I, Glornak, Have Slain the Evil Rubber Band!

Dubuque – IA

I, Glornak, author of one of the best-selling motivational books of all time, creator of two highly succesful hot dog stands, and current Republican presidential primary front-runner, have slain the evil Rubber Band, and freed our country from its power.

Hey look, for too long Americans have watched as other nations surpassed us in military power, international prestige, wealth, and hot dog stands. This country, eight years ago, in a moment of national idiocy, we allowed the Rubber Band into the White House, and what did we get? It’s a disaster.

Last night, I finally decided I’d had enough. As I sat in my hotel room eating fried chicken, I saw the Rubber Band’s face on the television, and I thought, what a stupid, incompetent moron. What a lightweight.

I would never wrap a hot dog with a rubber band like that. I would never use a rubber band like that to tightly bundle my sagging testicles to my left leg, to avoid smushing them when I walk.

No! That’s not what you get from Glornak! That’s not how I do things!

So, I got on the plane, and I put on my hair, and bundled my nuts, and I went over there, and I just slaid him! Probably. Almost certainly.

I just really had to slay that stupid, ridiculous Rubber Band because it had to be done, and none of these other guys have the bundled nuts to do it.

Maybe? It’s possible. I don’t know. It’s sad. Most likely I did slay him, but I don’t know, I can’t remember. I did, probably, slay him. Let’s see how they do with that.






I blame Facebook

I blame Facebook. I blame Twitter. I blame the internet.

On Facebook, a news article saying Hillary Clinton murdered fifty people looks exactly the same as a news article saying unemployment is down to 4.9%. It looks exactly the same as a post advertising belly-fat pills.

I blame cheap graphic design and easy publishing.

I blame WordPress. Tumblr, Snapchat, YouTube and Instagram.

These are places where you can say anything you want, and no one will stop you. No one will flag your post as utter bullshit, even if it is, obviously, utter bullshit.

These channels have automated computer monitoring algorithms that will block copyrighted material but have no concept of common sense. They’ll publish anything that doesn’t explicitly violate the law.

Before, you could guage the quality of information indirectly, by using its packaging as an indicator. If an online news article looked like a 1997 GeoCities page, then you could be pretty sure it was garbage. If a piece of news came from an outlet you had never heard of, or it was surrounded by ads for penis enlargements, then you could probably ignore it.

Not anymore. Now, even the craziest ideas come packaged neatly, with attractive fonts and slick layouts. And they come to us via channels – Facebook, Twitter, and others – that treat all information equally; every item in your feed looks the same, counts the same, has the same packaging. How can you tell what’s credible?

Worse: what keeps you from selecting information that reinforces what you want to believe?

This election shows, among other things, that the devastation of the old media establishment is complete. Anyone can be a publisher now, and that means everyone can choose to be informed by whatever ‘news’ outlet best suits their preconceptions – and  prey on their worst fears – about the world.

In 2004 I started blogging. It was a new world, and us early bloggers knew it. Everyone had a megaphone, so anyone could get heard. And there seemed to be a lot of promise. The democratization of news. Citizen media. Fact-checking the gatekeepers. We believed a more informed populace would result, one in which we’d see real coverage of local issues big media couldn’t be bothered with. New perspectives on the old conversations.

Remember Rathergate? Jason Blair? We rooted for these takedowns of the long-suspected biases and misdeeds of the established press, because we thought it would make us better.

But in this election – and, horrifyingly, probably in every election going forward – the complete breakdown in the line between ‘real’ news and fake news has led to a catastrophe.

We used to bemoan the gatekeepers, the editors and news anchors in their corner offices, deciding what did and didn’t make the front page. And we were right. But we were wrong, too.

Because now, instead of the gatekeepers, we have the con artists, the liars, the snake-oilers, flim-flams, and hucksters at our gates. People without qualifications or conviction, without qualms or boundaries.

So yeah, I blame Facebook. I blame them for doing nothing, for pretending they don’t have a responsibility – as perhaps the largest news distribution channel in the world – to ensure our news isn’t laced with toxic lies and propaganda. It has coddled the rise of every form of extremism currently tearing our world apart.

