Snake Eyes

Raise your hand if you have ever come upon a rattlesnake during a hike. Now raise both hands if this has happened to you twice, in one week.

So you know I didn't die because I am writing to you now. Unless of course this was a piece that I penned in the event something like this happened, and I asked that it be posted afterwards. But I am not that clever.

I am not a country boy by birth or nature. I grew up surrounded by brick and mortar, birds and ants. A squirrel running through the walls of a house was reason enough for a panic attack. My most disturbing childhood memory of confrontation  between man and beast was when my mother took a potful of hot water to an ant colony. Problem solved. Psyche damaged.

But time and circumstance move all of us to places not originally in our master plan.  And so, on this day, one week removed from my first face to foot, I headed back for another adventure into what to me seemed the most absolute of wilderness.

My son confided, out of earshot of my wife, that a sign warned that ticks and rattlers were possible companions for this journey. So, as we began our day by taking off shoes and socks, rolling up pant legs and fording a very cold and rapidly moving stream just above a waterfall, I wondered for a brief moment what the hell I was doing.

There is an exhilaration in ascending an almost vertical 1000 feet, at times holding on for dear life to the railing that was built for those like me who are attempting what they are ill equipped to accomplish. Fear and adrenaline is a very powerful combination, as I would once more soon learn in bold letters.

We three had spent part of the last week in discourse on the do's and don'ts of attending to venomous  bites after our first encounter with a slithering, rattling trail hogger. My son, ever the student, was able to recite the why, where and what with great detail. But unless there was to be a car trailing our every step or a helicopter hovering overhead to come to our immediate rescue, I can't say I was completely without concern merely because there was now a scholar in residence.

My wife mentioned the word rattler several times during the first hour or so of our travels yesterday. My son grew irritated, stating that he now had a concern that was clearly sapping a piece of his enjoyment of the moment. Shortly, he would revisit his words.

There are long stretches of time in woods like these, where there is no hint of man or beast except for those companions who trek with you. And this was no different, until we were almost 2 hours removed from where this trip began. A few hundred yards away, out of sight but not sound, there was conversation, laughter and then an unmistakeable, piercing noise. It lasted for what seemed an eternity, growing ever louder.

"There is a rattler ahead." The warning came from above us, from a person unseen but not too distant. And then we heard the thunk, thunk of rocks being thrown. This was not good. Apparently, their concept was to scare off or damage, and then pass. All they were accomplishing was to piss off. The rattle, sounding like a 100 cicadas in full voice, grew more ominous.

My son shouted out his concern for the course chosen. Having spent recent days in study, he strongly suggested the rock throwing was not helping.  (And, as an aside, illegal, since the rattler is an endangered species, not to be harmed in the making of this film) The rattler quieted. With trepidation we slowly headed up the path to get a long distance look. It was huge and coiled squarely in the center of a narrow path. It made last week's encounter seem pedestrian, almost cute. It was not going anywhere anytime soon.

One of the issues, so I am told, is that where there is one, there may be more. I know that whenever I see a deer I am always vigilant, as they travel in packs or broods or whatever it is that deer do. And so too, snakes?

Our choices were evident: heading back from where we had come, descending the almost unthinkably difficult down, then taking off shoes and socks and wading into the rushing waters, or going through the deep brush around the now resting giant and continuing our ascent. We had long distance discussion with the rock throwers and devised a plan.

We would take similar routes through the brush, thus meeting half way, each side taking an equal risk that they would be the unlucky ones to come upon some relatives of our immovable obstacle. This was, in an imperfect world, the best option.

I took a deep breath and began pushing the bushes aside, the limbs from the small trees brushing against my face. My wife and son trailed closely behind. Each step brought a new universe of uncomfortable possibilities. And yet, within less than a minute, I sighted colors and clothing of human beings heading towards me, and before I really had time to think, we were joined.

For the briefest of moments, we exchanged words of the great size of the problem that we had encountered. They, it turned out, were rattlesnake virgins, unlike the seasoned and knowledgeable veterans who greeted them. As the underbrush was not the best of locations to begin an extended discourse, we soon parted ways, safe in the knowledge that there was a short and clear path to safety.

