Transitions

I attended the Transition Meeting last night at Zach’s school, with his mother. This meeting was held by the school to inform parents about the process of transitioning our special-needs children from the early intervention preschool to a Board of Education run kindergarten. I thought writing about it might help me make more sense of it.

Not surprisingly, given the bureaucracy that is involved, the process is somewhat convoluted and contradictory. The first step is to sign and send in a permission slip allowing the B.O.E. to evaluate your child. While Mia has done this, it was noted that the B.O.E. would go ahead and do this anyway, with or without parental permission. Next, the evaluation team from each district will come into the school and review each child’s preschool evaluation, including all the reports from the various therapists etc. The team may or may not be familiar with young children or young children with special needs; it is simply luck of the draw. Their qualification is that they are certified to administer psychological testing (read as: I.Q. testing and a behavioral evaluation). They will conduct their tests and do a parent interview (this raises some difficulties) and submit their reports to the C.S.E. (Committee on Special Education).

Sometime in February or March we will be notified of a date to attend a CSE meeting, where the IEP for the child will be drawn up. This is the big one, as a lot of things are riding on this meeting. It will include the evaluation team, the parents, the child’s teachers (and possibly therapists) and quite possibly the parent’s lawyer, if they are expecting to have to sue the BOE for private school tuition. It is at this meeting that Zach will be officially labeled with one of the fifteen or so classifications that the BOE uses – in Zach’s case this will most likely be “autism”. The IEP will dictate what services Zach will receive and what services he will not. This will also dictate his placement options. We were informed last night that it is very unlikely that Zach will continue to receive anywhere near as much speech therapy as he really needs, and certainly will not continue to receive the home-based speech therapy sessions.

After the CSE meeting the BOE team works up a placement by May or June and the real fun starts. Hopefully, the parents have already looked at the school(s) that is/are in the placement and can decide whether they agree to it or not. This can be problematic if the placement is issued after school is out for the summer and the parents have not seen the school and must scramble to gather the information needed to make an intelligent decision. If you reject the placement, the process goes to an Impartial Hearing (read as: lawsuit) where lawyers are certainly involved on both sides. Many parents who have decided that private schools are the only viable option have done this; and it raises a lot of ancillary difficulties, such as getting accepted to private schools (the application deadlines are happening right now), paying attorney’s fees and laying out the tuition (thirty to seventy thousand dollars) of a private school, in the hopes of being reimbursed by the BOE. It would be very nice not to have to take this route – time will tell.

The part about the whole process that I find most grimly fascinating is the inherent dichotomy of the CSE meeting. It really pits the parents against themselves. Let me elaborate: one goal is to get the most services possible for your child. This is accomplished by making the case and providing evidence that your child is “severely disabled” in some way and needs these services. On the other hand, you want your child put into a program that will challenge them and these programs may not take “severely disabled” children. The matter is further complicated if you factor in the private school thing. In this case you want to have the IEP reflect the need for very extensive services, services which the BOE is incapable of providing, therefore forcing them to agree to pay for a private school that can. Of course if you lose your Impartial Hearing case, you are really stuck. I guess what I’m saying is that it is difficult to go for both the best public placement and still leave your child with enough services and/or the option of winning an Impartial Hearing to pursue the private alternative. You must choose, and must do so beforehand, without having all of the information that you need in order to make a sensible choice – riddle me that one Batman?

Watching Paint Dry

Today I am proctoring tests that my classes take every couple of months or so in order to gauge their progress and possibly qualify for the “big test,” which is their reason for being here. There are few things in life more frustrating and boring than watching someone do something that you can do a far better and more efficient job of. I guess that’s part of teaching, but I am a natural back-seat-driver and it is hard for me not to kibitz. If I could take these tests for them and have it actually help them, I would gladly do so. At least it gives me some time to do a few things on the old computer, such as write this entry.

When I am idle my thoughts turn inevitably to the future, to the never ending and ever expanding “to do” list that I always keep tucked away in one of my pockets or in my wallet. I sometimes wonder if my wallet were stolen, whether I would be more concerned about the lost money or the list? Probably the list. I have been working on giving up this need and just living in the moment and, although I have enjoyed some success, the results of my efforts have been mixed. In reality the future never gets here nor does the present, because by the time we sense something and the nerve impulses are transmitted to our brains and then translated into meaning, emotion or experience, the triggering event is over or has changed. Any object I see is therefore several nanoseconds older than I perceive it to be. All we ever truly know then is the past. Einstein said it best: "Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." One of my former employers used to wear a button on his lapel that read: “Reality is for people that can’t handle drugs.” One of these men is certainly correct, perhaps both are.

On days like today the computer is my link to the outside world. I often shake my head in amazement at just how connected it enables you to be and at the sheer volume of information that is available with only the click of a mouse or a few strokes of the keyboard. I used to watch Star Trek a lot as a kid (I still do when I get the chance) and I always loved the way they were able to ask the computer tough questions and get good answers. The Windows 95 equipped machine that sits hulking on my desk does not do the thinking for me in the same way, but with email, webcams all over the world, and high-speed access to unbelievable quantities of data, it is a pretty close realization of that childhood dream. I’m still waiting for a moon-base though.

When I get tired of pointing and clicking, I turn in my chair and look out the window. The view from my Harlem classroom’s large plate-glass window is that of upper Manhattan and the lower Bronx. It is not what you would call a scenic view but there is a view of the George Washington Bridge, City College and a multitude of housing projects, at least one of which is usually spewing smoke from the roof due to dumpster fires set in the building’s trash chutes. It is a brown, dirty brick red and soiled white landscape of densely packed buildings. There are no trees (well very few) in this part of the city and it reminds me of a scene from The Matrix or Bladerunner, only without all the cool lights and flying cars. The air is always hazy with diesel fumes, and is one of the primary reasons why fifty percent of all kids growing up here have asthma - roach and rat droppings are the other primary reasons. Still, I gaze out and wonder how it all got to be this way, even though I know perfectly well: ten thousand years ago a tribe in Mesopotamia suffered a spiritual calamity and decided that they knew how to run the world better than God. It was the beginning of a massive power trip that is only now reaching its zenith. I look out and I see the cause of all of mankind’s problems, I see the House of Usher. I find this line of thought alarming, so I turn back to my students and watch them chew on the erasers of their pencils as they try to distill the correct responses from the test booklets in front of them. I type out a quick response to an email from Mr. Burns - we have been chatting this morning about his wedding plans and bodily functions, though not in the same contexts.

Soon it will be time for lunch and the afternoons usually go more quickly than the mornings. I will be leaving work at 4:30 today in order to get home, change and make it to a meeting at Zach’s school tonight at 7:00. Mia and I are going to learn about the hoops that the Board of Education has set out for us to jump through in order to get Zach into an appropriate kindergarten. I’m sure I will have more to say on this tomorrow and in the days to come. For now, I’m just sitting here watching paint dry.

