Should grown men be playing video games?

I have a “thing” about adult men playing video games. I’m not sure if it’s an unwarranted bias or a totally rational assessment but it’s definitely a “thing” that causes more than a bit of tension between my husband and myself.

I can tell myself that playing video games is just a modern way of recreating and that men have always found ways to burn off steam – at the pub or the golf course or cheering on their home team. Is this really any worse?

Video game fans remind me that playing isn’t even all that isolating anymore as many games are played best with a group of friends and you can even make new ones playing online fantasy games like World of Warcraft. I can even try and convince myself that there’s something to be gained in terms of hand eye coordin… (oh, I don’t even buy that one). But I get theoretically all the arguments in favor of grown men perched at the end of the couch, clutching their modern joysticks, totally engrossed in the escapist thrill of killing demons and crashing cars. I just cringe at the image.

I just can’t get passed my “thing” against it. Maybe it’s just my generation. When I grew up grown men (the ones who formed my archetype of what it is to be a man) simply did not play video games. They played sports or cards or who knows what, but they certainly did not stare at video screens. Their sons did. And the dads, along with their wives, worried that these games would atrophy their children’s bodies and minds and so tried to limit their use. (Atari and Nintendo were forbidden in our house entirely.)

But then their children grew up, and with no nagging parents to call them for dinner or remind them of homework, they were free to totally indulge their gaming habits made even better with shockingly lifelike graphics and sophisticated scenarios. I guess the video games have grown up along with the boys.

So, let’s take a closer look at what these new generation video games are offering. I did a quick search for the most popular games and they go by names like Street Fighter IV, Assassin’s Creed and Resident Evil V (I’m horrified that there were 4 Resident Evils preceding this). It doesn’t take a sociologist to figure out that these games are scratching some kind of an itch for male aggression.

But they are tapping into something even more than a lust for violence. Demon’s Souls “pits you against the forces of The Old One as you fight to save humanity from extinction” (sounds like I made that up, but no). In Braid you “Travel seven platforming worlds to save a princess” and in Dragon’s Age you travel through the “fictional land of Ferelden, meet memorable characters and fight for a cause you believe in.”

There are grand themes here of salvation and revenge all putting the player in the role of hero. Pretty seductive stuff if you’re looking to escape your humdrum life for a while. So, again, I think I can muster an understanding of the appeal.

Yet... still..... I think there is a strong case to be made against this practice that goes beyond my knee jerk aversion to how "unmanly" it is. And I know enthusiasts will balk at my saying so, but I'm a lone (and, by the way, buxom) sword yielding, seventh-level, forest gnome crusading to have my voice heard. (to borrow some imagery that might help my case.)

First of all, doesn't the modern male already generally spend the better part of his week interfacing with a computer? Shouldn't recreation at a minimum pull him away from this position at least for the sake of his eye site and rear end?

Also, is it really the best to indulge the male id in such shamelessly obvious ways? OK. It's "fun" and there's supposedly no harm done. But to me it's focused on engaging that part of the brain that was most alive in the teenage years and I'm not so sure that's a good thing.

Playing video games is also one of those activities that I would call a "time suck," in which hours might pass as minutes as your morning bowl of cereal watches the sun set. Unlike a game of golf, there's really no clear end point and there's a definite risk of these games stealing more hours of your life that even a gamer might have bargained for. And isn't there a premium on our increasingly shrinking free time already? Why do something that doesn't seem to respect that time is precious?

I'm aware this is all coming off as judgemental and nagging. My husband would vehemently argue that it is a safe and harmless outlet for decompressing after a hard day, and, in moderation, does not have to infringe on responsibilities or "healthier" forms of recreation.

Still. I have this "thing." There's just something a bit off-putting about watching the father of my child staring transfixed at screens full of fantastical characters in imaginary lands or (worse still) playing the hero in some post-apocalyptic battle scene. He claims this is unfair, but I can't help it. I'm just programmed this way.

Cracking back quack or my salvation?

I’ve been moaning about lower back pain so long I’m probably giving everyone around me upper head pain, and I’ve finally decided to do something about it. Last week I made an appointment to see a chiropractor.

I know next to nothing about this branch of medicine, including whether it is in fact a “branch” of medicine. I know the chiropractor I saw had several framed diplomas on her wall, all of which included the word “doctor,” and there was a capital D after her name on her business card. But Wikipedia tells me that the philosophy behind chiropractics, that spinal joint dysfunction interferes with the body's innate ability to heal itself, “brings ridicule” from mainstream medicine. OK. But, even my cynical and penny pinching insurance covers some of this, so there must be some proven medical benefit, right? I know people who swear by their chiropractor and others who think they are useless. I’m still trying to make up my mind.