Soon afterwards we reached the summit. There, we encountered two others and warned them immediately of the danger that lay only a few hundred yards away. Each of these hikers was on his or her own, and one decided to join us for the balance of our journey. She asked whether, before we began our descent, we would mind walking back to where the rattler lay so she could take a peek.

At that moment, I  looked above to see a covey of hang-gliders in mid-flight. I have a significant fear of heights, but my immediate thought was that I would clearly have opted for hovering in the sky thousands of feet above the ground, rather than heading back to revisit our resting friend. Curiosity, I was certain, does not only kill cats.

Division of Labor

I sat in a chair, at the edge of the dining room table, idly clicking the remote to flip the stations between the Knick and Yankee games. It was hard for me to see everything clearly as I was stationed at the end of the living room, far from the television. But, this was a sacrifice I had to make in our household's division of labor.

While my wife pulled and pushed at the table, screwed in screwed up and then figured out, splintered, cramped, sweated and persevered, I watched and waited for the occasional directive. I got up from my seat to find the screwdriver with the largest head, returning with 4 items, 2 of which turned out not to be screwdrivers. On command, I raised the edge of the table slightly, only to be told it was not the top but the body that had to be elevated.  But mostly I sat, because that was the only role for which I was truly suited.

The table had been taken apart several days before by a friend who had come to work his magic on something called an extender that had begun to splinter from the years and the weight. Screws had been taken out in the process, and the top of the table removed, to allow his handiwork, the glue and the clamps to take full effect. Now, at least to me, it looked like my wife was attempting to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Holes and screws did not align. Slides no longer did what they were supposed to. It was to my trained eye an unsolvable jigsaw puzzle.

"Hurry", my wife shouted, "put the pillow under my head". She was in obvious distress lying on the floor, as she had been for many minutes, trying to get what appeared to be a square peg in a round hole. At another point, she asked me to get toothpicks, so she could do whatever it was that she was doing. She yelped in pain on several occasions, slithering on her back from one spot to another, only to have her calves or thighs rudely advise her that this was not the way it was intended for her to be moving about. I briefly rubbed her legs, while keeping an eye firmly fixed on the television.

In truth, I grew slightly annoyed that my loyalties and attention were being divided by my task. I mean, who in their right mind would spend over 2 hours on this endeavor?  In an alternate universe in which I could be of actual help in this project, I would have thrown in the towel after but a few minutes of frustration and failure. My fix-it friend would have been cursed for creating this mess, and an alternate solution (calling in paid labor) would have resulted.

Finally, after all my hard work, there was success. The last screw sat snugly in place, the sliders slid, the top once more firmly affixed . It was now towards the end of the baseball and basketball games and I was too tired from my efforts to do anything but head upstairs to bed.

I watched my wife in amazement throughout this evening, never giving up or giving in, never considering abandoning her assignment, never complaining, never losing her focus. I am referring to the overwhelming task of being married to me. The table was the easy part.

Weather or Not to Play

The anxiety kept me awake through much of the night. Sleep was fitful and unsatisfying. My mind kept replaying the possibilities. What would happen if I made the wrong decision?

It is a thankless task being the unofficial commissioner of my golf group. Not only do I have to send out countless reminders to some members of this troupe to let me know if they are to participate in this week's latest debacle on the links, but I am also the designated weatherman for early morning determinations if rain, sleet or snow will keep us from our appointed rounds.

Much of the calculus is based on my state of mind. Forget the hourly recitation from the meteorological source, or even the 15 minute version for the particularly obsessed. Discount the percentage likelihood that at 8AM we are 40% likely to be with umbrellas raised, while at 9AM we should have respite from the storm. Know only that it is early in the season, hope still springs eternal, and my last 18 holes were relatively successful. In that context, comes the conclusion on the impact of the inclemency.

This past Wednesday, a similar dilemma presented itself. The morning was punctuated with bursts of heavy precipitation. But when my friend called to discuss options, I considered most heavily the possibility that my game was about to come into focus.

That afternoon, as only light rain descended by the third hole and I had hit the first two greens in regulation, I applauded my tenacity. By the fifth hole, when the club felt like a slippery eel in my hands and streams cascaded across the green, I reconsidered the wisdom of my earlier decision.