Genetic Screening

Today Zachy had his genetics screening appointment at the NYU Medical Center. I met Mommy and Zach in front of the complex, where Grandpa Stephen had dropped them off. Although Zach (and Mommy?) seemed unconcerned upon arrival, Daddy was worried about seeing his little guy upset over having blood drawn. In the past Zach has become so upset by this that he vomits. Mommy brought a full change of clothes for him and a large bath towel, just in case it happened this time.

We checked in at an office on the first floor and Mommy filled out some insurance forms while Daddy and Zach played with and counted lollipops on the reception desk. We then proceeded walk through the maze of corridors to the third floor to Dr. Pappas’s office suite. There were some toys in the waiting room, but nothing all that interesting so Zach played his upside-down game with Mommy and Daddy.

After waiting for 40 minutes or so, we went in to see the doctor and his nice assistant. They were very impressed by what a handsome boy our Zachy is and they asked a lot of questions. The doctor measured Zach’s head circumference, height and weight and checked lots of other parts too. Zach was his usual charming self through all of this and had a good time playing with the doctor’s stethoscope and retractable tape measure.

The doctor explained that while he didn’t expect to find anything he was going to test for Fragile X Syndrome, some individual gene deletions, and a couple of other things. Then came the not so fun part: the blood drawing. I must say that Zach was very brave and although he cried, he did not get sick and let the doctor take three big tubes of blood. He would not keep the bandage on but recovered to his normal (if slightly red-eyed) self by the time we left the office. The doctor said that the results will take about 4 weeks, and we strolled out of the center onto First Avenue. Daddy had to go to work, so we had to part ways with Daddy heading to Harlem and Mommy and Zach for the express bus back to Brooklyn.

Sunday Monkeyshines

This week’s visit with the little people took place on Sunday, due to the holiday traveling. Daddy purchased a second disposable digital camera for the occasion, but exercised some restraint and only took about half of the “roll” – check back next week for the image updates.

Sunday dawned bright, clear and unseasonably warm and our favorite little monkeys strolled down Ridge Blvd. to find Daddy waiting on the steps in front of the House of Miller. Zach ran right up to the building and held the door for the rest of us, demonstrating impressive upper body strength and outstanding courtesy. Playtime then commenced.

By now we know where all the toys are (and everything else for that matter) and it is usually a race into the bedroom to be the first to get at the good stuff. Miranda found her magic wand and was surprised to find a matching sparkly tiara, which was a present from Aunt Susie. She looked like quite a rhinestone princess, but wielded the wand somewhat like a battleaxe.

This week’s visit was special for many reasons; chief among them was that Daddy flew solo for the first time in quite a while. Mommy left as planned for a little over an hour and the three of us played on and on. Zach got out the crayons and wanted to color, which is something that he has recently started to do. He said that he wanted to draw and oval and asked Daddy to help him do it (hand over hand). The result was a very beautiful and rare Zechariah original, which Sotheby’s would love to get their hands on but will be on permanent display on Daddy’s refrigerator gallery. We also opened some of the trunk full of presents that Daddy had to check on his flight back from Dixie. We found some wonderful books (including a pop-up monster book) and an erector set type toy from Aunt Lauren and Uncle Jim.

We all wrestled, jumped on the beds and made an unbelievable mess then Mommy returned and we decided that it would be a shame not to spend some time at the park. Beautiful, 60+ degree-days in late November in NYC happen very infrequently and are not to be wasted indoors. So off we went to the park on Shore Road at 79th Street. The spiral slide was great fun as always, and we had a lot of fun on the swings. Zach really loves it when Daddy twists up the swing and lets it spin, and Miranda enjoyed swinging and teasing Daddy with two oak leaves that she found. She laughed so hard that she got the hiccups.

We left the park at nearly 2pm and were ready for some lunch. After a brief stop at Riteaid to get a bottle for milk and a “mommy-pop,” (this is what Miranda calls a lollipop) we headed back to the House of Miller for lunch. Lunch featured the usual spread of fine foods, but there was some role reversal this time – Miranda was into the pasta, while Zach seemed to mainly want the fruit – go figure?

We played some more (Zach stacked 17 blocks and counted them), Miranda hid and played peek-a-boo in the tents and tunnels, and we all watched some Blue’s Clues on Noggin. It started to get late, so at a little after 4:30 we saddled up the stroller and said very loving good-byes, looking forward as always to our next installment of Monkeyshines.

Black Friday

The day after Thanksgiving is called Black Friday in the retail world and is the day when hordes of credit card waving American consumers descend on Malls and Wallmarts across the nation, endeavoring to sink themselves into Cristmas debt, in an exercise of frenzied consumerism, all to find that perfect high-definition gift in honor of their savior. Where would Jesus shop?

Our family’s take on the day after the big turkey-day feast is fairly atypical, I guess. We exchange gifts on Thanksgiving and tend to keep things pagan or at least secular. In any event, the shopping has all been accomplished by the big day. We also generally do not participate in “black” days, preferring pastels or primary colored days. You might be interested to know that the term “black” has been applied to all seven days of the week at one time or another, sometimes more appropriately than others. Let's take a look, shall we?:

Black Saturday is a term used in Scotland to describe a dark, stormy Saturday that occurred on 4 August 1621. Many regarded the foul weather as a judgment of Heaven against Acts then passed in the Scots Parliament tending to establish Episcopacy. Black Saturday in Lebanon refers to the December, 1975 massacre that helped precipitate the Lebanese Civil War. It is also a term used for when Vince McMahon raided WTBS wrestling programming in 1984. It refers to the Yanbu attack by gunmen against Westerners on May 1, 2004, in Yanbu' al Bahr, Saudi Arabia. In France it refers to the big traffic problems that occur when they go on holiday. Black Saturday in the Philippines is the day before Easter.

The storm on Black Sunday (April 14, 1935) was the last major dust storm of that year in the dust bowl, and the damage it caused was not calculated for months. Coming on the heels of a stormy season, the April 14 storm hit as many others had, only much harder.

Black Monday is the name given to Monday, October 19, 1987, when the Dow Jones Industrial Average (DJIA) fell dramatically, and on which similar enormous drops occurred across the world. By the end of October, stock markets in Hong Kong had fallen 45.8%, Australia 41.8%, the United Kingdom 26.4%, the United States 22.68%, and Canada 22.5%.

