I've said "I'm sorry" too. But think about it. You're sorry someone's dying? If everyone dies eventually, we should be glad they lived instead. You might say "Well, I'm sorry he's dying young." That implies that we should have enjoyed more years with someone. To that, I'd say that with 7 billion people on this earth, let's focus on being grateful that we met that person at all. No matter what life serves up, there are at least two ways of looking at it. I choose positive. This is not a front. It's a choice, my lifestyle. I humbly offer these ramblings as a suggestion for another perspective that I've found quite comforting.

To be clear, I don't know if Dad's got days or years left. That's just the point... I don't know. So I'm making the most of it.

Let's see, now... (looks down at checklist)
Job's great. Still single. Go Pats. I think that wraps it up for now...

Rube