It is not a good thing when your pants are so wet from stem to stern that it is impossible to tell whether you had just been standing in a downpour, or dived into a lake. And it is certainly not the optimum condition to return to work and be unable to sit down in a chair for the balance of the afternoon due to the squishy discomfort serving as constant reminder of how stupid one person can be.

So, you can understand the trepidation coursing through my body as I press send on the email that will impact not only my day, but those under my watch. Rest assured that with the first club that flies from the inadequate grasp, or the first rain that drips from the brim of a soaked hat and dribbles across a cheek, my name will be coupled with an unprintable verb, adverb or adjective. It is not easy being king.

Terrorism or Not Terrorism That is the Question

 ("Boston Suspects Are Seen as Self-Taught and Fueled by Web")

While the events that took place in downtown Boston were horrific, were they in fact acts of terrorism? If, as it now appears, the Tsarnaev brothers were not affiliated with, financed or armed by what we would classify a terrorist organization, then what makes this, while clearly intended to terrorize, terrorism?

Are we to deem anyone influenced to undertake large scale attacks by general fundamentalism rhetoric a terrorist?

If so, do not the shootings by Nidal Hasan at Fort Hood in 2009, in which 12 were killed and 31 injured, more clearly meet that definition? We know that he was in email contact with Anwar al-Awlaki and we have all come to understand how the administration perceived al-Awlaki. Hasan's  contact with radical fundamentalists would seem, at least for the moment, far less remote than that of the Tsarnaevs.

Is terrorism to be defined merely by the choice of target or weapons used? Shouldn't it require a real and intimate connection to a known enemy?

Terminology does matter here, both for the present psyche of the public and for historical clarity.

The brutal killings that took place near the finish line on that clear Monday afternoon deserve to be looked upon as acts of almost unfathomable depravity. But maybe, in the final analysis, we will have to re-examine the words used to describe them.

Tallying Up the Votes

 ("No Bully in the Pulpit")



David Brooks ("The Second Wave") was correct. Single issue voters, at least on the question of gun control, reside on the far right.  While 90% may have agreed with the concept of increased background checks on gun sales, it was the 10% whom the politicians most feared at the ballot box.

President Obama had neither the force of history nor threat of retribution on his side. He did what he could, but in the final analysis the most he could accomplish was to speak loudly but carry a small stick.

Immigration Reform and of Lessons Learned on Gun Control and Gay Rights

("Immigration and Fear")


The gun control debate over the past years has been born not out of momentum for change but by spasmodic episodes of violence. The challenges to the status quo have largely been reactive, not proactive, and the depth and breadth of the arguments in support of second Amendment rights have not dissipated or waned.

The question is whether immigration reform more closely resembles gun control or is rather akin to the long battle for gay rights. That issue has been decades in the making and the change in public perception has come inch by inch. As the positions in opposition have peeled away over time, much of the anti-gay fervor has been diminished and neutralized.

It was not too far in our past that the Republican presidential candidate spoke about making life so distasteful for over 11 million people in our midst that they would voluntarily choose self deportation. Has the psyche of those on the right been so damaged by the 2012 electoral defeat that there has been a fundamental shift in their opposition to creating a path for citizenship for undocumented immigrants? Or is this an illusion, a fleeting reaction, much like the initial response to Newtown, which will lead not to important legislation, but with head shaking heart wrenching defeat?

My hope is that immigration reform is a matter whose time has come, and that the unified voices in support are not momentary but sustained and real.

Let It Be

"Who is your favorite musician?" The question startled me. I was not in the office to discuss whether Justin Bieber was about to become yesterday's news or "Accidental Racist" was a good idea gone bad, but for a rather unpleasant medical procedure.

In a moment of panic, I blurted out "Ben Folds." Was I doing this to impress the attractive young medical assistant? Did she even know who Ben Folds was?

Growing up, there would have been no uncertainty in my response. In those days I had a full head of hair and a round, almost cherubic face. Thus, I fancied myself a look alike for Paul McCartney. On a vacation to Florida I once tried to pass myself off as his American cousin. Now, the only way the two of us would be confused for one another was if Sir Paul shaved the top of his head, removed his eyebrows, lost most of his upper lip and grew a mysterious seeming lump on the side of his neck. Looking cherubic at this point in life only makes me appear one step removed from being confused with a bowling ball.

