I’ll be honest: I won’t be blogging nearly as frequently as I had in the past. Which I’ve said previously. But I’m taking another crack at it due to my recent increased involvement in the social mediasphere. More on that later.

In the meantime, let me tell you about what I did yesterday morning:

This is not what the announcement on the Nats website looked like several weeks ago. At that point, it mentioned that in-person auditions would be on Saturday, March 12. And it gave instructions on how to apply. Only the first 100 applicants would be accepted.  My trusty wife, K, nudged me to get in my email, a headshot, and my cantorial resume I had used for high holiday gigs a few years back. She submitted hers as well.

A week later, we received confirmation emails: we were in! And earlier this week, another email with specific instructions: the centerfield gate for Nats Park would open at 9:30 to let auditioners in. They’d be locked again at 10:00, so make sure that you get there on time (or even early). Renditions of the Star Spangled Banner could only be up to a minute and a half; after that one could get cut off by the judges.

Even with this information, we really didn’t know what to expect. Would we be auditioning in the stands? In one of the conference rooms? Would auditions take place simultaneously? What would the caliber of the other auditioners be like?

As for me — I’m no stranger to the Star Spangled Banner. I was even chosen to sing it at my high school graduation over two decades ago. And since then? I’ve led high holiday services and sung for upwards of a thousand people at a time. Surely this would be no problem. K was also in the same boat with her singing and cantorial experiences.  And she just has an awesome voice.

We arrived to the stadium at about 9:00 yesterday morning. It was cold — colder than we had dressed for. But at least we could park in the adjacent garage — something we could never do on crowded game days. It looked like we had a good 50 people ahead of us in line. We saw people of all ages, some dressed up nicely more casually. The couple in front of us seemed to know just about everyone in line — overhearing them made it feel like K and I were the only ones there who weren’t somehow associated with the Washington Choral Arts Society.

Intimidating.

But they opened the gates, allowing us to march right in. We checked in at a table and were assigned numbers. We sat in order in the front section of the park, right behind home plate. These were the seats we’d never sat in before — because we’re cheap. And prefer spending considerably less than $65 a pop for the privilege. But today — we had front row seats to — well, the first two minutes of every single baseball game. Repeated over and over again.

Because that’s precisely what happened. In groups of five, singers lined up at the visitor’s dugout. And then, one by one, they came out onto the field to sing the Star Spangled Banner. Our national anthem. Over and over again.

Did I mention that there was a microphone on the field? Connected to the sound system in the park? With a noticeable delay?  This was the big time. Yikes…

So — #1 came and went quickly. It was a man in his 40s with a pretty good voice. We all applauded after he finished. Next up was a woman with an incredible voice. We clapped for her, too. And then the next one — great. The one after that? Amazing.

I suppose I was expecting at least a few people who would fit the “outrageously abysmal American Idol audition” level of talent. But no. Every single person who was there had some talent. There were a few who started too high. Or stopped in the middle. Or changed keys several times during their renditions. But because of the moderate level of hoops people had to jump through to actually get the audition slot, people took it quite seriously.  Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that there would be less of a chance to get on national television by making a fool of yourself.

We kept on listening to each of the singers, one by one. Singing the same anthem. Some of them sang it straight, others were more intricate. Some held the microphone; some left it in its stand. Some were more reminiscent of opera singers; some were totally Mariah-ing it up.

And the fumes! I forgot to mention the epoxy fumes from the repainting which was going on right in the next section.  The painters were wearing full-on gas masks, but we got to experience the odor straight on while we listened. It was sort of like the sensation we all have experienced when getting completely smashed on a Saturday night and finding yourself waking up in the alley behind a Home Depot with your iPod playing Celine Dion on repeat.

There were also a few choral groups auditioning together. One was a high school group that and a bunch of kids who looked like the anti-Glee. There was an adult  choral society with some nice harmonies. A group of four kids, probably all younger than twelve, were practicing their harmonies behind us — but lost them as we only heard the melody as they came up. A few young girls were there with parents in tow.

And the steel guitar guy. The only instrumentalist of the bunch, he played beautifully.  He was somewhere around number 30. It was getting closer to my turn…

As each participant sang, I felt less confident in my own abilities. Had I practiced sufficiently? Had I picked a good key? Did I look okay? Would the delay between my voice and the P.A. system royally screw me up?

It finally came time for me to get “on deck” and stand near the dugout. The guy singing in front of me chose a note on his iPhone, sang the anthem beautifully, and ended the last word, “brave,” having it ascend two more steps. So it was more like “braaaaa–aaaaa–aaaaaaave?” (The question mark, by the way, is there because the anthem itself is simply a bunch of questions, albeit rhetorical. I like that idea. Instead of having a declarative “We’re number one!” approach, it’s more Chandleresque, as in “Could we be any more number one?” But I digress…)

I walked towards the microphone, passing the guy who had just finished. I offered my hand and he shook it. My body continued shaking as I walked the rest of the way. I decided I would hold the mic in my hand so I could control the volume myself.

