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A little perspective, please

Can you feel it? The end of the long and tedious 2008 presidential campaign is finally drawing to a close. All of the mud slinging, name calling, political posturing and saber rattling of the campaign will soon give-way to the mud slinging, name calling, political posturing and saber rattling of daily political life. 51% of the country will be thrilled. 49% of the country will begin printing contrarian bumper stickers. Four years later we'll do it all again. 

As stated in an earlier post, I believe that the entire process is largely an absurd dance... an opportunity to roll-out slogans and slam your same-party opponents before the primaries, only to stand hand-in-hand with them weeks later during the convention. In the beginning you pander to your base. In the end you pander to the middle. Somewhere along the spectrum is the real "you" and we voting citizens need to separate the wheat from the chaff and make a decision. It's not perfect but it's the way things are.

One of the things that I find particularly troubling this time out is that the media seems to be much more focused on the "chaff" than the "wheat." Things that matter - such as voting records - are tough to find in your local paper. Things that are of little consequence - such as First Lady fashions - are everywhere. I'm frustrated by the spin and long for a return to the fundamentals of journalism: news happens, reporters deliver facts, readers interpret. Easy, right?

Like most things in life, however, that which is of greatest value is also that which requires the most effort. So, in an attempt to ferret-out some deeper meaning to the day's events, I often try to counterbalance what is covered in the news with some additional datapoints which may deliver a fuller understanding of a particular issue. (I know... true to form, a decidedly nerdy approach.)

I also enjoy being able to watch news as it happens - such as the first presidential debate - then read a recounting of the event through the eyes of the media... just to see what is discussed. The first Obama/McCain debate was interesting and, in my humble and unsolicited opinion, a stalemate. There were opportunities missed and advantages taken by both sides, but neither delivered a major gaffe or knockout blow. Still and all, it was interesting to watch and even more interesting to read what was covered in the papers and on the web.

Of all the things that could have been written about or commented upon during the debates, I was a bit surprised at how much scrutiny was placed on McCain's posture and body language. Putting aside the lack of eye contact between he and Obama, several reports from bloggers, media outlets and more than a few comments from the Twitterati seemed to focus on his demeanor. Several accounts stated that McCain came across as stiff or uncomfortable and one individual even described his stance as "bizarre." After reading these accounts, as well as the comments of McCain having difficulty using a keyboard, I was curious as to the extent of the injuries sustained while he was a POW. What I discovered was gut-wrenching.

The lion's share of the following was excerpted directly from the POW section of McCain's heavily-sourced and footnoted Wikipedia page, but here's a snapshot:

• McCain's capture and imprisonment began on Oct. 26, 1967 when his plane was shot down over Hanoi. He fractured both arms, a leg and nearly drowned before his 'rescue.' 
• After being pulled ashore, he was bayoneted and his shoulder was crushed.  
• He spent six weeks in a hospital where he was placed in a chest cast and lost 50 pounds. He was then thrown in a cell with two other POWs who didn't expect him to live another week.
• He was offered early release by his captors but declined, as McCain didn't want to be used as a propaganda tool. He was then tortured mercilessly, beaten every two hours and forced to sign a "confession." 
• After signing the confession, he was beaten two to three times per week for refusal to sign additional confessions.  
• McCain was finally released on March 14, 1973 - some five-and-a-half years later. 

I am of the opinion that an individual's voting preference is a somewhat private affair - what box you check and what your brain and heart tell you to do is for you and you alone. There's nothing that I or anyone can say or do to sway your opinion and I think that's a very good thing. Choices this monumental should be made on the merit of your careful consideration and based upon facts, not based upon the story-of-the-hour put forth by cable news, the blogosphere or the New York Times.

If you look into the background of each candidate, there are plenty of decisions (or lack of decisions) which can and should provide fodder for questioning and analysis. However, when individuals or media outlets fixate on something that is both superficial and explainable - especially once you learn why McCain's posture may not live-up to picture-perfect expectations - it just seems amateurish. Or as one of my Twitter pals stated "very low-rent."