I blame them for pretending their only job, as arbiter of most of the information the world consumes, is to make sure I don’t see boobs in my news feed.

And ultimately, I blame us. For taking the immense potential the Internet presented us, more than twenty years ago, and handing it over to our basest elements. For not finding a way of preserving, if not the old gatekeepers, at least some level of gatekeeping – of sanity – in the system.

I believe in freedom of speech. But I also believe in speaking out against indecency, insanity, and lies. Not only speaking out, but actively trying to limit the spread of vitriolic ideas. Facebook is not obligated to distribute everything we post. Twitter is not a first amendment right.

Of course, the lies and hate will always find a way of reaching those who want to hear them. But we don’t have to make it so easy. Let the con men build their own megaphone, find their own soap box.

But of course, the internet is built for us, by us. Is us. And we have turned over the soap box for precisely that reason: so it can tell us what we want to hear.



What is a storm? Xylem or phloem?

When lighting moves closer and we turn to go and

the lake says, no, don’t leave me I’m always

abandoned, I always remain on my own,

remanded, planted where nothing can grow.

The night is short and the clouds are low,

and where could I shelter? Nothing is right.

The water is crossed and recrossed with each thundering strike,

of a poem, of rifts in the fabric of time,

of words that unite, and recoil,

and sink to the bottom to sit in the soil,

and boil.

My Nice Honeymoon

Yes, my darling, I remember it.

I remember you were pregnant, not even showing yet, with our first child. And we stood in front of the blinding blue sea on the Promenade des Anglais and took a picture. You wore your hair differently then. You were so beautiful.

That boulevard – I can remember so well; we strolled along under the heat and in the breeze off the water – is where hundreds of people were injured and killed yesterday by an Islamist terror attack. A truck barreled through a crowd that had gathered there to celebrate Bastille Day.

I didn’t want to tell you last night, when you came home late.

I find myself sharply turning off the radio in the car, more and more often. I don’t want the kids to hear. I cut it off in the middle of the words ‘murdered’, or ‘massacre’, or ‘bloody’, though I could probably stop it earlier. Maybe some part of me wants them to know.

I don’t know what kind of world we’re living in. I am losing track. Was Orlando bigger, or smaller? How many killed in Brussels? Paris? Turkey? Santa Monica? London? Madrid? New York City?

I’m missing a few in there, I know it. I just can’t remember them all.

When we were in Nice I don’t think we could’ve imagined a truck barreling down the street at us. It was too pretty. The old hotels too picturesque. We were looking for crepes.

But I can imagine it now. I can see it, because I looked at the photographs and watched the videos. I feel obligated. I feel repulsed. I watched the video yesterday while you were out – while I was baking bread – and nearly vomited.

There was a body splayed out with its leg twisted nearly backwards. There were pools of blood so full and red and shiny they struck me, for a moment, as fake.

Am I growing older? Were we so young when we were there? It was just eight years ago. The world has turned so violent since then. Maybe it was just as violent before. Maybe we didn’t realize it.

But where will our children go on their honeymoons? What seaside city will be safe? Vernazza, in Cinqueterre? We went there too. It’s smaller, more isolated, with narrower streets. I don’t remember just how narrow. I think a truck would probably still fit.

Anyway. They’re awake now, playing around upstairs in their pyjamas. They’ll make their way down any minute, asking for breakfast and to watch TV. I should make sure it’s not on a news channel. I should run out to the car and tune the radio to jazz. No, wait, the jazz station cuts in with news announcements on the hour.

I still feel safe, oddly. Because St. Paul is a small city in the middle of a huge country, and nothing ever happens here. Except it’s stupid to feel safe. Because plenty of things happen here, and because we are not so small (bigger than Nice, anyway). And violence seems to be going viral in a way that doesn’t discriminate between small and large, tolerant or intolerant, religion, politics, gender or age.