I announced my name in the microphone when prompted, and was taken aback by how loud it was. And the delay! It was like the voice of God repeating what I had said — only if God had a whiny and somewhat nasal inflection. I was told to start when I was ready…

Oooh say can you see? By the dawn’s early light…

Dammit! I had started slightly too low. My intonation was off. And at that moment, things started to unravel. I remember perilous fights, but I’m pretty sure the words before that were a jumble of mixed up ones that simply didn’t make sense. HOW COULD I FORGET THE WORDS TO A SONG THAT I HAD JUST HEARD 46 TIMES IN A ROW?!? At that moment I forgave Christina Aguilera for her stint at the Superbowl. Even though it wasn’t a huge crowd, it was intimidating — singing for a group of three or four who seemed so far away in the stands. (Turns out they were only about five rows out.)

But you know what?  I think I reclaimed it at O’er the ramparts we watched. I don’t have video of me (camera issue), but perhaps that’s for the best so I don’t overly criticize myself. I did the best I could, and I remember people clapping for me. That’s a nice feeling at the end of any performance.

As I walked back and it was K’s turn, we gave each other a quick kiss and kept walking. I was able to get her on video from the dugout:

We waited for the next wave of singers and then were led out, around the field through the loading dock. We were told that the singers selected would hear via email over the next few weeks.

It’s unlikely that I’ll get chosen. There were people there with far more talent than I. But I’m certainly glad I did it.

I’m starting to practice for the 2012 season just in case…

—

By the way — I’ve blogged recently at Aiming Low, a wonderful site with some great, talented writers. You can find my piece, Of Slugs and Groupon Codes, here. And I’m also co-hosting a podcast with the wonderfully talented Faiqa of Native Born. You can find us at http://www.HeyThatsMyHummus.com.

I both know what it’s like and have no clue what it’s like.

I say this because I, too, lost my mother so quickly and so shockingly by surprise. One day she was alive and vibrant; the next she simply wasn’t. I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, how to feel. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye or have goodbye said to me. I know what it’s like.

At the same time, however, I share my own experience losing my mother with no one. Everyone’s moment is unique with different circumstances, different consequences, and different thoughts and emotions scattered around one’s life like the remnants of a vase shattered into thousands of pieces. Those individual pieces are different shapes than those which were my mourning, and even as a whole my time with my mother was different than the time with yours. I guess what I’m trying to say is that nobody can claim to know 100% what you’re going through. Nobody has had the exact chain of events occurring like you have them now.

There are those of us, however, who have had similar experiences. That’s why I’m writing this to you. Actually, I’ve told you most of these things on the phone a few days ago, but I know that both you and I share a passion in helping others who may benefit from our past experiences, and putting this out there may reach others who can use these words.

We talked about you being on “auto-pilot.”  This is normal; it was my experience when a rush of tasks had to be completed and had to be completed immediately.  Neither you nor I had been prepared for what took us by surprise, and there suddenly were plans to cancel, people to call, places to visit, arrangements to be made, and physical inevitabilities to occur. Both you and I had to be the first ones to fully realize the transition that had to be made.  I don’t remember most of the details when I went through it; looking back at it it felt like I was fast-forwarding through those tasks in my life. Those around me said that I was amazing. That I remained composed. That I had really stepped up and completed some incredibly difficult things.  From what you’ve told me and how you’ve told it to me, it seems like you’re also auto-piloting incredibly well.

We both ran into so many obstacles regarding things we simply didn’t have answers for; things that were never discussed for no other reason than death happening far too soon. It’s easy to beat oneself up about the things for which one is not prepared, and I applaud you for not doing that through these past few days. If you do — it’s okay. There will be a lot of “what if” playing that will occur as time goes by. It’s important to know, however, that this was not, in any way, your failure to do anything. It’s just the way it is. You’ll likely have a hard time believing this because, like me, you are your own harshest critic. I will perpetually be here to remind you otherwise if you need me to; so will the others in your life you care about you.

I told you about the way that my Jewish tradition views the person who is grieving the loss of a close relative: there are two stages of “mourner” that one can be. The first defines that stage of disorientation and shock that one goes through when one begins to realize his/her loss. This person, called an onen, is supposed to channel his/her energy to the funeral/burial process — and is able to bypass other certain Jewish laws and customs in order to reach that end goal.  The second stage is after the funeral where one is considered an avel, someone who then goes through the gradual process of grieving and being helped by the community.  I know that this isn’t specifically your faith tradition, but I found the distinction helpful:  you, my friend, have been spending the recent days preparing for your mother’s funeral. And during that time you’ve been that superhero version of yourself, pushing yourself toward that one goal.  That’s okay.  Just know that there will be mourning after the fact as well, and you may be experiencing things on a different level at that time.

It is always — always, always, always – okay to ask for help. You’re so used to being the one who is there to help someone out. You enjoy helping others and being the resourceful one, whether at work or with your peers.  There is no shame in feeling that this is something you can’t go at alone. It does not make you a failure. It does not make you weak. It makes you a human being going through a difficult time.

And with that? You’ll find that some people will be wonderfully helpful. Others will not. Some will grant you some wonderful advice. Others you’ll just want to shut the eff up. There is no one right way to grieve, and there is no one right way to console.  Some will simply want to give you hugs. Others will want to bake casseroles, send flowers or share memories. It’s because they care, and that’s what you may want to take out of the experience as a whole. But it could be helpful to see it all as a “consolation potluck:” — it’s all right if you don’t try absolutely everything that is brought to the table.

About your kids? And kids in general? The way you and your spouse explained what happened was fine. And age appropriate. There are many others out there who would agree with you (and me); there are others out there who feel that they are the experts in all things death with children; they may claim to know what’s best for your kids better than you do. I call bullshit; you know your family and your family’s belief system. And if the kids don’t quite understand it fully? That’s okay. I’m 38 and, frankly, neither do I…

Finally — there is no right or wrong way to feel and emote. We all do this in different ways. You can weep, trying to hold back tears. You can have a long, good cry where it becomes a waterfall of emotion that takes you for a ride until you’re ready to set foot back again on dry land.  You can do so in private or in public. You can feel a whole range of emotions — or you can simply not feel that the emotional volume need to be turned up to maximum.  It’s all about you. You’re the one with the power here. You’re the one who will get through this in the best way you know how.

It’s not a bad thing to cry or scream. Nor is it bad to smile or laugh if you feel it appropriate. I’m proud of you for not feeling ashamed of finding some humor and lightheartedness in the situation. For me, a tipping point was finding some family friends who regifted some garden-grown tomatoes as an offer of consolation — but the bag they came in still had the original card which congratulated the recipients on their new home. How can one not laugh at that?  The point is: you have that control. Whether to laugh or shed tears. And at what intensity. There is no right or wrong aside from what you feel in the moment.

I’ve seen you climb some incredible mountains in the past; this one certainly is one of the harder, steeper ones to climb and you’ve been making some enormous strides in scaling it. There’s a whole lot more mountain to climb, and I have no doubt that you’ll continue that journey at your own pace.

Just know that you’re not alone as you take these steps.

With much love,

Your mountain-climbing buddy

February 1: A Monday.  We cancel Av’s regularly scheduled guitar lesson due to his siddur ceremony at school. A siddur is a Jewish prayer book, and this was the ceremony where all of the first graders received theirs. Quite beautiful and cute and such. Great group of parents and families. A late night, but totally worth it.

February 2: Groundhog Day! Surprisingly, the little guy sees his shadow. Six more weeks of winter. Such wonderful foreshadowing. Also began my two week stint training at work on a specific topic. More on that later…

February 3: Snow on the ground. Av has school canceled for the first time in February.  I go to work. Lead my training. And I get my H1N1 vaccination shot. Because I’m that much ahead of the curve.

February 4: More training at work. A storm is brewing in the DC area. Apparently one bigger than the one we had in December. People make plans. They buy bread. Milk. Toilet paper. I bring home my thermos so it can have a nice round in the dishwasher.  Later than evening school is canceled for Av for the next day. Without a flake even hitting the ground yet.

February 5: Impending snow-doom on the DC area. I get permission to work from home — but spend the morning stocking up the house with necessities. Interestingly enough, we deem a third Wiimote to be a necessity to play a 3-way version of Mario Kart. I do, however, work through the day — and advise my boss that I’ll be checking in throughout the weekend as most folks won’t be able to get in. By the way — this is Av’s snow day #2.

February 6: No way we’re going anywhere. We’re completely snowed in. A bit of shoveling happens. Not so effective. Lots of Mario Kart played.

February 7: Snow keeps on coming! Still at home. Late in the day we start to dig out a bit. One car can find its way out. One car is buried and isn’t going anywhere. The Superbowl apparently goes on without us leaving the house to find a party at which to watch it.

February 8: Work from home. K’s work is closed due to the snow; she makes her way to rehearsal for a teen production of “The Wizard of Oz” which she is costume designing. While Av is home from school (day #3) I slowly dig my car out…

That afternoon we get a call from the guitar teacher. He wants to know if we’ll be coming to the lesson about two miles away. I frantically see this an excuse to get myself and Av out of the house! Screw bundling up — we’re only going to be in the car for a few minutes, right? Well — on the way there, the car gets stuck in a snow bank for close to an hour. We miss the lesson, but we have a fun neighborhood interaction with several strangers who help me dig and push the car out. We go back home.

February 9: School still closed for Av (#4). New storm coming. I work from home. He goes to rehearsal with K.  Snow starts falling again that evening for round 2.

February 10: Another snowstorm. This is getting old. And depressing. The snow is just gloomy. I work from home. K is home. Av’s school is canceled again. (Snow day #5 in February). We get emails from the teachers to help come up with some work to pass the time.

February 11: We dig out again. I work from home. Again. Av is off from school. Again. #6. I make it very clear that I will leave the house tomorrow if it means trudging 30 miles to work in boots.

February 12: I make it to work finally. For the first time in a week. Av remains home as school is canceled. By this time he has only had three school days in February.  It feels kind of good to be back in an office, but I miss doing work without wearing pants. That evening I watch the Olympic opening ceremonies and tweet a whole bunch of #MadeUpOlympicFacts. It feels good to be back among the tweeting.

February 13: Normalcy kind of sets in. Beautiful mountains of snow start to look like  black pepper sno-cones.

February 14: We all watch the production of “The Wizard of Oz” and go out for a family Valentine’s Day dinner and dessert. Yum!

February 15: Av finally has school again — on Presidents’ Day! Yes — the school made its own decision to override the holiday and finally go back to school. I’m back at work. We’re back to guitar lessons for the first time in three weeks. Av is doing remarkably well.

February 16: My second week of training which I was supposed to do the previous week is back on. Although people are still catching up on work so some of them don’t make it. No matter — they’ll get to it eventually…

February 17: Lots of scrambling taking place to fill out paperwork for Av’s school for the next calendar year. Involves sending a packet the size of Montana to a completely different state for processing.

February 18: Last day of this endless training session — looking forward to starting the next one as I received a lot of positive feedback. And since there’s a new emphasis on ongoing technical training in the company — I’m in a good place. Oh — and Av gets an orange belt in karate.

February 19: Sick day.  Simply not feeling well. K gets me feeling better through the power of noodles. Life seems to be getting back to normal, and we decide it’s finally time we got ourselves into the 21st century and finally bought ourselves that new HDTV.

February 20: After spending the morning volunteering, it’s a nice, relaxing day at home – until we realize we need new furniture to house the new TV. And new cables. One trip to Ikea and Best Buy later and… we have an activity for the evening. After everything is assembled and hooked up, we’re too tired to watch anything.

February 21: Lazy Sunday. Chores and more. And Mario Kart on the new TV. Life is good. I’m feeling like life is going in the right direction. We’re coming back to normalcy and stability.  We’re enjoying the finer things in life — but especially our family.

February 22: Went to work. Was informed that the jobs at our center would be moving elsewhere on a certain date not too far into the future. All of us are affected. All of us are unsure of our future.

February 23: Work continues as normal. But not really. People are preoccupied. We try to do the best job that we can. Some of us are networking. Looking at other options inside and outside of the company. Some folks have checked out already. Some are throwing themselves into their work. I finally make it back to the gym — been so busy throughout the month

February 24: More of the same at work.  Wonderful people approach me and see how I’m doing, asking if they can get resumes to pass on. I’m thankful. And yet still trying to just figure out the next few days ahead of me.

February 25: Preparing myself for the Jewish holiday of Purim coming up over the weekend. I’m at work and doing work, but not overly concerned about the future. More pressing matters to attend to first.

February 26: TGIF. Long week. I’m in bed by 9pm.

February 27: Synagogue with my family in the morning — both K and I have our own special roles in the service. K is the first person to read out of the new Torah scroll on the Sabbath. And recites the Haftarah beautifully. That evening, we go back to synagogue for the Purim festivities. I read from the megillah. Av dresses up as a pirate. He helps me lead the ceremonial reading of the Scroll of Esther in a very Rocky Horror Picture Show type way.

February 28: I go back to synagogue for the morning celebration of Purim.  And then there’s the Purim carnival at the synagogue. Ultimately the day ends with reflection on what a long month it’s been.

For just 28 days, this has felt like a hell of an eternity. Here’s hoping the next 31 move by a bit more quickly…

But announcing that wouldn’t quite be truthful.

Yet I do remember a winter evening at the beginning of February 1985. It was a Sunday evening. My parents were out together and my brother was working on the school newspaper elsewhere. I was at home procrastinating from the daunting task that was seventh grade homework.  I was listening to what was then Q107 — a popular, Top 40 radio station in the Washington, DC area. Everyone listened to Q107.  It was a tradition we knew would never end. (Ironically, the format suddenly changed to “Adult Contemporary Mix 107.3″ the weekend I began college. But I digress…)

It was a promotional weekend based on, for some obscure reason, the number three. Three times as many songs in a row. Three times the fun. And three times the winners for their contests!  I was listening as one came on — and a chance was given for THREE winners to call in and win!  They would take a winner from Maryland, one from Virginia, and one from the District. All one would have to do is be the first from that jurisdiction to answer a trivia question.

The question in question: name two songs in the current Top 40 — one of which is by a band and one which is a solo act of a member of that current band.  It sounds confusing when I write it out here, but hey — the suave DJ worded it in a way which could be understood for miles around.

It was a Sunday night. Most people had better things to do than to call 432-1073 with the correct answer. But not me.  I called and didn’t give the obvious answer of a Phil Collins song and a Genesis song. No. Instead, I mentioned “Oh Sherrie” by Steve Perry along with “Only the Young” by Journey.  That seemed to work. I was the best kind of winner — a radio contest winner. On the legendary Q107.

And my prize? That very next Thursday night, I was invited to a sneak preview of a hot new movie before it was officially released. It was called “The Breakfast Club.”  I was excited. I called my friend Jeremy and gave him the good news. I waited for my parents to come home and mentioned it to them as well. “How nice,” I remember my Mom saying.

The next day, apparently, my Mom did some research on this new movie and discovered it was Rated-R.  I was 12.  I had already assumed that one of my parents would go with me to the screening. But I didn’t have an inkling that they would turn this opportunity down flat-out.

I was pissed. This was my prize! My glory! Something I had won!  And my parents were going to take it away from me? Simply because of an R rating? True — there really wasn’t any barometer to figure out if this was going to be appropriate for someone my age or not. It could have been the next World According to Garp. Or it could have been the next Porkys.  I was denied.

And I was instantly known at school as the kid whose parents wouldn’t even let him watch R-Rated movies.

I recall bringing up my grievance at a weekly family counseling session which was held the following Monday. I expected the therapist to take my side. Boy was I wrong. My Mom decided to come up with a peace offering of sorts — she got the station to send us a rockin’ Q107 t-shirt.  I was amazed when I discovered that my Mom actually called the radio station to try to get another prize –and even complain that they would award sneak preview tickets to an R-Rated movie to a 12 year-old.

“But Mom!” I whined “How did you know the phone number of the radio station?” She was infringing on my territory. Q107 wasn’t a Mom thing. It was a me thing. There was no way that she could stomach the musical phenomenon that was Scritti Polliti.

She told me how she found out what the phone number was: “I listened. They say the phone number every three minutes.”

It was the first time I can remember where my Mom’s eyes spoke to me and undoubtedly said “Duh!”

Anyway, she called the request line and was transferred to the general manager’s office. He told her that if she had a problem with me winning contests on the station, the solution was to simply not have me listen to the station. Eventually she was able to get them to send me a t-shirt. In retrospect, it was a very generous gesture of my Mom. And, in retrospect, the t-shirt probably looked better after ten years than Judd Nelson.

But it wasn’t my sneak preview. I moped around for the next week. My Dad said that he would take me to the movies to see it — only after there was more information about what to expect in this R-Rated film.  We didn’t end up going. I remember seeing it for the first time on VHS at a friend’s house.

But this movie to this day continues to remind me of my Mom. Who was doing the right thing at the time because she gave a damn about me — even though I felt the opposite was true. Letting a 12 year-old kid see an unknown R-Rated movie? Especially one with pot and Ally Sheedy’s nude scene? No chance.

Which is why I’ve decided not to let my seven year-old go to the movies to see “Hot Tub Time Machine” when it comes out. It may not be the most popular decision. But in 25 years? Maybe he’ll understand.

After a lot of thinking, it’s time for me to shift some gears as well. Which is why this will be my last Shiny’s Takeout post for quite a while.

When I started blogging several years ago, I felt it was the most amazing thing: I’m often better at writing than speaking conversationally, and I liked it when I received positive feedback and affirmation from a community of readers. My community has been nothing but wonderful — sharing aspects of their lives and thoughts through blogging itself. I’ve been lucky enough to meet some of you in person and develop some wonderful friendships.

Somewhere down the line, however, I started using my blogging as an escape from my own personal life and dealing with my own issues.   I had seen this pattern years before when the social community was IRC. Both platforms gave me a chance to shine. Both of them helped me feel validated when I felt I couldn’t validate myself.  But there was a dark side there: I was losing track of what I needed to be happy in my own personal life.

It’s been a lot easier to go online and read blogs and tweets and reply with my witty remarks or helpful information.  And for people to laugh at my jokes and make me feel good about myself. But it’s taken a toll: I’ve been working at a job where, every day, I sit down in front of two computers, spending a lot of that time extracurricularly following a specific community of people online. On my way home when I’m stuck in traffic, I’ll fire up Twitter on my phone and follow that same community. And when I’m home? I’m back on the computer spending time following people online.  This is great when done in moderation.  But I’ve no longer done this in moderation.

I weight a shade less than 300 pounds. I eat in front of the computer a lot of the time. This is far from healthy. I have high blood pressure, and my mother died at an early age.  Being so consumed with the online community is dangerous.

I have issues in my own life that I’ve been beginning to face (thanks to therapy and the advice of friends), yet the online world is becoming more and more of an escape for me and an obstacle for getting shit done. My productivity at work is down. My focus on my family and my marriage has taken a back seat to emotional investments in the online world. I think now, more than ever, I’m realizing  that I need to face the music and stop escaping to a better place where everybody knows my name.  I want to be a better person, a better husband, and a better father.

So I’m giving this blog a rest. I don’t know for how long, but will at least be long enough to  shift my gears. You’ll also find me absent from Twitter and from your blogs.  I wanted to put this out there instead of simply disappearing off the face of the blogosphere. I’m still here; I just need to stay unplugged until I can learn how to plug in in moderation.

If you’re reading this, it’s very likely that I’ve had some wonderful exchanges with you. You all are a very talented, empathetic and loving bunch of people. Please stay that way.  I do hope to return when I’ve learned more self-control. And I hope I find the same welcoming community as I’ve found before.

Have a good summer…

– S

Most of you have been very respectful regarding this issue. And I thank you for that.  I know that the topic of abortion is quite a passionate one, and it certainly takes some self-control to keep one’s own personal opinions out of the mix when such a tragedy has occurred.

But there are some of you who simply see this as a chance to further your agenda. And that just pisses me off.

First of all, there are a few of you — very few — who have the fucking gall to justify the killing of Dr. Tiller as a good thing. That it was simply the act of stopping a murderer who has killed so many and who was likely to kill again and again if not stopped by lethal force. Some of you are saying tha the alleged murderer simply acted as God had instructed, putting to death he who had murdered. Who the hell do you all think you are?  What gives the right of anyone to take the life of another?  Was the alleged killer’s life in danger at the time that he approached Tiller?  No. He shot an unarmed man. It was an assassination.  It doesn’t matter what his profession happened to be during the work week. There is no way that anyone should feel that this action was justifiable.

And there are some of you who are quick to condemn the shooting, but you seem to make sure to add “even though he himself has murdered thousands of babies himself.” Nice. Very classy.  Newsflash: did you know that Dr. Tiller is a human being? That he, too, is someone’s child? And someone’s parent? And grandparent? Did you know that, after losing family members in a tragic air crash in 1970, he adopted his nephew?  Yes — he performed abortions. Which many consider inexcusable. But this shooting also affects many more people than Dr. Tiller.

Real style points go to Bill O’Reilly for sending out his producer to accost Dr. Tiller’s widow a day after the shooting.  Balls of steel, Bill. Balls of steel. You must be proud.

And then there are those of you muttering about the irony that this took place at a church — condescendingly adding those implied air-quotes around the word church, as if there was a lack of godliness around an institution that would allow Tiller to worship with the community.  As sure as you very well may be that abortion is wrong in the eyes of God, this remains a very hot topic with a variety of viewpoints across the religious spectrum. Yes — it certainly is possible to have a healthy spiritual life while also supporting abortion rights in this country.