Ghost Stories

For those who check this blog on a regular basis, you've most likely realized that my posts have been few and far between. This isn't from neglect or loss of interest mind you, rather I've been working on some very exciting - and very time-consuming - projects at work and I simply haven't been able to find the time. (I love blogging but it takes a backseat to time with the family.) I've been routinely logging 60-70 hour weeks for the past month or so but, I must admit, I love it. Great company. Great people. 

I had a sense that this time of year was going to be incredibly hectic, so I planned a mini-vacation at the end of August and booked a few days at a nice seaside resort on Cape Cod... a kind of pre-emptive strike against the "you're working too hard" objections that my wife was sure to raise.

Going to the Cape always stirs a bit of mixed emotions for me. Each summer, my parents would pack-up the car, do their best to keep my sister and I from bickering during the entire two-hour drive and headed eastward to the Cape. For one week each year, we would call Hyannis home. Nothing fancy. No quaint little cottage. Just a simple motor inn with a pool and a gameroom, but it was heaven to me. We would spend the week together as a family, of course, but my Dad and I always found some time to sneak away from "the girls" to go deep sea fishing, shoot some pool or just to go for a ride in the big ol' Buick Riviera - sunroof open, windows down and the stereo cranked.

As I roll over the Bourne Bridge with my own family, all of those memories came rushing back. On our way to the resort, we passed by that old motor lodge and, as if on autopilot, I came thisclose to turning into the parking lot. My Dad just isn't himself these days - a little less sharp, a little more mortal - and it's killing me. Being out on the Cape, especially close to my old stomping grounds, served to underscore just how much time has passed and how much things can change over the years. A couple of weeks after coming home from vacation, I spent three days visiting my Dad in the hospital as he recovered from pneumonia. The indestructible man with street smarts and a fireplug build has now become borderline frail and occasionally disoriented. I feel as if the roles of child and parent are reversing.

Despite these challenges, there are moments when he's still as sharp as ever and "the old Dad" emerges... he's at his best these days when he's around the grandkids or cracking jokes with my wife. Then there are the times when "the old Dad" pops-up even when he isn't physically there - when I'm playing catch with my son or walking on the jetty with all of the kids (all the ones who aren't in a stroller anyway.) He taught me everything I know about being a "grown-up" and I still seek his advice on a regular basis. 

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting Cape Cod, words can't do it justice. The towering dunes and sweeping seascapes are certainly part of the allure. What's more breathtaking, however, is the magical, almost spectral quality that hangs over this narrow strip of land jutting into the Atlantic. The history here is palpable. Sea captains and pirates, captains of industry and ordinary working-class families... Cape Cod has marked the centuries by the coming-and-going of people from all walks of life and their energies seem to coalesce and cling to the shores. There's an indescribable warmth to the place that transcends the sun and surf depicted on postcards and can be felt even on the greyest of days. Perhaps that's why if you visit the Cape once, there's a better-than-average chance that you'll be back again. 

And such is the case with my family. After spending just three days on Nantucket Sound in West Yarmouth, the kids have already declared this as "the best vacation EVER" and are begging me for a return trip next year... but maybe staying just a bit longer next time. We'll do all of the same things I did with my parents: ride the go-karts, play mini golf, buy salt water taffy and stuff ourselves with fish and chips. 

Another "must do" has always been hitting one of the many souvenir stores to buy something which will serve as a reminder of the trip... I still have my collection of kitschy wooden figures of sea captains and fishermen. My son walked out of the Tradewinds Gift Shop with a toy pirate pistol. My daughter brought home a pet hermit crab, complete with garish red shell. My wife picked out a plush toy lobster for the baby and a cast iron buoy windchime for the house. As for me, I picked up a book of Cape Cod-themed ghost stories - named Cape Encounters - autographed by one of the authors, Dan Gordon.