My first visit was a relief. My biggest fear in trying to finally address this nagging back pain was that some professional would tell me that despite the hurt I was actually just fine and send me on my way. Being a totally subjective experience, it’s hard to know whether the aches in your body are within the realm of normal –making you basically a wimpy whiner - or whether you’ve been heroically enduring some serious structural problem. In the same way I relish when a bump to my leg develops into a dark purple emblem of my pain, I desperately wanted some kind of diagnosis and vindication of my complaining. So, when, after her evaluation, the chiropractor told me I had a chronic problem but that they had just the solution, I nearly kissed her.

My other fear in going to see any kind of medical professional is also quite common. I detest that dehumanizing feeling of being treated as a collection of symptoms by an automaton who has lost the ability to see you as a person. I hate the rooms you wait in, sterile and anonymous with half-hearted attempts to brighten the atmosphere with free posters from pharmaceutical reps. I hate the sterilized instruments on trays, which remind me that I am most of all a specimen, a problem to be solved with tests. I notice myself shrink in these offices and curl up inside myself. This is why I have avoided seeing someone about my back for so long.

So, score another point for my chiropractor who looked me in the eye, listened with a look of rapt sincerity and concern to my responses to her questions and never once looked at the clock. This went on for so long I almost got impatient. I didn’t quite know what was happening, and then it dawned on me. She’s establishing a rapport. She’s getting to know me as a person with a family and a job and interests. That alone made me want to come back. Which is a good thing because after she did her evaluation, it looked like I would be coming back. A lot!

Now, this is where she started to lose me. Just when this experience started to feel like salvation I heard that the solution to my back pain is coming in for adjustments…. three times a week for a month! Then twice a week for a month, and then once a week for a month! Totally unprepared for that level of time and money commitment, my jaw hit the floor (which is probably no good for the spine) and I entered in what feels like a used car sales negotiation with me trying to weasel out of this treatment plan and the chiropractor using everything in her arsenal to rope me back in. And then I notice the “2 referrals get you a free t-shirt sign” which adds to the general paranoia that I might be being “had.” But my defenses, along with my back, are weak, so I ultimately agree.

So, this is where I am. I’ve now had 3 adjustments and I still can’t decide whether I’m on my way to chiropractic conversion or simply to becoming $500 poorer. The drill is this: they zap me with electromagnet muscle stimulations for 10 minutes and the adjustments take all of another 10. She presses hard on either side of my spine and cracks my back and is off to the next patient. It’s moderately painful and takes up a significant chunk of my already miniscule free time; but if it works, I’ll be proselytizing chiropractics to anyone who will listen. If not, I imagine you’ll be hearing about that too.

Hate to love my TV

We all know these people. These purists who stubbornly refuse to own a television. I’ve long been baffled by and secretly envious of their lives. I picture their evenings spent curled up on the couch under soft lamplight clutching a warm cup of chamomile tea, flipping the pages of a classic, soft jazz playing in the background, stopping periodically to discuss something with their partner who is equally engaged in some mind expanding or productive activity. Maybe they’re knitting or practicing an instrument or writing poetry. I’m sure they’re doing a better job of catching up with family and old friends. I think, hey, that could be me. Hell, I want it to be me, if only it weren’t for that time-sucking, brain cell-killing idiot box in the corner of my living room. My better self does not own a television.

But my less better self loves our television. All week long Colin and I look forward to spending our Thursday nights with Liz Lemon and Michael Scott. Sunday football makes our forced hibernation from the winter cold a bit more bearable and PBS documentaries have lead to some of our best conversations. But that’s TV at its inarguable best. I don’t feel too guilty about that stuff.

The problem is that in moments of weakness, we find ourselves hypnotized by TV at it’s worst – the kind of programming developed by intellectually lazy profit-motivated television executives who borrow predictable formats from each other and universally aim to appeal to your basest instincts. And there’s a lot of such programs to choose from.

During the first cold winter months of motherhood I’m embarrassed to say that I watched, nay, even looked forward to MTV’s reality dating show Rock of Love, where a dozen groupie-types in astonishingly tiny outfits compete for the affections of aging rocker Bret Michaels in stunts whose true purpose is to expose as much skin and humiliation as possible, creating the perfect storm of vicarious sex, drama and “glad that’s not me”. I felt a strong compulsion to shower after each episode, but still tuned in. Then, there were the more innocent, but equally addicting, bevy of home improvement shows with handsome carpenters and shiny and colorful transformations, which, I’m embarrassed to admit, stole hours of my life.