I am foolish to feel safe. But we have to make the kids feel safe, and I don’t think I could tell them one thing, while always feeling another. It’s nonsense, this world we are living in, but I will show them that picture. The one of us smiling into the sun, just married, and young. I’ll show them that picture and tell them about our honeymoon in Nice, and I’ll leave out the horrors of yesterday.

And I’ll  tell them about our trips to Cinqueterre, and Rome, and Venice, and Paris, and everywhere else we’ve been, or want to go. And I’ll leave out the bad parts; the horrors of yesterday and tomorrow and next year, which I don’t know how to stop or explain.

I know they’re going to keep coming, these acts of violence. And I don’t feel safe anymore. But our children are so young, their weddings so far off. Surely they will be able to honeymoon anywhere in the world they please.

Surely by then they’ll be able to turn the radio back on, listen to jazz, and not have to keep their fingers on the volume knob.





I’m not dead right now, because I’m white

Philando Castile is dead because he was black.

And my anger, sadness, and frustration is mixed with shame. Because it wasn’t until a black man, a former high school classmate of mine, was murdered in his car less than a mile from my home, that I finally woke up.

Philando Castile, shot dead by a police officer at the corner of Larpenteur and Fry, in the sleepy not-quite-a-city of Falcon Heights, should be alive today, and would be alive today, if he had been white.

I know, because just a few weeks ago, my own kids (white) were returning from a baseball game, in the car with a friend of ours (white), when he was stopped for having a broken tail light. Everyone got out of that one unscathed, without so much as a traffic ticket, and the kids came home with a roll of police-badge stickers, much to their delight.

Obviously, the details of the situation were different, but it’s not about the specifics of the stop – whether Philando Castile complied with orders or reached for his wallet when he shouldn’t have. And it’s not just about the officer who shot him – whether he was racist or crazy or scared.

If we focus on the details, we miss the larger picture: we are living in a system where any of us can be murdered by a police officer, for no reason that can be legitimized by logic or circumstance. And the only thing keeping me from being one of those people whose lives are unjustly taken, is the accident of the color of my skin: white.

My parents immigrated to this country from Argentina in the early 80s, a time when that nation was  in the middle of brutal military dictatorship. The narrative I internalized about that period always struck me as paranoid and slightly delusional.

To hear my dad tell it, the city of Buenos Aires, where he lived, was crawling with police and plainclothes para-military operatives, and you could be picked up at any time, for any reason, with little chance of ever seeing your family again. This was especially true, he always told me, if you were Jewish (he is, I am), a political activist, or a leftist.

My dad tells this story: when he was in his twenties, he was getting into his car, fumbling his keys in the lock, when he made eye contact with a hulking, scowling man standing on the curb in a dark suit. The man’s cold glare paralyzed and unnerved him. He didn’t know what to do.

“It’s ok,” my dad apologized nervously, “it’s my car.”

With that, he says, and nothing else, the man swooped in, grabbed him by the arm, stuffed him into an umarked car and drove him away. He survived the ordeal, and immediately resolved to escape Argentina. He was suddenly willing to do almost anything, sacrifice everything, to live in a place where he and his family could be free from that kind of oppression.

Fast forward 40 years. Here, in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I was born and raised, I am incredibly fortunate not to live in the same kind of police state my dad escaped from. Because never in all my life has it occurred to me that, during an encounter with an officer of the law or an agent of the government, my well-being could be put at risk simply by uttering a wrong word or making an unexpected movement, or for the color of my skin … or for being Jewish.

When I’m stopped by police for a traffic offense – which I have been, many times – it just doesn’t cross my mind that this could be an interaction in which my life is at risk. I know exactly what will happen: I will act calm, I will cooperate, get my ticket or my warning, and be on my way home. And that’s exactly what happens. Every time.

But the truth is, black people don’t live in the same reality as I do. What, for me, is a place of freedom from oppression, for them, is exactly the type of brutal, arbitrary, unjust police state my parents struggled so hard to get away from.