And if you’re one who is expressing fear of “retaliation”  from the abortion rights camp because of this shooting? Come on. Stop playing the victim here. Let’s face it: this is a setback. Something from which to recover.  But to think that there will be some sort of retaliation for the actions against Dr. Tiller simply turns this whole issue into a mockery.  That’s not the opposing team’s M.O. Some of you have even said that Supreme Court Nominee Sotomayor is a threat because her viewpoints on abortion may become reactive due to this shooting. Get real for a moment: Abortion is currently legal in this country. A so-called, new “activist judge” on the bench can’t and won’t change the status quo.  Stop making the shooting about your own cause and think of those directly affected.

Look — as I mentioned before, the overwhelming majority of you are playing it cool.  I appreciate that. It’s only a few of you who are spoiling it for everyone else.  But it’s those on the fringe who make us all look like total loons. Keep doing what you’re doing — making your voice heard on the issue. Just keep in mind that, as passionate as you are, there are those with other opinions just as passionate as you.  And as much as you think that they feel abortion is a throwaway decision, it certainly is a struggle that many women think about.

I think it’s wonderful that we live in a nation where people of all opinions can express themselves.  All I ask is that you do it with tact. Do it peacefully. Don’t shove pictures of aborted fetuses in people’s faces; that’s not going to convince them of anything new. Be vocal. But be classy.

Because if you don’t, you’re not any better than the enabling liberal kool-aid drinkers.

Most of you have been very respectful regarding this issue. And I thank you for that.  I know that the topic of abortion is quite a passionate one, and it certainly takes some self-control to keep one’s own personal opinions out of the mix when such a tragedy has occurred.

But there are some of you who simply see this as a chance to further your agenda. And that just pisses me off.

First of all, there are a few of you — very few — who have the fucking gall to take this senseless crime and pin it upon your own sleeve. As if this is something which specifically harmed you. Yes, abortion rights is an issue close to us all. But unless you are a family or friend of Dr. Tiller or a patient in his practice — his murder is not yours to own. He was a man — someone who stood for his own convictions, but a man with a family and a community. They are the ones in pain. They are the ones grieving here.  It’s certainly okay to be sad here, but this is not your loss. It’s theirs.

And there are many who are understandably outraged at the shooting, but some of you who are declaring this to be the beginning of a war — the rabid right attacking our way of life. I call bullshit.  Scott Roeder, the alleged shooter, is one guy. One guy. True, there are a handful of “one guys” out there who feel that this action was justifiable,  but they are, by far, the minority here. They are the fringe right. Meanwhile, the overwhelming majority of anti-abortion organizations have released statements making it abundantly clear that they condemn the murder of Dr. Tiller which took place. To think that the majority of those who oppose abortion rights actually agree with this killing is simply misguided at best.

There are even those who are pointing fingers at Bill O’Reilly — saying that his depiction of “Tiller the Baby Killer” repeatedly on his television show prompted Roeder to (allegedly) move forward with this murder. Roeder’s history with criminal actions and anti-abortion zealotry pre-dates even O’Reilly’s Inside Edition days.  Roeder’s actions were pre-meditated and pre-conceived without the assistance of a FOX News show.  And The O’Reilly Factor, although  a show in poor taste (what other show would have its producer accost Tiller’s widow the day after her husband’s murder?) it does not have the coercive power to make people kill.

Some of you have used this — and other displays of anti-abortion sentiment — as an excuse to bash Christianity and organized religion, stating that the roots of this hatred against those who support reproductive rights for women is fueled by church dogma. Yes, there are those who are fanatics in many religious offerings who preach hate. Howeverm as I must stress again, these are the fanatics. The Fundamentalists.  And certainly not the majority. If you’d rather not follow an organized religion, so be it. But rejecting others’ choice to practice spirituality through religious practice as unequivocally divisive and extremist is simply not seeing the full picture.  Not all who are anti-abortion are Christian. And certainly not all Christians are anti-abortion.

And if you’re one who is expressing fear of “retaliation”  from the anti-abortion camp because Dr. Tiller’s legacy, Women’s Health Care Services of Wichita, is re-opening despite the shooting? Come on.  Look — there have been demonstrations and picketing for a very long time. It often can get annoying and burdensome.  But there will be no “stepping up” of action here.  The horrible murder of Dr. Tiller was not a “call to action” of the entire movement to pick off more supporters.  Some of you may be crying out because one of the last practitioners of late-term abortions is no longer, endangering this legal (in Kansas, at least) procedure for those who choose it. Please keep in mind that it’s a tough choice for anyone and everyone. And that if there are physicians who decide to perform late-term abortions, they will.  The emphasis is “choice.”

Look — as I mentioned before, the overwhelming majority of you are playing it cool.  I appreciate that. It’s only a few of you who are spoiling it for everyone else.  But it’s those on the fringe who make us all look like total nutcases. Keep doing what you’re doing — making your voice heard on the issue. Just keep in mind that, as passionate as you are, there are those with other opinions just as passionate as you.  And as much as you think that they feel no concern for the rights of women to make their own choices, they, too, consist of women who are making their own choices.  And who are concerned about the rights of others. I’m not asking you to agree with them, but rather to listen to what they have to say.

I think it’s wonderful that we live in a nation where people of all opinions can express themselves.  All I ask is that you do it with tact. Do it peacefully. Don’t intimidate people with depictions of back-alley abortions performed with coathangers; that’s not going to convince them of anything new. Be vocal. But be classy.

Because if you don’t, you’re not any better than the single-minded, fundamentalist dittoheads.

I apologize in advance for the long, rambly and serious nature of this post. It might be a bit disjointed; just bear with me and try to keep up if you can. I won’t guarantee that it will make a whole lot of sense as I’m writing it at this late hour.

It’s weird having a blog with a varied audience. I wrote something up a few weeks back about the fact that family members of a different generation are among my readers.  I’m fine with that. But I have to admit — the content which I post here, like the content I would post in my own life, goes through its own filtration process.  Just as I wouldn’t tell a less familiar acquaintence about certain details in my life, I also make certain choices about what I write about here.

Which, I suppose, could be a bit of a struggle for me. Because, after all, this is my blog. My original goal for blogging was for me to self-express in the best way possible. For me, it means writing knowing that an audience will be reading. A bit voyeuristic, I know.  But hey — it seems to work for me. I like the feedback — whether it consists of compliments or constructive criticism.

I often lean towards writing the upbeat and funny stuff. It’s what I like. It’s how I practice the type of writing I enjoy more than anything else. I’ve written upbeat, light-hearted comedic pieces as an amateur and a paid (and syndicated!) professional before, and I want to exercise the funny bone a bit. Alas, humor can be predictable; this is why people pretty much know what to expect when they read a Dave Barry column or watch an Adam Sandler film. I’m not trying to raise myself to their level; I just observe that some of my patterns of writing — and the general way I present myself to the blogosphere in general — can be predictable and repetitive.  A good friend coined a term which has been on my mind a bit: “Shiny-in-a-can.”  I see where s/he is coming from.  I don’t think Shiny-in-a-can is necessarily bad. In fact, I happen to like and identify with this aerosol propelled version of myself. It’s certainly a safe, comfortable option of me.  But sometimes there’s simply more.  And I struggle as to whether or not to reveal it.

I got a call from my Dad a few months ago.  The two of us are quite close — especially since my mother died suddenly in 2006. Life has been moving forward for both of us since then — he with a wonderful girlfriend with whom he has made a new home and who has become part of our family (and my dad part of hers).  I’ve written here about him selling the home that he made with my mom and his boys — a home with more than three decades of history for all of us.

I haven’t mentioned on here that my Dad’s call was about the non-Hodgkins lymphoma with which he was diagnosed. And the fact that he would be undergoing chemotherapy as treatment for what was originally thought to be far less aggressive than it was.

Now — before I go any further, I spoke with my Dad this evening.  He’s doing great. He just got the results back from his PET scan — and the treatment is working. He has already undergone three rounds of chemo and has three left.  His hair has fallen out, but he simply looks like he has a military crew cut. If anything, he looks like General Wesley Clark.  He certainly doesn’t look like someone who has taken an extreme beating from chemo. And I think it’s because he has a wonderful partner and a the amazing support of family who visit regularly.  Hell — he was well enough to go up to my brother’s 40th birthday party in New Jersey for the weekend!  It’s a tremendous feeling to know that he’s doing quite well.

But my world over the past eight weeks has been clouded with uncertainty. I had no idea what to expect. I’ve seen cancer and chemotherapy from a distance. I’ve seen people recover well from it, and I’ve seen those whose battles were tragically lost.  My dad made it abundantly clear to me that the prognosis with chemo was very good and that he had no plans other than to stick around for a very, very long time. I still believe him — he has such a drive to live.  But I simply had nothing that close to which I could reference this.  What would happen exactly? Would he become weak?  What would be my responsibility as a son going through this with him? Where would I need to fit in within his already wonderful support structure?

What if something unexpected were to happen? Something other than his plan of beating the crap out of this cancer?

My dad always mentions the way I bore the brunt of my mom’s passing. He was on his way home from Connecticut when it happened. My brother was in New Jersey — which left me (and K) to do everything. I was on autopilot, commandeering K’s PDA and just getting shit done. (She did an incredible amount as well — especially in the following days.) I didn’t have a chance to let anything personal sink in — I felt more like I was watching myself as a cast member of CSI at the scene of the death. I simply had to do it this way. It had to get done. And it wasn’t going to get done without me being on autopilot.

Where was this sense of autopilot when I was told that my Dad would be going through chemo? Yes, the situation was (and is) very different. My Dad’s doing fine. And he has a companion to help him out through all of this. And it’s not a tragic surprise.  But still — I was appalled that my reaction was not to simply “do stuff.”  It was to freeze.

I find myself freezing a lot more nowadays rather than simply getting it done. I undertand that I’m not in the crisis mode I was in on that summer day when my life was turned upside down. On that day I pretty much had a pass. I had no idea what to expect or what to do. If I did something wrong, perhaps, people had license to let it slide. (Although I do remember a frantic phone call, gasping for air, to the managers of the burial plot because I had forgotten to remind them that there needed to be a place reserved next to my Mom. It was all taken care of.) And now? I’ve somehow arrived to a place where it’s nearly impossible for me to move forward without fear that I might proceed in the wrong fashion. That I might leave out that one detail that harms something or someone permanently.

It’s an irrational fear.  It’s one I know is ridiculous to obsess about. And most of the time I can simply forget that it exists.  And for now? That’s probably okay. My Dad is going to be okay for the time being. But he will get older — whether in a few years or a few decades. He will need my brother and me to step up. To do what’s right. And by that point, I’m going to need my autopilot to kick back in again — rather than perpetually rethink and revise my decisions to determine what would be the best course of action.

It’s not an easy task. And I’ve enlisted some help to get back on track. To overcome this apprehension of possibly making the wrong choices and not being able to go back.  I’m pretty sure it means I’m going to make my share of spectacular mistakes on the way. Hopefully it will also mean getting back on track to making some pretty great decisions without balking at them.

So bear with me.  It’s probably going to be a bit of a bumpy ride.

And constipated. Tonight marks the end of the eight-day holiday of Passover — one whose dietary restrictions react with the colon like a bunch of “Tea Party” attendees who accidentally got lost and found their way to a Phish concert: there could possibly be some synergy and sweet music, but it eventually gets painfully confrontational and people ultimately plead for a peaceful evacuation.

(Now that I’ve got the biological humor out of the way…)

Life has been busy on many different fronts: As I mentioned last week, my Dad just sold his house. (Yay!) And this being one of the major Jewish holidays, we’ve been spending a lot of time with family. Av’s Spring Break coincides with Passover — a departure from the daily grind. We celebrated the first evening of Passsover with my Dad and his girlfriend at their place. It was quite nice.

And then my brother and sister-in-law were in town! It was great seeing them. As well as my aunt (Mom’s sister) and uncle. Always a pleasure. It’s just nice to be able to step away from the computer for a while and partake of family. I’m happy that I’ve got a great one.

Part of my trip to my Dad’s, however, had another motive. There were still quite a few boxes of stuff that we had to go through and claim. My Mom was known to save absolutely everything and anything — papers, report cards, birthday cards and notes. She was also quite organized about everything: It was interesting seeing a shoebox of personal checks from the 1970s and 80s that were still in pristine shape.  I didn’t take those. But I took many boxes of books, my old schoolwork, and credit card solicitations from my college years that I never got around to “processing.”

I found a note I had written my parents one evening when my brother was babysitting. I suppose I had to write it as a proactive measure for not getting all of my homework done or something. It was the best way to address when I was in trouble — and, believe me, I was an expert at that.  But it would serve as a measure to (a) address the issue before they had a chance to do so; and (b) carefully divert blame to my brother.  I was clever. I was a genius.  I already knew how to beat the system nearly three decades ago. It was the early 1980s and nothing could stop me.

And thus, dear readers, I’m applying this same strategy now. I know I haven’t blogged lately, but I’m presenting a proactive excuse note for your consideration.

(I just don’t have the time to craft a new one; the following is an encore presentation of a note from 1981 to my parents.)

Yeah. maybe it is. In hindsight, I can see how asking you to identify eight snippets of songs played on top of each other could be tricky.  Maybe I thought it was a piece of cake because I created the snippets and knew what to listen for.  But apparently it was so tough that nobody really gave it a serious listen. And nobody gave it a serious guess as to what the eight songs were.

Which is why I decided to divide the task in half — and ask you all to identify two sets of four snippets of songs played on top of each other yesterday. And I appreciate the answers that you all came up with:

• Simple Minds – Don’t You Forget About Me (Janelle)
• Whitney Houston – The Greatest Love of All (Janelle)
• Eddie Money – I Wanna Go Back (Janelle)
• Steve Perry – Oh Sherry (YankeeBird)
• Yes – Owner of a Lonely Heart (B. E. Earl)
• Prince and the Revolution – I would Die 4 U (B. E .Earl)

All good guesses. But only one of the songs above was included in my little snippet collage.

I’ve concluded a few things about this little exercise:

• I’m a smarmy game-show host type of person. Kind of like Alex Trebek when he pretends to know all of the answers because he has the card in his hands. And when he does, he uses that prissy little accent. I feel a bit like Alex Trebek. And I hereby don’t blame you for wanting to beat me up.
• I obviously don’t have a prize worthy of people trying harder at my little games. The economy has hit us all quite hard, apparently. I’m looking around my office, and I suppose I could send the winner a dead cel phone from 2003 if s/he wanted it. But aside from that? Not so much of value…
• Nobody has commented about my inclusion of OGG files for each of these snippets.  This is the first time that I’m including OGG as an option for download. Although OGG is an open source music format (unlike the commercial MP3 format), I decided to include it just so I could type the word “OGG.”

So here’s the deal — I’m going to make things very easy for those of you who are curious as to what was on my list of random 80s songs in the first place:   I’m going to repost the original 3-second snippet of eight songs:

    Download: MP3 OGG

… and I’m going to repost yesterday’s addition: two three-second snippets of four songs apiece:

Download: MP3 OGG

    Download: MP3 OGG

… and now?  I’ll slice each of those in half. FOUR three-second snippets, each consisting of a whopping two songs:

Download: MP3 OGG

Download: MP3 OGG

Download: MP3 OGG

Download: MP3 OGG

There. This should make things slightly easier. Attainable, even.

Please, please, please, please, please don’t make me do eight snippets of one song tomorrow. Or sixteen snippets of a half of a song the next day. So far, this experiment has cost me almost 300 kB in valuable disk space on my host, and I only have about 5.8 GB left.

(Besides — converting audio files to OGG can be a real pain.)