What I love most about this book is that it doesn't take an "it was a dark and stormy night" approach to the tales. Instead, the author chose to recount the stories through the words and perceptions of those he interviewed. In so doing, he captured a very intimate snapshot of what the Cape is all about. The ghosts, as described in this collection, come across not as vengeful spirits or ghoulish apparitions, but as residents - perhaps even custodians - of the homes and buildings in which they reside. 

Maybe its the salt air or maybe its the constant ebb and flow of families across the bridge across the seasons, but the Cape does conjure up its fair share of ghosts... for tourists and residents alike.

Seven years ago...

September 11, 2001. 

For some it seems like a lifetime away. I mean, it is 2008 after all. There are candidates to tear apart, snide comments to be made, wars to politicize, planets to save... busy, busy, busy.

For others, however, the pain, horror and sense of loss are as palpable as if it happened yesterday. Not since Pearl Harbor has the United States been given a sucker-punch of this magnitude, and certainly never before have we faced anything quite as destructive to decidedly civilian targets.

I was visiting my in-laws in Florida on that day, my now very active third-grader was still toddling around in diapers at the time. On the morning of the 11th, we decided that it would be a beautiful day for a boat ride so we headed to the docks, picked a charter that fit our needs and bought our tickets. We had some time to kill before the boat was to leave the docks, so my wife and her Mom headed to St. Armand's Circle for a bit of shopping while my Father-in-law, my son and I went to a nearby park for a stroll and a chat. The sun was beaming. The waves were lapping against the sea wall. Serenity.

An hour later we reconvened at the dock - my wife and her Mom flush with the thrill of finding some good deals - when the news first came through on the radio. I could discern chunks of the report... "terrible accident"... "plane flew into one of the towers"... "must have been engine problems"... "seeking confirmation from airline." I did a quick mental check of friends, family and colleagues who may have been traveling that day, determined that everyone was on the ground at that time and got ready to board the boat without much concern. It was terrible news to be sure, but the sunny Florida coast seemed a world away.

We then heard another report: a second plane had hit the second tower. Then news of the Pentagon. And we all know how the rest of that day progressed.

In short order, the news went from that of a tragic single event to a catastrophe that would shake the foundations of whatever sense of security - false or otherwise - we felt when on our own soil. This was going to change our lives. This was going to change the world.  

There was a small contingent on the boat that day, my party plus a handful tourists, and we were all sitting in relatively comfortable chairs on the oversized stern deck when the captain's voice crackled through over the loudspeaker.

"Well folks," he said, "it's pretty clear that there is something happening right now and, like most of you, I have no idea what it all means. I do know, however, that we have clear skies and favorable seas and I for one would love to go out and make the most of this morning while we can, because Lord knows what the future will hold for us when we get back. So for those of you who would like to go ashore or need to check on loved ones, we'll be happy to refund your ticket... and you have the thoughts and prayers of me and my crew. For the rest of you, however, I'll do my best to give you a great morning."

Everyone exchanged glances but not a single soul left that boat. There seemed to be a nervous apprehension - an internal tug of war between the emotion that we somehow didn't deserve to go on a leisure cruise amidst the chaos happening in other parts of the country and the emotion that, as the captain indicated, stepping off the boat meant that we were setting foot on soil that had been forever changed. So we stayed on-board and did our best to enjoy the morning. I'm not sure if anyone was successful.

Upon return from the cruise, we hopped in the car and made our way back to my in-laws' house, listening to the radio all the way. Reports were chaotic, confused and terrifying. The steely veneer of calm and impartiality that all of us who went through J-school were taught had vanished. The events of the day had transformed the talking heads into humans, emotions were too big to compartmentalize and tuck into the quiet corners that the public can not see.

While watching the news reports, my father-in-law picked-up the phone to call his sister. Her son - his nephew, my wife's cousin - was an up-and-comer at Cantor-Fitzgerald. We could only hear one side of the conversation of course, but the look on his face said it all. "So you haven't heard from him... well he's probably okay but he just can't get through... I'll keep the line clear and check in later." During the next few hours, my father-in-law did check in again. And again. And again. The news was always the same. No word.

A few weeks later we were all at the cousin's funeral service, as were what seemed like hundreds of others. We met a few people from Cantor who informed us that recently their lives had become comprised of the following routine: wake-up, go to service, go to mercy meal, get on plane, fly to next service. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I had met this particular cousin only once or twice before, which is fairly typical of large families with many branches, but I distinctly remember that he had an aura of confidence, competence and joy about him... just one of those people who was a genuinely nice guy. And although I hardly knew him, his passing hit me pretty hard. Attending the service, seeing the ripple effects of how his passing affected people, seeing his name in newspapers... it was heatbreaking. Thousands of individuals around the world went through the same experience. Surely my life and the lives of others would be forever changed by the attacks, right? 

Well today, seven years on, so much has changed but so much remains the same. 

The baby I was pushing around in a carriage that crisp September morning is now an extremely outgoing third-grader. I'm pushing a carriage once again, this time with a four-month-old baby boy aboard. Bracketed between the boys is my five-year-old daughter who is equal parts tomboy and princess. 

When we travel, there are a few extra hoops to jump through. I can no longer take my iced coffee through the security checkpoint. My shoes need to be X-rayed. Occasionally I am pulled out of line for additional screening by virtue of random selection. Some things have changed.

As I drive through neighborhoods - particularly those near large urban centers - I see few American flags. When in line at the airport, there's always at least one individual who starts bitching about the wait or the extra security precautions. Once through security, few people approach men and women in uniform to say "thank you" or "take care" or "God bless." When I turn on the television, I see partisan sniping and divisive political attacks. Some things remain the same. The brief moment of unity we witnessed after the attacks have long since vanished.

Today we'll have moments of silence, we'll have blood drives and the "candidates of change" will call a temporary cease-fire in the war of rhetoric, but I'm really interested in hearing about what YOU plan on doing to commemorate the day. Are you going to do anything special? 

Are you going to say an extra prayer? If you're not of that ilk, will you give some extra money to a charity? Will you volunteer in a soup kitchen? Will you simply take a moment out of your busy life and spend a little extra time with your family? Will you show an extra measure of patience with your kids or with the coworker who can sometimes drive you up the wall? Will you just take a little extra time for yourself and do what brings you joy? A walk on the ocean? Coffee and a new book? Take in a movie? Sit and think?

No matter what you plan to do today - whether you take some time to give back to those around you or simply carve-out a bit of extra time to take a break from your routine - it's time well-spent. In my opinion, commemorating the day doesn't require grand gestures... it simply requires that you pause - even for the most fleeting of moments - and do something different or constructive. Sometimes just living - truly living - is the best way to honor those who have passed. 

Goodbye Princeton, Goodbye CERN

Find more videos like this on www.truveo.com.

Well, today was the day that many people thought the world would end. CERN's Large Hadron Collider (LHC) went "live," taking one giant leap for mankind as we search for the Higgs boson - a.k.a. the 'God particle." In our quest to crack the dark matter code, some have theorized that those nutty physicists on the French/Swiss border would actually create a black hole or some similarly-destructive doomsday scenario. (There's a great article from the folks at Discover / Bad Astronomy addressing these concerns... you should check it out.)

Although this remarkable project has inspired mass hysteria and Stephen Hawking is betting against it, the science behind it has already inspired some great work.

Tribe - one of the greatest bands you've probably never heard - was a staple of the Boston music scene in the late 80s / early 90s and, while attending NU, I probably caught at least a dozen of their shows... always a great live act. They've long since split-up and several of the band members went on to bigger and better things (namely Harmonix,) but one of their songs in particular seems quite fitting for the day's events.

So in honor of the folks at CERN, I give you "Supercollider." ENJOY! (Note: If the video doesn't play in the space above, hit this link instead.)