If you are black in this country, the story my dad tells – the one that sounds ridiculous, improbable, fantastical – is a reality you must accept and live within every day. If you look at a police officer the wrong way, you may get arrested, you may get shot. If you make an unexpected movement or say the wrong thing, you may get arrested, or you may get shot.

It sounds so ridiculous to write down! How is that even possible? In the United States of America?

But it’s true. You may get shot, sitting in your own car, legally carrying a firearm, with your girlfriend and daughter mere inches away. And afterward, your girlfriend will be screamed at, made to put her hands in the air, handcuffed, and put in the back of a police car.

Let me ask you a question: if you were Jewish, politically active, or leftist in late 1970s Argentina, what would you do? Would you give up everything and escape to a better place?

And another question: if you are black in current-day America, what should you do? Should you give up everything and escape to a better place, somewhere where your children’s futures don’t include the risk of being gunned down by an agent of the police state?

And here’s one I’m asking myself: if, today, in the United States, simply being Jewish meant that I, and my children, had a much higher chance of being killed by a police officer without any provocation, what would I do to protect myself and my family?

I can tell you: I think I would try to get out. If I were black today, I might seriously consider trying to move my family to a different country.

But I know that’s not the right choice. Instead, it’s the country that needs to move in a different direction. It’s our country that needs to wake up to the reality of police murders (no, I won’t call them “officer-involved shootings”) of black men and women.

So tonight, I’ll be walking with hundreds, hopefully thousands, of others to the governor’s mansion in St. Paul, adding my voice to the chorus of others insisting this has to stop.

I know I’m too late, I know it’s too little, but Philando Castile should not be dead tonight, and I am alive tonight because I’m white, so I’m compelled to speak out.

This country offered hope to my parents and millions of others who have faced oppression. It must face its own demon of systemic oppression if it wants to continue being held up by people worldwide as a symbol of freedom.












This is gonna be awesome

It was a mild, gray, damp day, and I was home alone, doldrumic, with my three-year-old son, Zev. So I invited my dad over to hang out with us. Three generations, no plans or prospects to do anything.

I thought we could go to the zoo, or kick around a soccer ball, or go to the library, but no one (including me) seemed interested.

Instead we got in my dad’s car, and I suggested we head to the river for a hike. En route, Zev vetoed my plan with crying, and his grandpa, appeasing him, promised an adventure to ‘The Greatest Tower in the World!’.

I huffed and groaned but kept quiet. This is quintessentially my dad. Once you’re in the car, going someplace, he spontaneously suggests going somewhere else. On road trips he stops randomly at small-town post offices, or predictably, at every single historical marker. He drives slow.

I was annoyed. I had other things I wanted to be doing (even if I didn’t want to admit it). And now we were crawling along at 10 miles per hour toward the neighborhood water tower.

Bah! Why are dads so exasperating!? 

We got out of the car at the Greatest Tower in the World, and I struggled to contain my irritation. This is not an activity! Going to a water tower. This is not a thing people do, it’s just … nothing!

And then, quickly, everything changed. I looked over and saw Zev standing at the base of the tower with his body pressed against the cold, painted steel, looking up at the huge ball looming above us in the clouds. He was in awe.

This is a something I pass by – and utterly ignore – a thousand times a year. It is, objectively, just a boring water tower.

But in a three-year-old’s eyes (and with his grandfather’s help), it became the greatest tower in the world.

“This … is so … AMAZING!” said Zev. (If you can’t hear him, inside your head, saying this in his signature, particular way, then ask me to do an impression next time you see me.)

We put our ears to the metal and banged our palms against it, listening to the sounds rumbling and reverberating in helixes within the giant structure. We ran around it in circles, chasing and evading each other. Reversing directions and laughing. No one was around.

When you allow a little adventure to begin, it’s amazing how it continues. Soon Zev found a fire escape to climb up and hang from. Then there was a wall of granite landscaping boulders to scamper down. Taconite pellets. A little wood with downed trees to balance on, and a dead squirrel to poke.

Soon we were just walking around, exploring, pointing things out. “Close your eyes, guys,” Zev instructed us. “I have something really AMAZING to show you!” We did. He showed us.