Black Tuesday refers to a number of different things: The phrase Black Tuesday refers to October 29, 1929, five days after the United States stock market crash of Black Thursday, when general panic set in and everyone with investments in the market tried to pull out of the market at once. The phrase Black Tuesday also refers to September 29, 1931 when Estevan miners protesting were fired upon by RCMP officers. It has also been used to refer to September 11, 2001, the date of the terrorist attack that destroyed the World Trade Center. Black Tuesday has come into use as a reference to the day Microsoft releases bundles of patches for its Windows operating systems: the second Tuesday of each month. These patches represent new software vulnerabilities, and the bulk release of patches is often followed closely by new viruses which exploit the holes the patches fix. Black Tuesday can also refer to November 29, 1939, the date of the climax of a period of extreme smoke cover in downtown St. Louis, Missouri. The pollution was due primarily to the widespread use of bituminous coal, and resulted in near zero visibility and the use of streetlights at midday. Black Tuesday also refers to a day in Bahamian history April 27, 1965 when then-Opposition Leader and former Prime Minister of the Bahamas, Sir Lynden Pindling threw the Speaker's Mace out of the House of Assembly window in protest against the unfair gerrymandering of constituency boundaries by the then ruling United Bahamian Party (UBP) government. In Australia, February 7, 1967 was referred to as Black Tuesday because it was the day of the 1967 Tasmanian fires. A total of 62 lives were lost and more than 1300 homes destroyed by the fires. Black Tuesday was a 1954 film starring Edward G. Robinson and Peter Graves. More recently, Black Tuesday refers to January 11, 2005, when bushfires killed 9 people in South Australia. They were the worst bushfires seen in Australia since Ash Wednesday in 1983.

In British politics and economics, Black Wednesday refers to September 16, 1992 when the Conservative government of the day was forced to withdraw the Pound from the European Exchange Rate Mechanism (ERM) due to pressure by currency speculators—most notably George Soros who made over US$1 billion from this speculation.

Black Thursday can refer to October 24, 1929, which marked the start of the Wall Street Crash of 1929 at the New York Stock Exchange; or October 14, 1943, when the allies suffered large losses in the bombing raid on Schweinfurt. The Black World Wide Web protest took place on a Thursday in 1996. It was a protest against the Communications Decency Act in the United States. Black Thursday was a 1993 incident when Phillies star Pete Incaviglia mouthed some obscenities and stormed out of an autograph session at the Granite Run Mall. To our friends south of the border it is Jueves negro, which refers to incidents on 24 July 2003 relating to pre-election rioting in Guatemala City.

Our Black Friday consisted of a trip to the local park in Cary, NC to watch young miss Alexis play and help her build sand castles, included a jumbo bucket of balls shared among the Miller boys at the driving range (yours truly was hitting them almost straight by the end) and culminated with the annual Texas Hold ‘Em Tournament at the Childers Estate, commonly referred to as Turkey Poolooza. This year Jeff Goldblatt was the first to drop out, followed soon after by his protégé (and son) Brett. Jeff won a commemorative tee-shirt marking the occasion and had to fetch drinks and shuffle cards for the remainder of the evening. Warren and Wayne battled fiercely with Wayne coming out on the short end of things. Warren broke even, but Wayne’s friend Chester was the tournament winner, taking the championship tee-shirt (and all the money). We all concluded that it was the fish flavored candy that he brought from Japan that gave him the edge and the funky breath.

Thanksgiving

"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family...in another city." George Burns
"You hear a lot of dialogue on the death of the American family. Families aren't dying. They're merging into big conglomerates." Erma Bombeck













I suppose that today was a fairly unremarkable twenty-first century Thanksgiving day. I awoke at 6am, so that I would not miss my ride to the airport and worried needlessly, as it turned out, about what not to pack and what might be confiscated by the highly trained, eagle-eyed and well remunerated screeners at LaGuadia International. As it so happened, I could easily have dragged a dead water buffalo carcass past their catatonic gazes, without any eyebrows being raised - my liquids, metals and forgotten lighter rode comfortably in the overhead compartment all the way to Raleigh where, upon arrival, I learned that our nation's alert status had been raised to an ominous "orange" - 'atta boy lads! But I get ahead of myself...

The car arrived in front of my apartment, piloted by a Russian gentleman who was three days older than God, and who proceeded to drive the BQE at 25 MPH all the way to the airport in the left lane, while fumbling with a bad Nextel connection. I sometimes wonder if there is a relationship between the speed people comfortably drive and the proximity of their countries of origin to the equator. Still, I made it in plenty of time and was at the gate by 8:45 for an 11:00 flight. Of course due to the weather and the carry over of the travel craziness from the day before, the flight did not actually leave until almost 1pm. You all would have been proud - our hero did not get aggravated, anxious, irritated, irate or arrested. I got bored - this is a good thing these days.

The actual flight was unremarkable as well, though I will say that I flew on the smallest jet propelled aircraft I have ever been shoe-horned into. I am not a large person, perhaps six foot-one in boots, however, I kept banging my head off the roof of the cabin each time I stood or crab walked sideways back to the restroom. The flight was mercifully short and I arrived at Raleigh Durham International without injury or incident.

The Thanksgiving feast took place at Warren's new home, for which the word "spacious" is a woefully inadequate descriptor. All eight of the Miller/Danziger Clan founding members were present, with spouses (those of us who have them in good standing) and munchkins (pictured above). Jeff, Jody, Brett and Kara Goldblatt came from Dallas and Leslie Miller's brother Jay joined us as well. The only absences were our two favorite munchkins, Zach and Miranda, who were there in spirit and were sorely missed (we set out their pictures on the table as we ate, for all to admire). The food was plentiful, varied and consumed with gusto.

After dinner we took an hour or so to play with the kids, exchange holiday gifts, watch Dallas beat up on Tampa Bay and digest, then dove into a half dozen or so pies of the pumpkin and apple variety and Grandma Fredi's famous rugelah. I am suffering from a food induced comatose condition as I write and must soon retire for some well earned and much needed repose. I wish all a very happy holiday and may God bless you and yours. Peace.

Loose Ends

Today I'm just coping with the mad scramble of tying things up at work and getting all the things done that need doing, in order to get on a plane to Raleigh, NC tomorrow morning. Although I am not looking forward to the travel, I am looking forward to seeing the family and breathing some fresh air for a change. I don't have much else to say and I have even less time to say it, so that will have to suffice for today. I'll leave you to ponder the ecodebt map as you eat fruits out of season, consume the products of factory farming and drive your SUV to grandma's for Thanksgiving dinner. Please realize that you are a victim of the Great Forgetting, as are your fellows, and honestly do not know any better. If change is to occur it will come only through a Great Remembering. Peace.

Ctrl Alt Delete

I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed today and I am very distracted – it is probably just the overload associated with all the little tasks and projects that I want to complete, work, the legal situation, home life, the holiday (and holiday travel) and family. There are also a few things going on in my personal life that I can not write about here, that also add to the processing load. When my computer gets frozen up like this, I simply press ctl – alt – delete and the task manager comes up (I am still using a computer that runs Windows 95). I click on “end task” and the highlighted application ceases any and all operations, and kind of ceases to exist. I sometimes wish that my mind had an “end task” button, or at the very least a disk defragmentation program.

The human mind is a very strange thing and its esoteric workings are something I think often about. This is of course an exercise in futility. It is akin to looking through a window or a telescope in order to understand how glass is made or a lens is ground or the principles of refraction; or, to not mix metaphors, using a computer in order to understand its inner workings. One can gain some insights, but I doubt that anyone who is merely proficient (or even very proficient) using Microsoft Office or Internet Explorer could build a computer or modify the underlying code to perform some functions that it was not intended for.

The metaphor starts to get fuzzy when we consider the role of feelings and emotions. Some of these, such as euphoria or contentment, have the effect of improving the mind’s performance, for which no analog in the realm of computing occurs to me. Others, such as depression, despair or grief function like viruses eroding the very code, data or functionality of the system. Finally, there are emotions/feelings such as worry, anxiety and love that act like spyware, using enormous processing capacity to perform functions that may not be the intention of, or even in the best interests of, the system.

So what is the role of faith? Is it the spiritual version of McAfee or Norton? The phrase "cogito ergo sum" has come to a large extent to define faith for me. It is widely misunderstood, however. Although generally attributed to Descartes, many predecessors offered similar arguments, particularly St. Augustine of Hippo (in the early 5th century) in De Civitate Dei, who also anticipated modern refutations of the concept. Descartes does not even use the phrase in his most important work, the Meditations on First Philosophy, but the term "the cogito" is often confusingly used to refer to an argument from it. Descartes felt that this phrase, which he had used in his earlier Discourse, had been misleading in its implication that he was appealing to an inference, so he changed it to "I am, I exist" in order to avoid the term "cogito".

What Descartes was really doing was examining his own beliefs to see if they survived the ultimate doubt (most did not). He found it was impossible to doubt that he exists. Even if there were a deceiving god or an evil demon (the tool he used to stop himself from falling back into ungrounded beliefs), his belief in his own existence would be secure, for how could one be deceived about one’s own existence unless one existed for the purpose of being deceived (an idea that he rejected)? This is faith.

Descartes considered science and mathematics to be justified to the extent that their proposals are established on a similar immediate clarity, distinctiveness and self-evidence that present itself to the mind - faith. The originality of Descartes’ thinking, therefore, was using the cogito as a demonstration of the most fundamental epistemological principle, that science and mathematics are justified by relying on clarity, distinctiveness, and self-evidence – faith.

So how would old Rene react to a system crash, a fatal system error causing the irretrievable loss of weeks of work or the Sony battery of his laptop catching fire? And what would he say to an inbox with 127 emails, a 70-hour work-week with a three hour train ride back and forth to Brooklyn, an orange alert from the DHS, maxed-out credit cards, global warming and LaGuardia traffic and lines on Thanksgiving day? I think, therefore I think I am screwed, I think…maybe? Faith!

Even More Monkeyshines

Disclaimer: In case it is not apparent, this is my first experiment with uploading photos to this blog. I have experienced the usual array of technical glitches, so consider this a work in progress. Please click on the photos to view them.


In lieu of an extended entry, this week I will simply say that I had a very nice time with the little monkeys on Saturday. We did the usual Sensory Gym thing, then went to Daddy's house for what has become a fairly typical (but entirely gourmet) lunch.

Zach had a nice time playing with his cars and wrassling with Daddy,
and Miss Miranda played her little heart out until she fell asleep.

We parted ways at the usual time and Daddy was very sad and sorry to see them go.

Must See

Sorry to double post today, but perhaps this will give you all something to do over the weekend. The following link will allow you to see The History of Oil, by Robert Newman. This is somewhat mind-blowing and will take you about 45 minutes to view. It will stream through Mediaplayer which you can download if you don't have it. If your connection is slow, I recommend letting it play through first then sliding the slider back and watching it from the buffer.
I found the last 5 to 10 minutes to be the most poignant, though the whole thing left me not knowing whether to laugh or cry. My colleagues and I have checked the facts and everything Newman says is true. Please email me with your thoughts, as I would love to know what you think.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5267640865741878159&q=newman%27s

Welcome Back Mr. Miller

I’m on the train heading home after teaching night classes (gee, I guess many of my entries start out with, “I’m on the train...” – hmmmmmmn… maybe I spend too much time on trains?) and I’m thinking about my night students. What I do for these learners is a very different kind of teaching than I used to do at Mount Saint Joseph’s Academy (or anywhere else for that matter), and my motley collections of “sweathogs” are a completely different animal than the spoiled rich girls at the Mount. Believe it or not, in many ways it is an improvement, though on the whole they are a less attractive bunch.

One of my students is a shinny bald-headed guy of unknown but certainly mixed ethnicity. He is in his mid thirties and just got out of prison, not jail. His eyes point in different directions and I imagine many painful reasons for this deformity. The effect of this is such that it is difficult to look at him when addressing him without self consciously shifting your focus from one eye to the other. This characteristic reminds me of the bug-eyed moor fish I used to have, or Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars. He is really smart, however, and is able to bring the entire weight of his 5th grade education to bear on a problem. He showed me his tattoo during break time one night, a tattoo that he got while in prison, done with a jury-rigged tattoo gun made from the cannibalized motor from a cassette tape recorder and a finely sharpened paperclip for a needle. Having tattoos myself, I can imagine how painful this must have been, and out of curiosity I asked him what was used for ink. His answer is deadpan, as if self-evident: carbon paper. All things considered, it is a pretty decent tattoo, done by a 22 year-old “artist” doing a 48-year sentence for a home invasion somewhere in Georgia.

There is another guy, who is much younger, maybe 19 – 21 years old, who is mandated to participate in…something, and that’s what we are: something. He is very quiet (eerily so), very thoughtful and he is always very early for classes. I wondered why until one night he opened up to me and told me that he is a schizophrenic, has lived in a residential treatment program for the past 10 years or so and is only allowed out on these two nights each week. He tells me that he is embarrassed about his condition, but that the medications are much better now. He always goes to McDonalds before class, at break time and after class, before the van comes to pick him up. It is a treat for him and I can only imagine how horrible the food he is used to must be. Recently, he has been able to take the train “home” once or twice. He is one of my best students and I suspect that he will be successful.

Of course half of my students are female. One is this crazy (much crazier than the schizophrenic is) 19 year-old Puerto Rican girl, who dropped out of school in the 6th grade when she got pregnant. She is very violent and by far the scariest of my students. She reminds me of one of the characters from Stephen King’s The Stand, the one who shot at Nick and Tom Cullen when she did not get what she wanted and ended up joining up with the Satan-like antagonist in Las Vegas. She has a 30-second attention span that you can actually see and almost hear switching with an audible “click.” Fortunately for her child, she has never had custody as I suspect that she is a danger not only to others but to herself as well. I think she meant well when she signed up for classes, but she is unable to sit still long enough to solve a single problem and often forgets what she was saying before finishing her sentences.