Watching TV while the sun is shining makes me feel particularly gross and guilty, and nighttime television is slightly less offensive but not when it’s your default way to relax. Colin and I found ourselves turning on the television almost automatically at night almost forgetting that there were other ways to relax after a long day. And the fact that there was more often than not nothing worth watching didn’t deter us. After an hour or so of sitting stupefied by ridiculous Law and Order plot twists or what Colin calls the emotional masturbation of reality transformation shows like Wife Swap, we look at each other baffled at how we were so easily sucked into that vortex of mind-numbing banality. This led to our other nightly ritual of discussing the various ways the shows we had just dedicated hours of our life to were on every level objectionable. Something needed to change.

Getting rid of our new flat screen television seemed a bit too radical, so we got rid of cable and vowed to discipline our TV watching to only include shows truly funny, innovative, or education or (for Colin) important sporting events. You know, the kind of stuff that won’t entirely make you stupid.

So far it’s going well. I can’t say I’ve written any poetry or even upped my chamomile intake, but my house is probably cleaner and so is my mind.

So, last night I finally did it. I’m embarrassed to say my inspiration was a reality TV talent show, but, never mind, I finally got my tush back into a modern dance class. And despite the fact that the 2½ hour class lasted way past my regular bedtime and my muscles ached with the effort of getting out of bed this morning, it was well well worth it; and has made me wonder what took me so long to find my first love again. I came home last night red-faced and sweaty and totally reconnected to my spirit.

In my decades (holy crap, it’s been decades!) of dance classes, I have experienced a range of styles. There’s the kind in which an egomaniac instructor takes a break from admiring their own image only to give corrections to those students considered advanced enough to be worth their time. As one of those students I have to admit I bought into and craved that attention. My dancing improved in these classes, but it was because yearned for and worked assiduously to gain those morsels of validation. This is the hard-knocks teaching style which results in a lot of competition among dancers and personal self doubt punctuated by moments of absolute euphoria during those rare moment of praise from your diefied instructor.

The class I took last night was at the opposite end of the spectrum. The instructor, Andy - a petite woman with a postively luminous smile and the kind of muscles that showed striations even through her clothes -was from the old-school hippie modern dancer camp. This is an approach more interested in nurturing your inner artist than perfecting your pirouette; and Andy was equally attentive to the diverse level of dancers in the class with insights into each person's unique strenghts. That's not to say it wasn't a rigorous class, only that it encouraged dancers to do their best, not better than each other.

This was a perfect climate for my returning to dance after a too long hiatus, looking to focus on the joy of dance and fight my proclivities to seek physical perfection. That judging part of myself noticed that my extensions weren't as high and my plies weren't as low as before, but in the end I danced the combination with a confidence and ease I had struggled to find as a professional. I danced really letting the music (an old bluesy tune) guide me and finding the intention in the movement, and I let go of my usual self-criticism. Maybe it was the accepting neo-hippy atmosphere. Maybe it was the fact that there were no stakes for doing well. Probably it was simply finding that 12 year old girl who first fell in love with dance. But moving through the combination, I felt exhilirated. Like flying. Like perfection.

Baby steps

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, among the flurry of family reunion face stuffing, Colin and I watched our baby learn to crawl. Again, the most mundane and predictable of developments seems at the same time miraculous and profoundly life changing.

We used to be able to put little Caleb on the kitchen floor, turn around and start cooking dinner, knowing we could look back and see him just where we left him giggling and waving his spoon at us. In this way Caleb also watched football with dad, sat with a look of rapt attention as we debated politics, and seemed to genuinely enjoy being a lone audience for mom’s impromptu living room dance performances. This made us feel like we could do all kinds of activities together as a family – even if Caleb was trapped in the activity by his immobility. He seemed happy at least.

But all this has changed with his newfound portability. He’s no longer an unwitting bystander to our lives. He’s exploring the world for himself and it’s fascinating to watch him express his interests. Apparently this whole time he’s wanted to flip the pages of stray notebooks, pull books off the shelves and fondle the door stop instead of watching mom pirouette. Who knew?

Instead of being drawn to the brightly colored toys designed with presumable years of child development research, Caleb (like a lot of babies I’m sure) is magnetized to all the non-toys in the periphery of our house. And the more dangerous the more alluring. I swear he’d go directly to the jagged staple in a pile of stuffed animals. So, we have to step up our vigilance. From nothing to something.

But extra vigilance notwithstanding, it’s a joy to watch him find corners of the house previously unknown to him. The other day something enticed him to crawl under the kitchen table. Under the kitchen table may as well be Narnia or the moon as far as Caleb is concerned. It’s been there in front of him this whole time, but he’s never been able to get there before. And now he can go whenever he wants. I can’t even comprehend the magnitude of this change for him. For us, it would be like suddenly learning to fly.