It was a trash compactor with a ventilation fan spinning madly, thirsty for lubricant. He was right. It was amazing.

We stopped by the barns at the university farm campus near our house. Clutches of newborn lambs huddled together, skittish and furry-legged, yanking at their mother’s udders. Zev held out a clump of dry hay for them, saying “Come ‘eeeere little lambies, come here!”.

They didn’t come. The mother approached and pinned her ears forward, hooves stamping.

We found the cow barn; it was full of new calves and expectant mothers. They were friendlier, more docile. To Zev’s delight, the calves sampled his offerings of grass and corn. But they were soon more interested in licking his clothes and slobbering on his hands. He scrunched his face and half-turned away, squealing, but stood fast.

In the end we spent about an hour doing, essentially, nothing. We started with no plan, and allowed the adventure to seep into our afternoon, unencumbered.

When I think about it, I realize this is exactly the kind of thing I most love doing with my kids. I must admit that, I too, on road trips, have a certain penchant for stopping randomly, taking photos by road signs, and even making visits to post offices.

Many an afternoon I have spent wandering around with one (or both) of my kids, directionless and drifting, until some tiny detail catches our attention and changes the course of the whole day.

Am I exasperating? Do I annoy them? Will they someday groan and sigh and glare at my foot, resting, light as a snowflake, on the gas pedal?

Not yet, but someday, maybe. For the moment, I’m going to stick to the plan, and try to get in as many aimless afternoons with them as I can.

And I’m going remember I didn’t invent this idea. It was taught to me, lovingly, sometimes exasperatingly, by my dad, on cloudy Sunday afternoons many years ago, when a water tower, a trash compactor and a cow’s slobber were all it took to make me smile and say, “Amazing.”

Leap-Day Morning

The neighbors asleep with the leaves in their trees standing quietly insensate to cold. The wind’s hips sway and she brushes the bushes and last fall’s remaining grasses.

Creak, down the stairs, walking backwards, toe to heel. Singing that chorus for half an hour, lying in bed without success. A tornado of images and words and sounds screeching and scraping against each other. They crack and shatter and reassemble and fly by unrecognizable.

A day is starting. A night is ending. Neither really started or stopped. Last night I went to bed and felt I had completed one more thirty-thousandth of my life, and that somehow I should be taking better stock of these fractions. The present is distant, and yesterday wanders my memory seeking an open chair.

The middle-school buses growl from one stop sign to the next, and I cover my face with a pillow. The sun goes up across the street. A yellow house bathes in the light, the rest is gray and brown and pale blue.

I would have skipped this day, last year. I’ll not miss it the next. I yearn to see the sky through languid curtains deep green and songbird-filled.

I should value every day. I should be present and grateful. But this Februaric extension I will not applaud.

I never liked the month in the first place.

How to Parent. 10 Things About That.

  1. Kids love magnets.
  2. Don’t over-tickle.
  3. Be wrong as often as you’re right.
  4. Apologize.
  5. Kids aren’t little grown-ups.
  6. It’s OK. Let them try it.
  7. You have no new e-mail.
  8. Walk slow; they are short and curious.
  9. Tantrum checklist:
    ☐ Hungry?
    ☐ Tired?
    ☐ Poop?
    ☐ No reason?
  10. Leave work promptly.

Being in the Rain

I come home and her mom and brother are both sleeping. I find her in the bedroom, alone on a rainy Friday with curtains half-drawn and her bedside lamp casting quiet yellow light. Wearing a pink play apron; completely absorbed in a make-believe world. She doesn’t notice me.

She takes the news about the museum better than I expected, happily accepting the substitute of a walk in the rain to her grandmother’s house for hot chocolate and sunny-side-up eggs. To be honest I’m winging it at this point, just wanting to get out of the house so other two can sleep.

The rain is steady, but she’s unfazed and I have this gigantic blue-and-white umbrella I stole-borrowed from my first and last corporate job years ago. I think of changing shoes but … then I don’t.