One of my students is a quiet African man (actually from Africa) who sees this opportunity as a privilege. He is always dressed up and takes meticulous notes. He covers every square centimeter of space on each page of his notebook with writing before turning to the next page or blank side – this makes all his work look like one big cheat sheet. I have seen this before and know that it is common among students from very poor countries where you might only be able to obtain one notebook for an entire scholastic career. He seems delighted by each bit of knowledge that he acquires and practically dances in his seat after getting a difficult concept. He reminds me of the innocent, loveable character that Eddie Murphy played in Coming to America - maybe it's just his accent.

There are many others in this class and there are other classes going on down the hall. I have the usual bunch of gang members and welfare moms, in addition to those mentioned above, all mostly needing to learn how to learn. My task is to create a small academic success for them each night, before the discussion degenerates to name-calling or where to get the best bag of weed, as it always seems to. This is the advanced class.

The Discovery Channel, The Learning Channel, History Channel, etc. are providing the only real education that many (most?) underclass urban young people get these days. This leads to some pretty wild interpretations as to what is real and what is true. I often here conversations between students talking about the science we study that start: “No man, that’s bullshit because this one time, on CSI Miami, the niggah got busted by leaving his DNA…” or “They said on the History Channel that Egyptians used to eat Romans…” I am grateful that these networks do what they do, but I spend a lot of time acting as a lifeguard for the pool of bizarrely mixed ideas and half truths that surface between Toyota commercials.

I often wonder about how I must appear to them: a mixture of Harold Ramis from Stripes and Mr. Kotter. They seem to think that I am some kind of hippie, a notion that I try unsuccessfully to dispel – maybe I am? I think they struggle to believe that I care – this is hard for them to believe as many of them have never been cared for – I do care, but I have learned the spiritual price that I inevitably pay if I care more about their success than they do.

We try to work on algebra, but are constantly revisiting basic numeration and calculation. We spend enormous amounts of time converting the spoken language (A.A.V.E. – African American Vernacular English) to the written language (E.A.E - Edited American English) in order to produce… essays. Both are valid languages with their own distinct rules of syntax and grammar, but that is the problem: they are two different languages. One is the language of power - of the oppressor - and the other is the language of the powerless people, who have been rendered complicit in their own oppression, by the need to attain a bogus credential that, if attained, will ensure that they will occupy the very lowest rung of the economic ladder, barely able to maintain the incredibly conspicuous consumption that our collective culture mandates upon them, in order to be worthy of a modicum of self esteem in the eyes of their own peers. My job is to enable this. It is quite twisted.

My students fascinate me and I am fascinated by this “morbid” fascination. I try to understand it – is it altruistic? Is it based on some form of pity? Or is it because I realize that I would be one of them had things in my life gone only slightly different? Would I have done as well as they? They are survivors in an incredibly savage social system. I guess I admire them, they are full of life, burning with a brightness of unsustainable intensity. I want to understand their dreams and their expectations, and the chasm that I suspect lies between the two. They will die young I suspect – statistics would seem to bear this out. So why bother? They come and try as best as they are able, something that only hard won experience has allowed me to see and recognize. For this alone they should be served – welcome back.

School Hunting

Yesterday Mia and I visited two potential schools for young master Zechariah. We first toured the Mary McDowell Center for Learning, which is on Bergen St. in the neighborhood that we lived in when we first moved to New York. The school was eye-popping, with all of the stuff that you would hope to find for your child. There was a rooftop playground (with a full basketball court) and a big greenhouse, a science lab, art room, music room, computer room, etc. All in all it seemed busy and very academic - all the right stuff was going on and the philosophy behind it all seemed very sound, though with a Quaker twist that did not seem to be too in your face. If Zach could get in, it would certainly be a great environment for him. They say that they do not take "autistic kids," but Zach does not fit so neatly under that label and could qualify. The only catch was that the 5-7 year olds are housed in a nearby site that we were not allowed to see...yet.

From there we went to East 30th Street and Park Avenue in Manhattan, to see the Rebecca School. This school is brand new and just opened in September. It will apparently be the largest school for autistic children in the world (when they reach full enrollment). They seem to have thought of everything though it did not seem to us that they were quite done thinking yet. Parts of the facility were still under construction, although the parts that were finished were beautiful. They have spared no expense (with a $76,000 per year price tag for kindergarten one would hope not) and we even watched one student in the process of filming a scene for a movie, smoke machine and all. We did not, however, get the same feeling of being in an academic environment as we did at Mary McDowell, but that may change as the place fills up. They had a large sensory gym for each classroom (something that the other school lacked) and had far more in the way of speech, OT, PT, etc. which are all things that Zach needs. The philosophy of the school is also quite different and is based on the Floortime DIR model of Dr. Stanley Greenspan, a renowned autism expert (www.stanleygreenspan.com) who is on the board of the school and consults individually on each child’s case/progress. The two biggest plusses for me were that they want the parents to come and spend as much time with their kids at the school (every day even) as they can, and that we could in all likelihood get Zach in (paying for it would require some work, however). The biggest negative for me was thinking of Zach bussing the way in from Brooklyn each day. Hmmmmmmn.
I guess we are thinking of the Rebecca School as a rather expensive “safety school” at this point, but we have several more private and at least two more public schools that we still need to look at. The best thing is that Mia and I were able to put Zach's interests first and work together, even though we are apparently about to duke the divorce thing out in court. There is no love like the love one has for their children. Keep checking back for further developments.

Pondering Life

So I was thinking about life last night, and thinking about thinking (my colleagues call this metacognitive thinking) as I have come to believe that it is better to know some of the questions rather than all of the answers. The premise I was working under was that if I had two half-baked ideas, at the same time… well ‘nough said there, I’ll let you know how it goes. It seems to me that when most people engage in deep thought they are really just rearranging their prejudices, thus it is easy to confuse an open mind with a vacant mind. The strength in many beliefs, therefore, comes from the weakness in the reasoning behind them. For example, great political thinkers generally decide upon an answer first and then set about finding good arguments to support it. Similarly, being logical is often only the art of being wrong with confidence. Public opinion is merely what people think other people are thinking. People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought that they are not using. Finally, lots of folks just stop thinking and forget to start again.

So how can anyone ever know if they are thinking straight? Or, if you think that you are indecisive, how can you be sure? Thinking is certainly a problem, and of course, the chief cause of problems is solutions. Sometimes when I think of these things I feel that I’m diagonally parked in a parallel universe, but that’s just life. What then is life, if it’s always just “that”?

I think that life is just something that I do when I can’t get to sleep. I spend half my life working for things that I could have, if I didn’t spend half my life working. You see, I have to make money, and sure there are a lot of things in life more important than money, but these things always end up costing me money too. I try to see the bright side of life in spite of this, and when I can’t, I polish up the dull side. Is the purpose of my life to serve as a warning to others? Is it just a continuous cycle of exercises in futility? Perhaps life is just a joke – one that I don’t get. Life is certainly full of surprises, especially if I’m not paying attention. I do know this however; an awful lot of people seem to long for eternal life when they don’t know what to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Life just does not make sense, even though we all pretend that it does. It is Comedy’s job to point out that it doesn’t make any sense and that it doesn’t make much difference anyway.

Some say that things used to be better, but nostalgia just isn’t what it used to be either. A positive thinker knows that it is better that civilization is going down the drain in stead of coming up out of it. A negative thinker believes that the question is not whether mankind descended from the apes or not, it is whether he will ever stop descending. In conclusion (and a conclusion is just the place where you get tired of thinking) I have decided that the proverbial glass is neither half-full nor half-empty, it is just twice as big as it needs to be.

Still More Monkeyshines

Thanks to the suggestion of a loyal reader, I have discovered the wonderful world of disposable digital photography. I purchased a disposable digital camera at Riteaid Friday evening and shot all 25 pictures during Saturday’s visit with the kids. Unfortunately, when I took the camera back to Riteaid that evening, the worker-bee there said that they had to send it out to be “developed,” and that I would not have the disk and prints until Thursday evening. It seems a bit extreme, but this is just a grand experiment anyway, check back to see what we get!

Onward with monkeyshines: This weekend’s visit was especially nice. Daddy rode his bike up to the Sensory Gym, after his eye appointment and met the gang there. Zachy was a bit sad upon arrival, because he wanted to go to the park instead of putting in the hard work at the gym. Daddy told him that he could ride the bike back to lunch if he did his work and the tears soon dried. While Zach did his therapy, Miranda, Mommy and Daddy went to Dunkin Doughnuts for refreshments and Miranda’s obligatory muffin on a stick. While there, Miss Miranda discovered the miracle of poppy seeds which it turns out, she liked very much.

Since Saturday turned out to be much sunnier and warmer than predicted, Miss Miranda decided that going to the park would be a nice way of passing time until big brother Zach was done. We headed to the park by the William O’Connor School, at the bottom of 95th Street. Miranda enjoyed having Daddy push her on the swings for a time, then headed over to the big-girl slide. She did some conventional siding then decided that it would be fun to try going down on her belly. This proved to be great fun and occupied us for quite some time. Miss Miranda also discovered a pigeon feather, while looking at the leaves on the ground.

After an hour, it was time to go collect our little guy, so we said a fond farewell to the park and went back to the gym. Luz, Zach’s therapist gave an outstanding report on the session, saying that Zach’s attention is “just blossoming.” This made Daddy and Mommy very happy and very proud. We packed up the stroller, put Zach on Daddy’s bicycle and rolled on over to Daddy’s house for lunch. Zach really enjoyed being up high on Daddy’s bike and did a great job of holding on to the handlebars (though we did have to stop once to get our fire truck in hand).

When we got to Daddy’s house, Zach went straight up the stairs and right to the correct apartment (he knows where Daddy lives). We all went inside and commenced playing. This week the magnetic numbers were of interest, as well as domino throwing. Miranda had fun with the candycorn playing cards from Aunt Susie and playing with her weebles and schoolhouse. We read some books, played with our toys and even got out the tunnels and tents after Miss Miranda asked for them. Daddy made everything-free rice pasta with organic sauce for lunch. We also had sweet peas, strawberries, blackberries and bananas. Miss Miranda didn’t eat much, but Zach did a great job on a heaping bowl of pasta, using his fork instead of his hands. We ate buffet style because we were watching Pinky Dinky Doo on Noggin. Miss Miranda had a bottle of juice on the couch and eventually crashed into a nice afternoon nap.

Since it was still such a nice day out, and since Zach hadn’t been able to go to the park earlier, we decided to take a trip down to the park at 79th Street and Shore Road. Zach had a great time speed sliding and swinging on the swings. At about 4:30 it was finally time to head for home, so with Miranda still sleeping in the stroller and Zachy doing a big-boy walk, holding Daddy’s hand, we strolled back up to Ridge Blvd. Where we parted ways, looking forward, as always, to our next installment of Monkeyshines.

Feeling Yucky

I seem to have left the house without my brain today (I forgot most of the things that I needed to bring with me) which is a sure sign that I am preoccupied by something or other. As a result, I am feeling yucky. My task now is to figure out what it is and deal with it. Unfortunately, this means going into my head, which is a bit dangerous. If you are going into my head to deal with the committee that’s in there, you need to bring a flashlight and a gun, because it’s a pretty bad neighborhood in there. I am also dealing with the fear of economic insecurity, as I have calculated that I need to earn an extra $24,800 per year to cover the expenses that I have now – expenses that will almost certainly grow – EEEEEK! So I’m considering selling Amway or something (actually I would, but I suck at sales). Maybe I’ll sell a kidney, I have two and based on the speed, with which the cup of decaf I just drank went through me, they seem to be working just fine. Any takers?

Anyway, I read a study on the train last night that links T.V. watching to autism, and as usual, I was left not knowing what to think. The design and methodology of the study seemed pretty solid (though unconventional) and the results were surprisingly robust. Statistical studies are a specialty/hobby of mine so I pay special attention to the numbers. There is no data on the television viewing habits of children under 3, so the researchers found another way. They found a strong correlation between the number of rainy days in a given area and the rate of autism for areas of high rainfall, the assumption being that kids stay in and watch T.V. on rainy days. They also found a very strong correlation between cable subscription rates for an area verses the autism rates for the same areas. Causality, of course, cannot be established but cable was introduced right about the time when autism rates started to spike. Hmmmmmn. I have read studies linking everything from soft-soap to cell phones, from power lines to vaccinations, from fabric softener to processed foods all to autism, and I really should stop reading these articles because they always leave me feeling yucky (that’s a technical term). What can I do? When it is your kid, you can’t help but ask questions and search for answers.

On a happier note, I also read an article showing that by the year 2050, if fishing and pollution continue, even at their present rates, the world’s oceans will be virtually devoid of fish. Astounding! Fish populations are collapsing all over the world and apparently for every one ton of fish taken out of the oceans, we throw three tons of garbage back into the oceans. At last!!! We have finally figured out how to get rid of all those pesky fish. They have been pissing me off for years, what with their stinking up the beaches and harbors and nibbling on my feet when I swim, maybe now the world can have some nice clean smelling oceans for a change!

Now that I've aired the yuck out of my psyche (it's nice and clean-smelling too now) I can get down to the business of just being. My projects for today are to sort out the direct deposit fiasco that I seem to be having, go to the mediation session with Mia (bringing a positive attitude may involve some Jedi mind tricks, but the force is strong in me), getting some yummy vittles for the kids to eat tomorrow, picking up a disposable digital camera so that I can post some pictures of the little monkeys on these pages for all to see and admire, and making a meeting. It can be done, and once done, I probably won’t feel as yucky.

PTA Night

Last night I went to Zach’s school for open house and met Mia there. After shaking copious quantities of rain out of our umbrellas, we climbed the stairs, enjoying the beautiful artwork on the way, to the third floor. Zach’s teacher Louisa was waiting for us in Class 10. We sat at a little people’s table and on little people’s chairs, so with my chin resting comfortably on my knees, I listened to all the wonderful news about our little guy.

Zach is apparently in the habit of setting up the chairs in a circle each morning, for “circle-time”. Although this is very helpful, it is not altruistically motivated. Circle-time is his favorite activity and happens first thing in the morning and last thing in the afternoon. During circle-time they do many activities, however, reading books along with the books on tape is his absolute favorite. We were stunned to learn that today at the end of the afternoon circle-time, Zach got up and actually said, “The end, go home.” He has never spoken more than two words in a row before, and rarely speaks at all at home, and then it is usually only a single word such as “noggin” (a generic term for TV), “give me,” “more,” “cookie,” etc. Obviously he has been holding out on us, and I think I now know where all my cell-phone minutes are going.

We learned that Zach has been doing more and more of his artwork independently, such as coloring with markers, painting with watercolors, and of course decorating with glitter (he is sometimes known there as “glitter-guy” because he likes the sparkly stuff so much). He seems to have a couple of nicknames, but the primary one is “buttercup” which Jessica his first teacher gave him. Everybody, from the principal down to the janitor, knows Zach and he seems to have charmed them all. It was nice to hear everybody gush about how different a kid he is now, compared to when he started. We discussed some kindergarten possibilities to check out for next year, and left feeling really good about our bumblebee (his proper nickname) and by the time we left the rain had stopped.

Miller's Laws:

1) Free your mind and your ass will follow.

2) If you don't write it down, it never happened.

3) There are three forces that interact in the composition of the universe: matter, energy, and enlightened self interest.

4) If more than one person knows it, it ain't a secret.

5) Idealism is most frequently sacrificed on the altar of Machiavelli.

6) All communication takes place for the sole purpose of persuasion.

7) There is a right way of doing wrong.

8) All answers are replies, but not all replies are answers.

9) Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.

10) If you always tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.

11) Always know your exits.

12) There are always options.

13) Two wrongs don't make a right, but three rights make a left.

14) Nap whenever possible.

15) Bravery is not lack of inhibition.

16) A metaphor is something that you shout through.

17) A burp in a jar is not a science project.

18) The problems that exist in the world today cannot be solved by the level of thinking that created them.

19) Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect.

20) The only life that is worthwhile is a life lived for others.

To be continued....

Election Day

To paraphrase a Mark Twain quote: In the first place, God created idiots, but that was just for practice: then he made politicians.

I thought this apt for Election Day, and I kept it firmly in mind as I strolled down Ridge Blvd to PS-102 to exercise my right and obligation as an American citizen this morning. I thought about a conundrum that my friends and I used to pose to each other long ago, when we were engaged in the deep philosophical discourses that most eight or nine year old boys have, once they have established whose dad could beat up the other dads: would you rather freeze to death or burn to death? This was really the problem that faced me as I stood in front of the school this morning, a choice involving the lesser of two evils.

I always chose freezing to death when asked this as a boy – it sounded a lot less painful and I am certainly averse to pain. Sure it hurts when your toes are frozen and someone stomps on them, the pain is exquisite but quickly throbs and ebbs to a manageable agony. Burns on the other hand are just plain pure Hell for weeks, until they finally heal. They blister and ooze and leave that sickly-sweet bacon smell that you can almost taste – something that I associate with politicians for some reason. Besides, I had always heard that when you were freezing to death you just fell asleep and never woke up. This sounded good to me, well, certainly better that being burned alive anyway, it’s all relative, and explains my politics.

This Election Day offered no interesting races, no chances for big changes, no opportunities to “send Washington a message,” and no real contests. Elliot Spitzer will be the next Governor, but all the usual suspects will stay in Albany. Hillary and Chuck will both get to keep their jobs, but so will the President and the majority of Republicans in the Senate. If anything, Washington will simply be gridlocked – which is surely an improvement over running amok – but just so not satisfying.

Our democracy is obviously just a sham (it was designed to be that way), and there is really just one party: The American Corporate Party, which represents the interests of big business (the democratic sub-party) and gigantic businesses (the republican sub-party) alike. The problem is confounded by the woeful state of the “informed electorate.” In a letter to Littleton Waller Tazewell in 1805, Thomas Jefferson wrote, “Convinced that the people are the only safe depositories of their own liberty, and that they are not safe unless enlightened to a certain degree, I have looked on our present state of liberty as a short-lived possession.” In the minutes of the Virginia Board of Visitors in 1821 he states, “No nation is permitted to live in ignorance with impunity." As a teacher, I can attest that we are in some pretty deep doo-doo!

What is even more fascinating is that many of the participants/perpetrators of the myth of the American Democracy, themselves believe in it. This is certainly the other root cause of the trouble. In preparing to write his Award winning novel Dune, Frank Herbert undertook six years of scholarly philosophical research. The novel is used as a vehicle to express his ontological and epistemological views, and through his protagonist he leaves some clear warnings for us, especially on Election Day: “The person who experiences greatness must have a feeling for the myth he is in. He must reflect what is projected upon him. And he must have a strong sense of the sardonic. This is what uncouples him from belief in his own pretensions. The sardonic is all that permits him to move within himself. Without this quality, even occasional greatness will destroy a man.” Not that the word “great” would be the first that I would reach for to describe my political representation in this peoples’ democracy, but the point is nevertheless made.


Heisenburg showed us the walls enclosing our predestined arguments - knowledge has no uses without purpose, but purpose is what builds enclosing walls. Actually what I was really thinking about as I cast my vote on this mild November morning was how much I enjoyed playing with the little levers, whether or not the gray paint on the voting machines was Navy surplus, and what a satisfying “ker-chunk” the machines make when you pull the final big lever to record your vote – I LOVE the “ker-chunk!”

Perhaps this is the only reason why I still bother to show up and vote at all. I’m from a generation that still thinks that video pong is a pretty groovy idea – pretty groovy, but no substitute for pinball. I guess when I pull those levers I’m just hoping to hit the right ramps, light the specials, maybe get a little multi-ball happening, and possibly win a free game, if I’m really lucky. Of course, what I usually get is “Tilt.”

More Monkeyshines

Well the weekend has come and gone again, and this past Saturday saw another wonderful visit to Daddy’s house by our favorite little people. Zach had a much better session at the Sensory Gym this week, and while he was doing his sensory integration work the rest of us went to Dunkin Doughnuts for Miss Miranda’s muffin on a stick ritual.

After collecting “Zacky-rye-ah” as Miranda says his name, the whole gang headed over to the House of Miller for lunch and playtime. This week lunch featured a marinated London broil, white rice with chives, peas and carrots (suffering succotash!) and an assortment of fruit (of course Miss Miranda must have her berries).

Most of this fabulous lunch went uneaten or was spilled on the living room floor, as we were all too excited to worry about eating – there were trains to be played with and tents and tunnels to be explored – serious business! Miranda made Daddy another piece of beautiful artwork (using all 96 colors of crayons) and had fun throwing dominos (and all 96 crayons) all over the place. She also enjoyed playing with her peoples and her pony. Zach tried many activities but was hampered by his sister. Each time Zachy picked up a toy, Miranda came running over yelling “My turn! Mine!" Zach is nothing if not a good sport so he chilled and watched some Blue’s Clues and lounged on his beanbag chair.

Both little monkeys got great thrills from jumping on the beds and climbing on and sitting in the windowsills, as well as being chased around the place by the fierce and terrible Daddymonster. We all hungout until 4pm when the little monkeys had to leave. There were hugs and kisses for all and a wave goodbye, as the little people piled into Grampa’s car for their next adventure. Stay tuned for next week’s installment of Monkeyshines.

Cartograms

A cartogram, which is sometimes referred to as an isodemographic map, presents numeric information while maintaining some degree of geographic accuracy. For example, here is a map of the world: (click on each image to view a larger version)Here is a cartogram of the world, which uses each country's GDP to reflect disparity in wealth:Here is a cartogram reflecting child/infant mortality rates:Here is a cartogram reflecting relative energy consumption:Finally, here is a cartogram reflecting HIV infection rates:Notice anything?

Halloween

October 31, 2006, 9pm, Times Square:
This is probably one of only two places on planet Earth (the other being Hollywood Boulevard) where Halloween can go largely unnoticed. I’m on my way home from Harlem after teaching my night classes the mysteries of algebra, and I decide to go up to street level to soak in the…ambiance.

At first glance, tonight seems no different than any other night; the usual denizens jabber, stalk, posture, and hustle. I am told that Jesus is coming back to judge me by a young woman waving a bullhorn. But then I notice something is different: the Naked Cowboy, a rather buff character who plays his guitar on the median of the square, rain or shine, wearing only cowboy boots, a Stetson and a pair of tighty-whiteys, has, in a nod to the festivities, traded said tighty-whiteys for an orange pair. This is big!

Intrigued, I stand under the Dow Jones ticker and observe the mele. It is near 70 degrees on this Halloween and there is quite a skin show going on, as there usually is on any warm night in midtown. The angels and princesses sport ample cleavage and gang tattoos, there is a far wider variety of skimpy leather clothing than usual and the hookers are ignored for the most part, being somewhat overdressed. The Grinch gets off the 2-train, strolls across the square and is joined a hooded fellow wielding a lightsaber.

The aspects of this night that are most noticeably different are intangible; there is a carnival atmosphere, a certain gala mood as brightly clad, sometimes tipsy, revelers rush on and off of the trains. I hear snippets of conversations as I glance up at the 30-foot talking heads on the giant video screen above me and head for the trains myself. I won’t be getting home until almost 11pm, but sometimes pausing for these moments to taste, smell, see, hear, touch and feel is important.

I take a seat on the 3-train and Spiderman sits down across from me. A pair of serious looking black men in white crocheted Muslim skull caps get onto the train, quickly set up three large skin-covered drums and launch into some fantastically intricate primal rhythms. Spiderman gives me a knowing look – he’s right, they are really good. The performance lasts until the train makes its last stop in Tribeca, Brooklyn will be next. The musicians pass the hat, preparing to disembark and I toss in a few coins, grateful for what I’ve heard, but Spiderman offers no spare change and I can almost see him blush beneath the mask – Spiderman has no pockets.

Older Than Dirt

I am sitting on a raised square planter, with a beech tree in it, on the sidewalk, on the corner of West 24th Street and 9th Avenue, outside the building that houses the office and residence of the parenting coordinator (mediator) that Mia and I have been “working with.” It is after dark at 7pm on the Monday night after turning back the clocks, and I am looking at the Empire State Building off to the northeast. It is lit up red, and then yellow above that and the zeppelin-mooring tower at the top is red, with an intense strobing red light at the very apex. I hear a jet, high, very high in the sky, but no dirigibles.

I’m wondering if the layer-cake color scheme has any significance - it varies from night to night and season to season, and I’ve even heard that it has been lit in the national colors of visiting dignitaries. I’m considering it this night in terms of a giant art deco phallus – only men would have conceived of it and gone to the trouble of building it. Tonight it looks like the colored (and black licorice-flavored) condom that I bought once out of a vending machine in a men’s room at a seedy truck-stop somewhere in either Ohio or Indiana, I can’t be sure which. I remember that the advertising stickers on the vending machine made some pretty spectacular claims as to the performance characteristics of the products it dispensed and I remember half believing them and wondering, with the typical insecurity of youth, if extra large, which was the only size available, was in fact the right size.

I try but I can’t remember exactly who I was with that night or who I had in mind when I purchased that condom; it remains steeped in fuzzy forgetfulness, shrouded by the indigo curtains of time, but I can narrow it down to a dozen or so possibilities from among the crowd of the Dawson Street days. I remember only that it was a Friday night, we were so young, we were probably intoxicated, we had a borrowed car and we had absolutely nothing better to do other than driving around, listening to incredibly loud music and messing up a perfectly good country.

I remember that we were heading north towards Cleveland, but with no clear destination in mind when we left Pittsburgh. Somehow our path veered west through the panhandle of West Virginia, then south until the tributary road we were on, pulled inexorably downhill by gravity, merged with the mighty current of Interstate 70, just east of Columbus, Ohio. Heading west, we gathered speed, bounced across the Indiana border, circled Indianapolis and then started to tire and become low on cash. So we started back, no longer exchanging the bravado of what we’d do when we got to Los Angeles, and somewhere along the way lay the truck-stop with the colored condoms. We bought postcards and mailed them to ourselves: Dear Mark, Wish you were here. Love, Mark.

It is warm out tonight, in the upper 60’s and I am comfortable in shirtsleeves. I bask in remembered innocence. The city air smells of dusty sycamore leaves and the last grass clippings of the season and I am wondering when the last time was that I had need of a condom. I finally realize that it predates this century and I feel very old. My knees, which must have been eavesdropping on my contemplation, crack and pop as I stand, as if to confirm it: “yeah buddy, you’re older than dirt.”