And babyhood is like this all the time: going from total incomprehension of human sounds to understanding, from inability let your desires be known to communicating through speech and sign, from immobility to freedom of movement. It really blows your mind when you think about. Maybe that’s why we can’t remember our lives as babies. Our minds have been blown.

Baby insomnia

“Whatever method you choose, the key is to be consistent.”

Such reads the sage advice in the so-called “sleep bible,” Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child. The author and child sleep researcher explains that whether you let your baby cry himself to sleep or soothe him at each cry, the key to the whole family getting some semblance of enough sleep is to “be consistent.” And being consistent is the one thing that Colin and I are consistently failing at.

But you can’t really blame us. Being a parent these days puts you squarely in the middle of a vociferous and highly polarized debate that leaves you dizzy with indecision.

To oversimplify, one side, made up mainly of mainstream medical practitioners and most of our parents, says that babies need to learn how to put themselves to sleep. This requires, to some degree or another, letting the little one cry herself to sleep. After a few tortuous days of this, babies get the idea and can miraculously put themselves to sleep without any intervention. This side makes the very compelling case that, as difficult as it is to hear your precious baby cry, in the end they learn a valuable life skill and, perhaps even more importantly, you regain enough sleep to stop being a zombie and start being a happier and more attentive parent during the day. They argue that a few days of persistence and perseverance will be rewarded with years of better sleep for everyone. And don’t worry, they say, our parents let us cry and we’re just fine.

The other side vehemently disagrees calling this practice cruel and unnatural. This “attachment parenting” camp, also generally advocates co-sleeping, long time breast feeding and wearing your baby is a sling close to your body. They take more of an anthropological view, drawing greatly on the wisdom of indigenous cultures as well as new research showing the benefits of many of these practices. They argue, quite convincingly, that babies are born expecting the world to look like it has for the past 10,000 years, not the modern world of individualism and personal space. They are hard wired to expect the continual attention they have received for millennia when they slept near their mother’s warm body and were worn on her back during the day with constant access to her milk. This camp notes that the reason it’s physically torturous to hear you little baby cry all night is because mothers are evolutionarily programmed to respond to these cries and babies to expect this response. Ignoring your little one for extended periods unduly stresses them. It may be taxing to respond to every cry, but in a few short years when your children have firmly established their independence and you are at least a bother and at most an embarrassment, you will look back nostalgically at the tender intimacy of these nighttime feedings.

I find either perspective more compelling depending on my level of sleep deprivation and frustration. And I have thus been reliably inconsistent in my response to poor little Caleb’s cries. But I had never totally ignored his cries, until a particularly desperate week, when Colin and I decided to go for broke and try the full “cry it out” method. This was, as expected, torture. I knew I couldn’t take hearing him cry, but – bowing to the sleep-researchers greater good argument – I resigned myself to endure it for a period of time. My mom friends all described 2-3 painful nights followed by the sweet relief of a baby who could not only put himself to sleep, but who slept through the night. Sounded pretty good!

Well, after 5 nights of hour and half crying bouts and only mild success, we, very despondently, gave up on this experiment. I was willing to ignore his cries (at times locking myself in the bathroom with the fan on to fight the compulsion to go to him) if there was some payoff. And he was at times able to cry himself to sleep in a tolerable amount of time (15 minutes or less) and could nod off with only a wimper after a feed. But it wasn’t consistent, and, in the end, the improvement wasn’t dramatic enough to warrant all that blasted crying.

So, that left us right where we started. I’ll reliably feed him after a long stretch of sleep, but if he wakes up just hours after we put him down or right before the sun comes up, Colin and I reliably look at each other frozen by the “let him cry or go to him” indecision. And then the voice wearing a lab coat tells me to let him cry and the voice in a dashiki tells me to go to him.
It goes something like this:

Lab coat: Look, you’re teaching him how to go to sleep. If you go to him you’re only depriving him of an opportunity to learn to soothe himself.

Dashiki: Don’t you hear your baby suffering? It’ll only take a few enjoyable minutes of nursing and cuddling to put him back to a sound sleep.

LC: But that’ll only encourage dependency and it’ll take that much longer to get you all sleeping through the night. Doesn’t a full 8 hours of sleep sound heavenly?

D: Listen to your baby, Kim. He’s simply expressing his needs as he knows how to and you are more than capable of fulfilling them. He sounds really sad.

Me: OK you two. I’ll just wait 15 minutes and if he’s still crying I’ll go in there.

LC: OK, but you’re just teaching him that if he cries for15 minutes, he’ll get fed.

D: Well, if you’re going to get him anyway and waiting just teaches him to cry longer, than you may as well get him now and spare both of you 15 minutes of anguish.

LC: Hey, he’s not in “anguish.” Our parents let us cry and there’s no evidence that crying leads to any long term damage, you hippie.

D: Then why are half the people we know in therapy!? Isn’t it entirely possible that this is doing some damage? Everyone knows what happens to kids at the extreme end of neglect. Like those babies from Romanian orphanages who become semi-psychotic solely due to their treatment in infancy despite the loving home they are adopted into. You - of all people - should appreciate what a delicate developmental stage this is.

LC: You’re stupid.

D: You’re cruel.

Me: Stop arguing!!

Caleb: Waaahhh!!!!!!!.

Me: Arghhhhh. Colin, what should I do?

Colin: Kim, I really don’t think you should go in there.

Me: OK. (pause) I’m going in….

The Daily Grind

After a tumultuous summer of moving in with my sister with my sleep-allergic newborn while my husband worked at a job half a globe away, and then being reunited and traveling to yet another corner of the world - South Africa - to visit his parents and tragically watch his dear sweet mother unexpectedly die, and then traveling back to Boston to quickly find a new apartment and day care before work and school started while still nursing our grief (whew), I was all too happy to settle into a boring routine.

So, here I am, settled into my boring routine. We wake up with the crows, play hot potato with the baby while we shower, eat breakfast and pack up for the day. Caleb and I get the 7:28 train downtown; I somehow fill up my work day, grab Caleb, and take the 4:40 back. We play for half an hour and then resume our baby hot potato while making dinner and entertaining and bathing the baby. Then we fall into the couch with our dinner, watch a Daily Show episode, catch up on emails and go to bed sometime around 9:30.

There’s something really comforting about this, but also something drudging and tedious about it. I love my life, but sometimes I feel like I’m sleepwalking through it.

But then there are moments that wake me from my ennui. Like those times when I’m nursing my little cherub of a baby and he peeks up at me with his wide content eyes, his tiny hands reaching for my face, and I feel a rush of intense and protective love. Like when Colin and I are engaged in a heated exchange of ideas and I step outside myself for a moment and marvel at his passion and intelligence and feel lucky to have him as a partner. And all of this makes me happy in a weird way to have a monotonous backdrop so that these small and special moments stand in even starker relief, revealing the full power of their beauty.

blogger prerequisites

I was thinking this morning about what I might write about today. I thought about exploring a number of things that have sprung to mind throughout the day: It was hard to avoid commentary on Sarah Palin’s new memoir and she’s a public phenomenon incredibly fun to dissect. A Lady Gaga video made me wonder if there would be any end to the hypersexualization of popular culture. Would it swing the other way or keep going until we’re all naked and replacing handshakes with other lascivious acts? And then I wondered if I was turning into my mother.

But I rejected each subject knowing that there were others out there – sociologists and media commentators - who could write with so much more insight and authority on any of these subjects. All this going through my head, I turned to Colin and said,

“I’m not sure I can write about anything with enough authority to do it justice.”

To which he stared at me with sincere incredulity and said,

“Kim! You’re a blogger now. That’s practically a prerequisite”

Blogging on blogging

I have to admit, I feel a bit sheepish about this whole blogging thing. I guess it’s just the act of placing my thoughts and ideas in the public domain that seem kind of self-important - as if my observations are too profound not to be shared with the world. And the truth is, the world is doing just fine without my 2 cents. So, why not just keep a journal? Why a blog?

I actually wrote another blog when I was working in a West African refugee camp, and I found it a really useful way to keep friends and family current on my misadventures. And blogs are great for that. Especially with our modern families increasingly thrown to the four winds. My family is a perfect case. We’re in Boston, my folks are in Chicago, my sister in Colorado, my brother-in-law in Niagra NY, my father-in-law in South Africa. And my friends are equally scattered. So, blogging (like facebook and skype) is a nifty solution to the modern problem of yanking in a community from a continually geographically expanding group of friends and family.

In the more useful incarnations, blogging can also be a great way to share information on anything anyone wants to geek out about: vegan macrobiotic breakfast recipes, clam digging techniques on the eastern seaboard, or 18th century Austrian lamp collecting. One of the greatest wonders of humanity is the diversity of bizarre proclivities. And the modern world gives those so inclined enough room to indulge and become expert in their odd passions. And lucky for us they have an outlet for their years of accumulated knowledge. So, when I truly do want to find out how to cook a week’s worth of meals for under $30, a simple Google search will reveal the insights from someone in Brooklyn has done just such an experiment. Of course, some might argue that this surfeit of information can do as much harm as good, but I’ll leave that debate for another time.

But none of this is really what I’m doing here. I’m not giving much thought to what “the folks at home” might want to see. And I can’t say that there is a singular passion I want to expound upon in this forum. I’m actually going old school and writing a journal. So, back to my original question: Why a blog?

Everyone who I told I was planning to undertake this writing exercise said the same thing: “You should turn it into a blog.” Isn’t that strange? It’s like if you’re going to take the effort to produce something, you can’t just keep it to your self. No one does that. We all put our pictures of flikr and our videos on youtube and our well wishes on facebook for all the world to see. If it’s not shared, it doesn’t exist anymore. I have my doubts as to whether that's a good thing.

So, I think I’m ambivalent about this whole thing, but succumbing to peer pressure.

I’m sure I’ll write differently knowing that there’s a potential audience. I’ll make things more digestible and organized. This post is half as long as it would have been if it was for my eyes only, so you’re spared my rambling digressions on the pitfalls of the overabundance of information and whether blogging is a safety valve for paranoid nutjobs or an outsized platform for their hate. I definitely work harder on my entries than if they were for my eyes only, but I wonder if I’m less honest.

Who knows how long this experiment will last. I guess I’m enjoying it at least because I can decorate the site with ironic pictures and play with the format and fonts. I guess I’ll keep doing this until I run out of things to ponder or the motivation to tell “you” about it.

Glenn Beck

Like so many of my demographic of over-educated liberal-leaning city dwellers I’m an avid Daily Show follower. In fact, when Colin and I made our resolution to stop watching TV we didn’t even have to discuss the fact that the Daily Show would be an exception. Yes, it’s liberal leaning, but Stewart takes the dems and President Obama to task too and is best when he’s exposing the hypocrisy and idiocy of the ratings-driven cable news media. It’s not “where I get my news,” but it’s definitely where I get my satire.

Glenn Beck if a favorite and easy target for the show, and it’s definitely where I get my Beck exposure. Stewart’s clips show an overwrought fear-mongering conspiracy-promoting lunatic. It makes for great TV. And I find myself talking, with authority, about how horrible Glenn Beck is for the country. But what do I really know about him? Should I be judging the man from 10 second clips that could be very well taken out of context as fodder for a punch line? So, Colin and I decided to do it: to actually watch a Glenn Back show. Here’s the clip. http://www.glennbeck.com/content/articles/article/198/32734/

Turns out, after a careful study of the show, that Glenn Beck is in fact an overwrought fear-mongering conspiracy-promoting lunatic, even more so than the cartoonish parodies of him portray. And I’m even more worried. The problem is, if you can get past the crazy, he’s a pretty compelling orator. That’s the secret of his success and of his danger. He can convince you despite a dismal lack of evidence and any semblance of a coherent argument. And he primarily convinces you to be outraged and afraid. And there’s something deliciously satisfying about being outraged, so we’re an easy sell.

What’s his secret? First of all, he’s dramatic. He’s asks a question (what is the American dollar really based on?), pauses as if he’s really considering the magnitude of the implications and then slowly re-engages you with his reveal. He builds his points to a dramatic crescendo and slows it down to show you that he’s still in control. He’s got the cadence and swagger of a Sunday morning televangelist. And he actually cries. Real tears. This is great theater. And hey, we love drama. We love emotion. And passion in and of itself has a way of grabbing you.

Then, he mocks. Showing choice clips of unfortunate moments and then rolling his eyes and sarcastically declaring, “oh yeah, we really (pause) really want this guy in charge of your money.” He does all this while simultaneously singing your praises: you true Americans, the moral and economic backbone of this country, you who recognize common sense when you see it. And there it is. By force of this rhetoric you are on his side. You are not with the guy being mocked, you are with the masses being praised.

He uses his lack of expertise as an asset. “Now, I’m no ‘economist’ (full use of air quotes) but…” And the word “economist” is absolutely dripping with disdain and topped off with an eye roll. What a relief to the viewer. We may not understand their sophisticated graphs and arguments anyway. So before we have a chance to let this make us feel inferior, Beck relieves us by declaring that these experts miss the simple and obvious truths anyway. Phew. Now hit these eggheads with some common sense Beck! Hell, why even have experts? If all it takes is some folk wisdom to understand and recommend policy, let’s do away with PhD programs and think tanks. But I digress.

His next trick: he positions himself as an underdog truth-seeker revealing something that those with interests (the media, the liberal elite, the government) won’t tell you. He appeals to the cynical side of you. “I am the only one brave enough to confront Al Gore with his hypocrisy. No one else will ask the question. Gore, if you care sooo much about the environment, why (dramatic pause) do you eat meat?” He then gleefully and triumphantly reveals his prize: A clip of Diane Sawyer confronting Gore with the Beck-inspired question on her morning show. She asks the question. And then the clip inexplicably ends. We don’t get to hear the response from Gore.

What!?!? You’ve finally got someone to confront Gore with his supposed hypocrisy and you don’t bother to see how he answers the accusation? But answers are not his goal. In fact, Beck did this at least twice in the same show. In another instance, he mocked the Administration for talking about jobs “saved” during the recession and then showed a clip of another anchor (David Gregory) asking Tim Geithner how they quantify a “saved job” (Beck’s exact criticism). And that’s it! Question is asked and then the clip comes to an abrupt halt. But before you can begin to wonder about the answer, Beck is on to the next rant. Who needs a cogent argument when you can use rhetorical slight of hand. Which brings me to my next point.

He doesn’t make arguments, he plants seeds. A favorite tack is leading with “I’m not saying…” followed by an outrageous claim like “Obama hates White people.” He then spends the rest of his energy building a case for why something he supposedly is “not saying” is true. But Beck’s “building a case” is usually just drawing dubious connections and shamelessly using emotionally charged imagery to make his point.

In the show we watched he repeatedly ran the following clips: 1) the President saying he consulted with SIEU on health care reform (doesn’t seem like that big of a deal) and, 2) a clip in which the President of SEIU says “workers of the world unite.” Now, I’ve heard reasonable criticisms of labor unions’ outsized influence on health care reform from both left and right, so Beck had room to make point here. But instead he opts for going straight to the most outlandish and incendiary conclusion: that the Obama administration bends towards communism. It’s not only pretty “out there”, it’s intellectually lazy. He puts up a Soviet era poster to point out the similarities and then in his typical rhetorical flourish mocks, “We know Obama said he’s definitely not a Marxist. Rigghht?? (pause) Right???”

What he’s convincing you to believe, other than being untrue, is also dangerous. He would have you believe that Obama snuck into the Presidency based on dubious citizenry and is secretly pushing for communist-style wealth distribution, that the media is controlled by a cabal of elite who actively disdain the “real America” of which you are a part. If all of this were true, I’d be pretty outraged too. But he offers no solutions. Only this: “I, for one, am afraid. And you should be too.” He offers to organize rallies as outlets for your collective and growing anger. But no solutions. So, what’s an outraged citizen to do? That’s what scares me.

Magnificent Muffin

Going about your day, do you ever feel like you just stepped into a scene that seems flawlessly staged for a movie set? Where the shop owner suits the shop a little too perfectly? The bird faced librarian, with bifocals on a chain hugs her cardigan tightly around her looks down her nose and hushes you? Where everything is just so quintessential and stereotyped that you look around for the hidden cameras and seeing none, laugh to yourself and catalogue the details for friends but fear you’ll never quite capture it? Well, Colin and I had just such an experience yesterday and at the risk of not doing it justice I’ll attempt a description.

Yesterday, having a day off and a morning to ourselves, Colin and I ventured out to the local coffee/breakfast shop, Magnificant Muffin, we’d been meaning to try. Walking by you’d almost miss it, tucked in between the local post office and the hair salon, but you’d know it by the stream of customers, some of whom run to catch the train just around the corner. If you look carefully you’ll see taped to the window some newspaper articles highlighting its virtues, including winning the “best coffee in Medford” last year.

Mag Muffin doesn't look like much even after you enter. It is a small space with a counter that conceals none of the boxed and crated deliveries in the back, and it has a cramped area in front with mismatched chairs and tables to sit with your coffee. But it’s the walls that first capture your attention. They are absolutely papered with pictures. Pictures of children, and literally hundreds of them. Christmas cards, the first kindergarten photo, the boy posed over his soccer ball, the ballet recital all from different families, but all of the same Magnificant Muffin neighborhood family. Because that is what we’ve walked into. We’ve walked into that local gathering place that modern folk wax nostalgic about, that conservative pundits glorify as the “true America.” A place where all the customers interact with the closeness and familiarity of extended family.

This is the scene we walked into: A middle aged cop and woman, who appears to be his neighborhood gossip informant, sitting at the corner table chatting with the patron, Bea, a stout and matronly woman whose labored movements and frequent leans on the counter indicated that running this shop is exhausting, but a labor of love. A sweatpant and ponytail-clad woman, Annie, then walks in and gets her “usual” and a box of Muffins for her kids, who are still asleep at home. Bea asks about them.
“Can you believe Johnny is already started kindergarten?”
Bea shakes her head. “They grow up so fast.”
Two other middle-aged women then walk in and greet Bea,
“Hi sweetheart.”
“The regular darlings?”
“Yes, but no sugar for me this time hon. I’m trying to cut down.”
As Annie grabs her box of Muffins and heads out the door she passes the two new patrons and says,
“Hi Mrs. Capuano. Hi Mrs. O’Neil.”
Clearly they’ve known each other since Annie was a little girl, but she wouldn’t dream of calling them by their first names even though they are all mothers now. Just as this exchange ends, a
man walks in and is greeted with “Good morning father.”

At this point, Colin and I look at each other. This is too good to be true. A policeman, a housewife, some grandmotherly figures and a priest!? We’ve just stepped into a Normal Rockwell painting. Just as we are thinking this, another man walks through the door and the priest teases,
“Hey! Look who it is! Mr. Moneybags!”
This growing group of patrons all seem in on the joke. Colin and look at each other, this time slack jawed, and I whisper,
“Did we just walk into 1953?” Colin whispers back,
“This should be in black and white.”
We giggle to each other, and then slowly step back from the scene afraid that any sudden movements would disrupt the time warp. But are both thinking the same thing: We want in on this Magnificant Muffin family.

Baby commute

I’m starting to take little Caleb to work with me on the train - the old commuter rail into Boston. Unlike my commute last year – waiting for the bus, riding it for 20 stops to the T and then fighting my way to stand on a crowded T, where sitting passengers willfully ignored my pregnant belly – I now take the very civilized commuter rail. Even when crowded, I always get a seat, and an actual person in an old-timey uniform who doesn’t appear to hate his job takes my ticket. The ride is smooth, not jerky, and the whole atmosphere breeds occasional islands of camaraderie, in which regular commuters sit and talk about their jobs, family and vacations like old friends. Each car has a few banquets of seats which face each other, invariably populated by a group of garrulous women, some of whom pull out knitting and occasionally pictures of children, sitting as if for tea in someone’s living room. I find myself on my short commute looking at them longingly, yearning for membership to their sisterhood. Well, I think I may have my ticket. And his name is Caleb.

As “civilized” as this commuting experience can be, with pockets of downright collegiality, it is still mainly a sea of work weary adult strangers. So, when I board with a tiny baby strapped to my chest, this unexpected bundle of cuteness wakes people from their morning daze or afternoon exhaustion. Caleb and I find ourselves the epicenter of smiles rippling out as passengers are uncontrollably charmed by Caleb’s innocent look of wonder at the most mundane backdrop of our days. He reminds them of their own kids or maybe even forces them to recall that part of themselves that once found wonder in the world. Or maybe it’s just the sweet shape of his face that awakens some primal part of themselves hard wired to fall in love with babies. Something about him just breaks down human walls. We all find ourselves smiling at him. And then each other.

I’ve had more conversations with others – sometimes brief, but always warm and sincere – in the 2 days I’ve commuted with him than the previous 2 months. I just love the way he can do that. It’s not that we all throw our cell phones out the window, join hands, singing Kumbaya. But it does allow a chance to briefly strip down our blinders and find a spark of joy and connection in a place that’s otherwise defined mainly by the paradox of physical closeness and emotional distance. Thanks little Caleb.

Why write?

So, why do this exercise in the first place? Partly, because I’m bored, and, for me, being bored is close to a form of torture. I can be idle for only so long before my “monkey brain,” – an apt image from yoga class – turns against me. I start down a path of introspection and self scrutiny which only leads me to conclude that I’m wasting me life – likely because of whatever was causing the boredom in the first place. Basically, I’m most alive when I’m engaged in something and a neurotic zombie when I’m not.

But why write? I think it stems from this desire to create something. Something mine. My ideas and way of molding them together. Plus, it’s just plain satisfying to put something to paper, look at it and realize I’ve captured just the essence of what was percolating around in my brain. In fact the very act of writing probably quiets and sets in order the many disorganized ideas running around in my head. It’s as if I find the truth of something that my thoughts were only circling around when I can start writing about it. I can look at something I wrote, step back and say, “Yes. That’s what I was trying to think.” But I didn’t know it, not exactly, until I wrote it down.

There’s also an aspect of art, of choreography to the whole exercise. To find the words that not only convey an idea most precisely, but to compose it in a way – through the right words set to just the right rhythm - that also evokes the related emotion. That’s art. That’s music. And I want to create some of that. Just now I have reordered some of the ideas you see here, deleted and substituted a word here and there to better capture the spirit of my meaning. It feels a bit like molding a sculpture. I sit back and see what I’ve produced, change it, and then look at it again until it’s just right. Or at least pleasing.

I want to hone this skill, to exercise this muscle and develop this discipline. I want to better communicate what I’m thinking and knowing and feeling. It can be such a lonely and frustrating feeling to have an idea trapped in your idea and not be able to express it exactly how you know it. So, I guess this is also an exercise in making connections and making myself known to myself and others.