Outside she tries to find a way to hold my hand and her umbrella at the same time.

I try to find a way to hold her hand and her umbrella at the same time. It’s not really possible.

We love each other and want to hold hands, but umbrellas are keeping us apart.

Those are vines, I tell her, through raindrops. They are little now but will grow big over summer, when you’ll be four and a half. But what are they called? she asks. The plants?

Vines I say. Just vines growing on the side of a retaining wall.

She stands in a puddle in pink boots and eroded dirt swirls across the sidewalk. I’m concerned about my suede shoes getting soaked around the toes despite attempts to better position the umbrellas. Two teenaged girls are walking home from school across the street, umbrellaless and barefoot, and it makes me feel very not-young and un-spontaneous.

So I make a conscious effort to not care about my suede shoes getting wet and ruined. Instead I do a poorly executed puddle jump, but even jumping now makes me feel old and heavy.

I’m distracted by a million different things, most involving dollar signs or e-mail attachments. But I’m able to recognize the beautiful serendipity of a random afternoon walk in the rain with my daughter. This was meant to be a special ‘date’ complete with a museum trip and thirteen other stops I can’t remember, but I was replacing a light switch. And it took forty-five minutes longer than I expected.

We take cover in a bus shelter. I slump against one wall and she runs back and forth. The rain falls harder and a bus approaches but I waive it off, embarrassed. She’ll happily stay here for hours, I realize, playing house or running a pretend ice-cream parlor. This is the miracle of childhood, and if there’s any shred of my youth left I should grab hold of it in my white-knuckled fists.

Why should I not want to stay here for hours living in our shared imagination? For the bills that need paying? For my spam-clogged, habit-forming inbox? Because there’s laundry to fold?

Holy shit that is depressing! Someone go find the 15-year-old me and tell him in just one lifetime’s doubling his world will dim to a boring, perfunctory shade of gray. And that when stray shafts of light manage to cut through the fog, his first impulse will be to push them away and return to his hamster wheel.

She wants to leave the bus shelter now. “This is boring,” she says.

She’s right. It was kind of boring. We flap open our umbrellas again, spraying droplets of water against the glass walls of the shelter.

We hold hands and walk off, crossing the street in search of adventure.


All My Quarrels

1. Age seven, opposite two playground boys playing keep-away with my balled-up socks. Of whom, one, I punched.

2. Fifth grade, a Tony-named boy slammed my head in a desk. His revenge for my pushing him into an emergency exit door. I cried in the principal’s office. He did not.

3. Walking to basketball practice; 10 years old. A teen-aged person I had never seen before walked up and, introduction-less, did a flying, spinning karate kick to my head. He had mistaken me for someone else.

4. At my friend Jamie’s house, eighth grade, with my friend Sid, who punched me on the top of the head after an absurdly long game of Risk. Wait, actually I’m not sure this one is real.

5. Freshman year, soccer practice. An older kid kept pushing me and finally I swung at his face without warning. I earned myself a tough reputation and gave him a bloody lip. Both quickly reverted to their prior conditions.

6. Also freshman year. I pulled down the pants and underpants of a math classmate in front of several girls to whom, I’m sure, he would have preferred, under improved circumstances, to reveal his pubescent penis. He claimed the right under an obscure legal statute to punch me on the left shoulder for two weeks, and availed himself fully of it.

7. Senior year; not a fight, but I mouthed off to a man-child whose poofy hair scraped the hallway ceilings while we bumped shoulders. For this he rewarded me with a thorough choking. During which I noticed he had a tear tattooed on his cheek. I believe he was later expelled.

8. College; practice field for the ultimate frisbee team. After some retrospectively amicable bullying, I threatened my (much, much larger) opponent with unspecified harm. This inspired not fear, but curiosity, which I finally indulged by landing a single punch into his shoulder. In my underweight, eighteen-year-old mind, this should have been enough to knock him right over, Goliath-like. Instead it nearly knocked him (and several onlookers) over with laughter.

%d bloggers like this: