I Was Bob Dole's Wingman - In Memory of Bob Dole

 "Senator Robert Joseph Dole died early this morning in his sleep. At his death, at age 98, he had served the United States of America faithfully for 79 years," according to a statement from his family.

I hated Bob Dole. I loved Bob Dole. A staunch conservative, he defended the criminal Nixon till the end. He fought for the people of Kansas, including the farmers and the hungry, as a good liberal should. He was uncompromising, and he knew when to compromise. None of these are contradictions. Bob Dole was a great American.

I had the honor of meeting Senator Dole in about 1997 or '98, not too long after his final run for president in '96. I was in Washington, DC, at a conference for nonprofit folks working on issues of hunger and food insecurity. After the first long day of sessions, there was an evening reception and into the midst of it all walked a familiar face, as casually as anybody else in attendance.

Others came up to greet him and awkwardly tried to reach out with their right hands for a proper handshake and failed to understand when he responded with this left (good) hand. When it was my turn, I somehow had the presence of mind to reach out with my left. I think he appreciated that, because I was swept along with him into the next conversation.

Bob and I were then in a group of several of college interns, mostly female, who were working the conference. Rather than talk about food policy, Bob wanted to know what universities everybody attended, and how were their football teams doing. I guess I was still fresh enough out of college (grad school, at least) to participate and chat with the young women and my new best bud, Bob. If neither of us were married, we might have gotten lucky.

Before too long, however, Bob went home to his wife, Elizabeth, and I went up to my room (alone) to call my wife, Leslie, and tell her who I'd been hanging out with.

There was a time in America, not all that long ago it seems, when political opponents weren't seen as the enemy. We could disagree, grumble, and fight, and still find common ground to stand on. There was a time when somebody with a different position than ours could still earn our respect for standing up for what they believed was right. Not every difference was considered proof of evil intent, and it rarely was.

Senator Bob Dole died early this morning. May his memory be for a blessing.

In Memory of J.D. Chandler

My good old friend, John, known professionally as J.D. Chandler, passed yesterday, while in the hospital following his fifth heart attack.

We met in Jr. High School, 1975. John and Crazy Tom were budding film-makers, and they asked Dave and I, future rock stars, to create a soundtrack for their upcoming epic of the Spanish Civil War, The Unknown Soldier. It would take me several more years to catch the Hemingway reference there.

John and Tom would come by my house where Dave and I would set up in the garage and play our latest addition to the soundtrack. We'd ask how the script was coming, and if there were any pages we could see so we'd know what kind of a groove we were looking for. "Any day now," was always the answer. "Any day now."

At one of these garage sessions, my brother Miles stopped in to listen. After everybody had gone home, Miles asked who that older kid with the full beard was, somebody's older brother? No, just our friend John, fourteen like the rest of us.

After Dave moved out of town I joined with John and Tom in the film making and we created Ogilvy Cinema Productions. A Quiet Place to Live was the first major production under John's direction, and filming commenced in a room at the Vagabond Hotel rented for the project. The star was Shelly, who would be the star of nearly all of Ogilvy's productions, and my on-and-off sometime girlfriend through much of High School. But we met in a room at the Vagabond on Ventura Boulevard.

Other Ogilvy films directed by John in that period included Dismembered - a ripped from the headlines story of a jilted wife who dismembers her wayward husband, stuffs him into a trash bag or two, and takes him for a cross-country road trip - and Today is Friday - from Ernest Hemingway's one act play of the crucifixion (I played 1st Roman Soldier). 

Our final major Ogilvy effort, co-directed by John, Tom, and I, was Road Time - a documentary about the Small World Band, a San Diego group ready to burst out of the local scene and hit the big time (and, coincidentally, my brother, Steve's band). Our vision was to make a film that would book-end nicely with Martin Scorsese's Last Waltz, about the Band giving up the road and going their separate ways.

For John's eighteenth birthday we arranged to see eighteen films. We started with some early matinees of current releases, cheated a bit with a mid-day showing of that year's Oscar Nominated Shorts at the Nuart just to boost our numbers, and finished with the midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Tiffany on Sunset. It was a fairly typical Saturday for us in those days.

Not to even begin to talk about all the concerts: The Kinks, Warren Zevon, The Kinks, Arlo Guthrie, The Kinks, Tim Curry, The Kinks, Flo and Eddie, The Kinks...

Then, just like that, our teenage years were over, some were off to college, others to work, John entered the Army, and Tom was in protective state custody. 

Not that the good times ended, they just slowed down a bit.

There was the time that we were all gathered at Bill's place just outside the Cal Poly SLO campus for a bout of heavy drinking, but were disturbed by the noise of traffic outside with horns blaring and people screaming. John, always one to take control of a situation, went out and, though he was barely able to stand, somehow got on top of a mail box or a trash can and began directing traffic and cleared up the situation in no time.

There's the story of the Morro Four (John, Dave, Bill, and I) and our arrest and trial for endangering the Peregrine Falcons nesting on Morro Rock while on our way to visit Tom (in protective state custody).

There was the time that John was stationed at DLI (Defense Language Institute) but on leave down in L.A. At the end of the visit he said it was time for me to drop him at the Greyhound bus station. I refused. He said it was either that or take him to DLI. I weighed the options: 20 minutes to North Hollywood or seven hours to Monterey? The answer was clear: one never turns down the opportunity for a road trip. We kidnapped Dave and Bill from their respective dorms along the way.

Visits back and forth slowed down as life and all the complications it brings came upon us, but we were never out of touch for very long.

The Morro Four held a reunion many years later in Reno, with a horseback ride along the Truckee River and visits to Virginia City (where you can see Mark Twain's commode) and some of the locations from The Misfits.

In 2010, John and I made a trip together to Hawaii to visit Pearl Harbor on December 7 (and go back on the 8th), crash every beach-side hotel bar in Honolulu, and still get up for the free Ukulele lessons each morning.

My wife, Leslie, and I visited John in Portland probably three or four times in the last decade and enjoyed his walking tours of Portland's most notorious murders, burials, and hauntings (view my videos of John's Portland tours here...).

John had succeeded as a writer, finding his niche in the lesser known - some might say seedy - history of the Portland area, publishing several books on the subject. Like me, he also continued the film bug with occasional short videos to YouTube, and he did a bit with Podcasts and blogging as well. He'd just recently picked up a guitar and was finally starting to learn that as well. I was looking forward to jamming with him on my next trip up.

And then, earlier this week, he posted to Facebook that he was in the hospital following his fifth heart attack. Last night his sister-in-law posted that he had passed that morning.

Of course, it had to be in a week when I was re-reading the short stories of Ernest Hemingway, and right in the middle of The Snows of Kilimanjaro.

Farewell J.D. Chandler. He loved my Nana's knishes. May your memory be for a blessing.

Damn the Torpedoes

Sometimes I get discouraged,
Sometimes I feel so down,
Sometimes I get so worried,
And I don't know what about.
But it works out in the long run,
It always goes away,
I've come now to accept it
As a reoccurring phase.
Why worry 'bout the rain?
Why worry 'bout the thunder?
Century City's got everything covered.

I remember, sometime in late 1976, hearing Breakdown for the first time on the radio and thinking there was something there that set this new kid apart from everything else we'd been hearing. There was the validation of the viewpoint when Roger McGuinn covered American Girl on his Thunderbyrd LP.

By the end of 1979, I had just graduated High School, and I recall being in line at Tower Records, Sunset Blvd, to pick up "Damn the Torpedoes" on the day it was released. I'd already heard much of it on the radio - Refugee for sure, maybe Here Comes My Girl or Even the Losers - but nothing that could have prepared me for Louisiana Rain.

Today that rain is falling just like tears, running down my face, washing out the years, soaking through my shoes. I will never be the same since that album played through. It may only be 36 minutes and 38 seconds, but it opened up the possibilities of what a rock and roll record could be. Now it's just the normal noises in here.

I can't say I remember which was the first time I saw Tom Petty and Heartbreakers play live, but there were many shows, from Hollywood's Universal Amphitheater to Sacramento's Arco Arena.

One of my best concerts ever: Bob Dylan, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers all together (1985?). Three hours of nonstop music. Tom & the band - Tom, Bob, & the band - Tom & Bob acoustic - Bob and the band - just the Heartbreakers - everybody all together.

My other favorite show was maybe the last time I saw Tom Petty. It was the Mudcrutch reunion tour a few years ago, and they played the Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium. It was great to see Tom having fun with his old buddies, back in a smaller venue outside of the areneas, not needing to be the lead man on every song.

We missed the final tour this past few months. Tickets were already sold out at 10:01 am, one minute after going on sale. He'd announced it would be the last "Big Tour" and that was fine with me. I hoped it would lead to more Mudcrutch type shows: intimate affairs with the long-time fans, where we'd all rock together. I didn't imagine that could really be the final tour.

Tom Petty was taken from us last night way too early, following an afternoon of rumors and premature headlines.

Today my thoughts are with his kids, and young grand-kids, and with the guys in the band. Mike Campbell and Benmont Tench have been the rock Tom rolled against from the start, and they form the basis of the most under-rated back-up band ever. Mike, Benmont, and the rest are all incredible musicians in their own right, and I hope I have not seen or heard the last from them.

How about a cheer for all those bad girls
And the boys who play that rock and roll
They love it, like you love Jesus
It does the same thing to their souls

My White Privilege Story

Today is "International Human Rights Day 2014," a day which "commemorates the date on which the United Nations General Assembly adopted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, proclaiming its principles as the 'common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations.'" It's an international day, but it's quite clear that while we Americans regularly like to point out the human rights failings of other nations, we have some work to do to live up to these standards as well.

What do I know about it? I'm an educated, middle-aged, white guy, and have benefited from the same society and system that failed to grant justice in the killings of Michael Brown, Eric Garner, and so many more. It's not something I asked for, or purposefully or even consciously participated in bringing about, but I have benefited from it all the same.

Here's one little story of white privilege: I was about 19 at the time, and the car I was driving was a beat-up 1969 Pontiac station wagon. Where it had paint, it was primer gray. Quite out of place in the middle-class Los Angeles suburb where I resided.

One morning, on my way to work, I ran a stop sign. "Ran" -- actually, it was more of what we call a "California stop," where you slow down, check both ways, and roll through without actually stopping. A policeman pulled out behind me and pulled me over. He informed me about the stop sign and asked to check out my ID and registration.

Once my ID (with an address about a mile or two from the intersection) checked out, he asked me, "What do you think we should do about this?"

Being a smart-ass 19-year-old, I said, "Let me off with a stern warning?"

He handed me back my ID and said, "Don't let it happen again." He then returned to his vehicle and drove off.

White Privilege. Had I not "belonged" in the neighborhood, that transaction would not have gone so well. Had I not "fit in," a traffic ticket would have been the least of my concerns.

The pay-off there was obvious, and the contrast to current cases is clear. It's not always so obvious and clear. Walking through stores on a day when I didn't bother to shave and am wearing old, torn jeans, but still get excellent service instead of being followed and scrutinized. Middle-aged white guy privilege.

Of course, I am missing one crucial ingredient for full privilege: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a Christian. I've experienced anti-Semitism first-hand, too.

Perhaps my worst story of anti-Semitism effecting me: I was about 21 and working in a real estate office. One of the saleswomen got off a contentious phone call with a client and started screaming about the "fucking cheap kike."

I took exception to her choice of language, and told her so. What word should she use, she wanted to know? I suggested that clients behavior had to do with them being an asshole, not a Jew. Now, I was in trouble.

While she got away with using the anti-Semitic slur, "kike," as well as several choice curse words, I was to be disciplined for saying, "asshole." Needless to say, I didn't work there much longer.

There have been other, more minor, examples, but generally speaking, in my life experience, being a white guy has gained me far more than being "the wrong religion" has hurt me.

Protestor blocks traffic

So, yes, when activists, advocates, and protesters point out the use of excessive deadly force and its racial overtones, I get it.

"But they were thugs!" Michael Brown did not "rob a convenience store." He and the owner had a nasty dispute over about $1.50 worth of cigarillos, and yes, it turned to pushing, but not there was no robbery. And really don't think that $1.50 worth of smokes is a capital crime.

Eric Garner's crime of selling loose cigarettes is hardly worthy of a banned strangle-hold and death either. If Garner had created an iPhone app to match holders of extra cigarettes with people who wanted to purchase one, he'd be hailed for innovatively disrupting the tobacco market and be handed $40 million in venture capital.

"But nobody raises such a stink when white guys get shot by the police!" Well, actually they do. If you pay attention there's plenty of protest about the over-militarization of the police and the abuse of excessive force overall. But within that broader problem there is also the inescapable fact that young black man is twenty times more likely to be shot and killed in a dispute with the police than a young white man.

Black lives matter. (Yes, all lives matter, but not all people rightly feel like a walking target at this time). And, personally, I can't see any attempt to justify the killings of Brown or Garner as anything other than justification of a racist system and the perpetuation of Christian, white, male privilege.

Still don't get what's happening here? How about a few lines from William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene I, Merchant of Venice:

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

Shylock did not appeal to his oppressors to raise them to higher level of caring. He eloquently explained why he chose to sink to their level of evil. Had he sought his pound of flesh without this speech, the audience would have no sympathy. He's still the evil Jew in the play, but he's a humanized evil Jew, thanks to his eloquence.

I hesitate to condone some of the more extreme violence of some of the current protests, but I get the motivation. Unfortunately, I fear, it allows those who just don't get what's going on to dismiss it all as, "I told you they were thugs."

Sympathizing with Shylock's demand for a pound of Antonio's flesh doesn't quell our revulsion at possibly having to watch it cut out live on stage, or our relief when a less bloody resolution is found.

But I would say that. I'm a white guy.

The Proposal

Enjoying the coolness of a misty day at Seascape, walking out to get the ocean breeze, I shot this photo not realizing what I'd captured till later.

In the lower right, follow the path I'm on to the little view area overlooking the beach. Sitting on the low stone wall is a beautiful young woman. In front of her, on one knee is her boyfriend. It is a moment that neither will ever forget.

I have no idea who they are. I am embarrassed that I accidentally intruded on this private moment. And yet, the beauty of it compels me to share.

She said yes. There were tears. There were kisses and hugs. He called over his friend who came running up with a camera to get the official shots.

But this photo wasn't posed. It just happened that way.

(cross-posted to cowbird)

New Books, Old Friends

A couple of months ago I told you all about one of my oldest friends, JD Chandler, publishing his book, Murder & Mayhem in Portland, Oregon. Well, now another old friend, Rich Samuels, has gone and put out a new book of his own, My Life at the Bottom of the Food Chain.

I'll be honest with you, Food Chain is not a book I would have picked up if it were not from an old friend. It is aimed at the "Young Adult" market, meaning teenaged kids, and it's been quite a long time since I fit that demographic. Still, I promised Rich I'd read it, so I did, and I loved it. But this is not the book review. My official review is over at Goodreads.

No, this is my blog, so it's for personal reflections. And reading a book about awkward teenaged boys written by somebody you knew years ago when you were each awkward teenage boys can stir up some memories.

Not that any of us needed to be quite so paranoid of bullies as Alexander is (the kid in the book), but still, there were some quite relatable scenes.

At one point in the book, Alexander and his friends meet at a favorite place to share massive orders of French fries. It brought back when Rich, JD, Crazy Tom, and I were taking a Super-8 film production class at the nearby University one night per week while we were still in High School. Following the class, we'd always stop at In-n-Out Burger and split a couple of orders of fries while discussing what we'd learned, and what we'd film that coming weekend.

When JD, Crazy Tom, and I started the class, and the fries tradition, we'd each take turns buying the fries. Once Rich joined the group, it seemed like it was always his turn to pay (I blame Crazy Tom for coming up with this idea). Rich never complained. A year or two ago, I finally confessed my pent-up guilt over this French fry scam to Rich. He claimed to have never noticed.

Reading Rich's book, many scenes like this came back in view. I wish somebody would have given me a book like this when I was an awkward teenager going to Junior High in a new town, trying to make some friends while navigating around the dangers. Maybe I would have learned something, been a little more comfortable within myself, and had a better time of things. Instead of just trying to scam free French fries off of nice guys like Rich.

Anyway, you can read my review of My Life at the Bottom of the Food Chain at Goodreads, or just head over to Amazon and order the darn thing already.

The little guy with the bandage on his head ...

The little guy with the bandage on his head is my oldest nephew, Andrew. The occasion was our wedding, and Andrew was the ring bearer.

The night before the wedding we had a rehearsal dinner at a rather nice restaurant with all our out-of-town guests in attendance. It was quite a party. Andrew was hanging out by the bar with his little brother, Keith, and 2nd cousin, Julian, although they all swore they weren't drinking.

A little playing around got a little out of hand, and a bar stool came toppling down onto little Andrew. Lots of blood, sirens, paramedics, and a trip to the emergency room followed.

The next morning, as we were getting set for the wedding ceremony to begin, we all sat down with Andrew and said, "It's okay. You had a rough night last night. If you don't want to carry the rings Uncle Steve will take them for you."

"No, this is important for you, Uncle Ken and Aunt Leslie. I want to do it."

It's now 17 years later. He still has a scar on his forehead. And he's getting married this Saturday.

We live in California, his wedding is in Connecticut. Because of work obligations we cannot make a real vacation of going east for the wedding. Instead, we will leave Friday morning, travel all day, and arrive at the airport in Connecticut about 1/2-an-hour before his rehearsal dinner, but we will make it. The wedding is Saturday, then we'll fly home Sunday and be back at work Monday morning.

It's a crazy trip to make: crossing country for a single day's activities. Too much travel time, too expensive, not enough time to visit with people back east. Ridiculous!

But Andrew got a life-long scar for our wedding. This is the least we could do in return, after all, it is important for him.

(This story is cross-posted to Cowbird)

Irwin B. Goldstein, 1929-2012, R.I.P.

Last Friday night, at about 1:15 AM, my father, Irwin, suffered a major heart attack. My brother, Miles, had arrived for a visit with his wife and young daughter just a few hours earlier and was able to perform CPR till the paramedics came.

They were able to revive him and transport him to the hospital, but he was in a coma from that point on. 

Leslie and I were called at around 2:40 AM, washed up, threw a bag of clothes together, and drove all night, arriving at the hospital before 9 AM Saturday morning.

Once all the family was gathered at his bedside and had said our final goodbyes, ventilation and all support, other than a morphine drip for comfort, were removed at approximately 11:30 AM.

 

We were told that death would not come immediately. Maybe it would be a few minutes, maybe a few hours. As he hung on, that became "twelve hours, tops." Then, "by early Sunday morning." Despite all odds and expectations he held on another twenty-eight hours with family by his side. 

 

At 3:12 PM on Sunday, December 9, 2012, our father opened his eyes one last time and died looking into the eyes of our mother, his beloved Judi.

 

(What follows is a rough transcript of what I said Tuesday, in eulogy, at my father's funeral:)

 

In trying to decide what story to share with you all today, I wanted to share something that wasn't just personal, but a story that really explains who my father was; something to demonstrate his character. And what came to mind wasn't an early childhood memory, but something from just a couple of months ago.

 

As I'm sure you all know, Dad had been suffering from Alzheimer's for several years. Alzheimer's is heartless and relentless and was slowly taking him away from us.

 

It took away memories and details. It took away being able to have in-depth conversations and ask for advice. But it never took away the essence of who he was.

 

He was still overwhelmingly positive, happy, and loving life and his family. He was always pleased to see people he recognized and give a warm hello.

 

So the story:

 

The last time we went out to dinner was to a local place where my parents know the chef/owner and the chef's mother, Barbara, who is the hostess.

 

About a hundred times during the meal, Barbara would walk by our table to seat another group, and each time she'd pass, Dad would smile at her and say, "Hi! How are you doing?" to her like greeting a long lost friend. It was repetitive; but it was sincere. And she responded kindly each time because she knew he was sincere.

 

Some who only saw him at work might just say he was a good shmoozer, but he genuinely loved people, and everybody he met loved him.

 

At home he was still concerned for everybody else's comfort and happiness above his own, and making sure he was taking care of his family and any guests. "Can I get you something?" "Are you okay?" "Do you need anything?" ... Over and over again.

 

It's true, he wasn't the same as he was before Alzheimer's. But he was still Irwin. We may have already spent a couple of years mourning the decline, mourning the inevitable, and missing the details, but HE was still very much there, himself, with us, and taking care of us, till the very last.

 

... Okay... One personal childhood memory... One I don't even think my brothers know. A secret story...

 

Most of you know that Dad loved to play golf, and if you knew him long enough, that he played hockey as a kid. But we were not huge sports fans in our family. Still, when I was growing up, one of my favorite tv shows was ABCs Wide World of Sports.

 

I enjoyed Jim McCay, but more important was the ritual of how we watched it. Dad would lie down on the couch and I would lie down beside him, with his arm around me, enjoying the comforting aromas of Old Spice and Budweiser.

 

I have no idea where the rest of the family was on Saturday afternoons, but for me, "The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat" meant I would have ninety minutes alone with my Daddy.

 

Goodbye, Daddy. I love you.

George McGovern: Acts of Faith

"Politics is an act of faith; you have to show some kind of confidence in the intellectual and moral capacity of the public."

"No man should advocate a course in private that he's ashamed to admit in public."

"The highest patriotism is not a blind acceptance of official policy, but a love of one's country deep enough to call her to a higher plain."

"For many years, I wanted to run for the presidency in the worst possible way - and last year, I sure did."

"I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in."

George McGovern, July 19, 1922-October 21, 2012

Early this morning, former Senator George McGovern died in hospice in Sioux Falls, SD. He was 90 years old and surrounded by friends and family.

McGovern was a proud liberal till the very end. A man who had "learned to hate war by waging it" as a decorated World War II bomber pilot, he was the Democratic Party's nominee to challenge President Nixon's re-election in 1972.

While I had been somewhat aware of the players in the 1968 Presidential election, and as a kid in Massachusetts, certainly was caught up in the tragedy of of Bobby Kennedy's assassination, it was the election of 1972 - and its aftermath - that first truly sucked me into the life of a political junkie. At the age of eleven I walked our precinct with my mother getting word out about McGovern, and on election day we stood outside the polling place (in the snow) with our last-ditch effort electioneering.

Of course, the result was that Nixon was re-elected in a landslide, carrying 49 states, and ceding to McGovern only the District of Columbia and Massachusetts. I was both devastated and fascinated by the results and began collecting souvenirs of the trouncing: bumper stickers bearing the slogans "Massachusetts the One and Only" and "Nixon 49/America 1," a pin that simply read "OS4MY" (for, "Oh Shit, Four More Years!"), and other memorabilia that I only wish I could still find.

Of course, even before the election was over, there was some question of dirty tricks involving Nixon's team doing something over at the Democratic Headquarters located in the Watergate Hotel and office complex. I followed the Watergate hearings closely. As for many others of my generation, this was hugely formative in how I would see politics and government for the rest of my life.

By the middle of 1974 both Nixon, and his VP, Spiro Agnew, had resigned in disgrace, and I had moved to California. I would eventually earn a BA in Politics and a Master of Public Policy and Administration. My career would allow me to have meetings with legislators at all levels of government. I would volunteer on a few more Presidential campaigns. But the inspiration and dedication of that first candidate, George McGovern, and the lessons of 1972-1974 have never been far behind.

My thoughts go out to the McGovern family and all those who knew this great man and hero to the left. I only hope that before he passed, he sent in his absentee ballot.
 

The blogger in 1972; the t-shirt says, "Vote."

Read more at:
The McGovern Center
George McGovern @ Wikipedia

I Sing the Body Literate

Last night Earth lost one of our most brilliant and imaginative literary minds when Ray Bradbury passed away at the age of 91. Bradbury's books were the first to introduce me to the world of adult literature as well as science fiction, and probably the first to inspire in me the desire to write.

It was around 1970, I was about 10 or so, when I picked up a copy of The Martian Chronicles. From those first pages of Rocket Summer I was hooked. For a kid in Boston, who grew up following our conquest of space and landing on the Moon, the images came through clearly. The heat of the rockets, leaving for Mars, melting the Ohio snow were vivid in my imagination. By the end of the book, There Will Come Soft Rains, was etched equally into my thoughts and my life.

There were other "young adult" authors that I read in that period. Of course, S.E. Hinton's books were all on my shelf. The Hinton books were great for a kid who felt like an Outsider, and also helped teach me about literature. But the Bradbury books took me further, outside of myself, and into a universe of possibilities and morality.

I read more of Bradbury's short stories (The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl comes to mind) and novels, and later saw the movies that came from them. Truffaut's excellent adaptation of Fahrenheit 451 being the first, and later The Illustrated Man, starring Rod Steiger. That movie could not compare to the images that Bradbury illustrated through his prose, although to this day, when I see somebody with excessive tattooing, I hear Steiger's voice in the back of my head saying, "They are not tattoos; they are skiiiin eellustrationz."

And, of course, there was the Twilight Zone episode he wrote, I Sing the Body Electric. Many include this among the worst Zone episodes for its dripping sentimentality, but I always found comfort in Bradbury's melding of technology with heart.

Bradbury was not himself a "techie" or mechanical person. He never drove since witnessing a car accident when younger, and was afraid to fly. I learned that second bit of trivia from Bradbury's appearance as a contestant on "You Bet Your Life" with Groucho Marx. It came out through Groucho's interview with him at the top of the show. I don't recall whether or not Bradbury said the magic word triggering the duck to come down with $100.

The soft rains have come. Ray Bradbury, R.I.P.

My Day With Newt

"I'm not a natural leader. I'm too intellectual; I'm too abstract; I think too much."

- Newton Leroy Gingrich

Poor Newt should have realized it was over last week when he was bit by penguin, but he's slow to process these things. You know, because he's an abstract intellectual and has to think things through. Even after losing five more primary contests yesterday, he's still officially in the race for another week, with plans to likely drop out on May 1. My guess is that he bet somebody that he'd make it through April.

But it reminds me of how, after he resigned the post of Speaker of the House in disgrace, in November 1998, following investigation into his ethics violations, he still hung around Congress another couple of months, clinging to his seat there till January 1999. And then all America figured that, like Dick Nixon, we wouldn't have Newt Gingrich to kick around anymore.

At the time, I was working for an organization called HandsNet. We were kind of like a nonprofit AOL for human services professionals. It was a fun and exciting time, and somewhere between surviving the Y2K scare of 1999 and not surviving the dot-com bust of 2001, my boss, Michael, and I were invited to participate in a forum on public policy and the Internet.

It was a fairly intimate group - no more than 100 people - assembled in a meeting room at San Jose's Fairmont Hotel, with tech execs, local politicians, and Michael and I representing the nonprofit ".org" space. We were taking our seats and looking over the agenda when a gnome-like little round man with sunken cheeks came waddling into the room with a small entourage. I turned to Michael and said, "Poor SOB has to go through life looking like Newt Gingrich." We each laughed.

Then the introductions started... Oops. It was Newt.

My memory of the day was that, much as I would have liked to confirm his evil bastardness with some heinous statement or another, he turned out to be a good participant. He did not try to dominate the conversation, and when in dialog with others he listened respectfully, and his responses showed that he heard the other person's points - even if he didn't agree.

At the end of the day I felt that his leaving Congress had humbled him. I also felt that I had gotten a glimpse of Professor Gingrich, and that he wasn't quite so bombastic and egotistical as Speaker Gingrich had been. His full political rehabilitation to where he would be considered by many to be a semi-plausible contender for the Republic Presidential nomination would take another decade. And, as we've seen, in that decade his arrogance was fully recovered as well.

I mentioned this meeting a couple of weeks ago, when I was catching up with Michael over lunch. He had no recollection of either the forum or of crossing paths with the former Speaker. So it goes.

And so we bid farewell to the 2012 Presidential campaign of Newt Gingrich. We'll miss him. Well, Michael won't, but somebody will, I'm sure.