In the battle of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, there was only one winner. And the rest of the pretenders over the years, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, James Taylor, well, they were just that.

In recent years I have co-opted the choices of my children and made them appear my own. I have found an ongoing fascination with both bluegrass and country music. Chris Thile and I have developed a strong bond, and I even gave my son a mandolin as a present several years ago, hoping that he would be able to channel the Thilean energy into his fingers. And Brad Paisley and I, notwithstanding his recent flirtation with musical mutilation, are still on very good terms.

But the truth is that my musical world is mostly silent these days. The radio is tuned to the local NPR station and I find "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" a suitable companion on my trips in the car. And when I hum a tune, or to the total dismay of my family, break out into song, it is much more likely to be Hey Jude then anything else that has been written in almost a half century.

I think it is hard, in musical terms at least, to evolve with age. How could my mother and father find Frank Sinatra compelling? Why do we find such comfort in the tunes that we grew up with, but such reluctance to see the merit, and not the cacophony, in anything that was written after we "grow up" ? It must be the inverse to that mantra of the young never to trust anyone over 30.

During the morning that the doctor (along with his assistant) and I became such good friends,"Pandora" was streaming musical selections not only of Mr. Folds (and his "Five" who never existed in that number) but of other artists who Pandora told me I would enjoy. The doctor said he liked a tune of the "Strokes" and advised that he couldn't believe he had been listening to them for 15 years. I thought to myself that I am not comfortable with the terms Pandora and streaming, but I am really unhappy with a doctor who is working over me and talking about strokes.

I once wrote a song that I thought had a chance of being something special. Or at least I put a number of words on a page and imagined it catapulting me to stardom. It was a story of a woman wronged, who in the first part of this saga, was downtrodden, but rose triumphantly to advise her former lover, that he was the one who sucked. The word suck actually appeared a number of times and was, I guess, the central theme. After parading my masterpiece before a friend in the music business, I tried to pawn it off on anyone who was breathing and played an instrument. After a few weeks, my fervor and my words died a painful death.

And yes, the real answer to the question posed, if I had a moment to collect myself before answering, is the Beatles. With each album that emerged, the needle on the record player took a beating, the words were memorized and the legend was forever cemented. When I asked the young assistant how she would have answered the question, she said, "I like most everything." While I thought to myself that this couldn't possibly stand unchallenged, that someone must have captured her heart or her attention, I decided just to "Let it Be."

The Full Body Check

Written 3 days ago.

"If you had to choose your cancer, this is the best one to have."

I had developed a red blotch on my chest several months ago. But I had
spent a lifetime as unhappy partners with skin rashes of one sort or
another. This one seemed a little different in that surprisingly it
did not disappear even after I applied long expired medications
prescribed for a totally unrelated issue. Yet, apart from the often
irritating itchiness, I gave it little thought. As my mother would
tell me about any negative that I would encounter," this too shall
pass."

My father had died of cancer at 61. I will find myself at that same age in
3 days. My dad's ending was much too ugly and much too early. And it
left me with images of him at the end of life that I have been unable
to erase over the past 35 years.

It was actually the brown spot on my face, which seemed to appear
overnight, that caught my attention. Too pronounced and too unexpected
to ignore, a search of the internet was undertaken to locate a local
dermatologist covered by my insurance carrier. My important medical
decisions, after all, are as much about network participation as they
are about degrees on a wall or accolades received.

Thus, proximity and economics brought me to the doctor's office
directly across the street from my place of work. After completing the
obligatory several pages of unnecessary history on the ailments I did
not have, I heard my name called. It always seems there is a small
amount of pride and satisfaction when this occurs, like having
accomplished something of note.

I was embarrassed to advise the doctor how long it had been since my
last "full body" check. "Yes," I told her, "I did want one now." I
surveyed the built in shelves on the wall filled with small stacks of
those little pamphlets describing different types of skin cancer.

"I am going to freeze off this one on your face," she told me. She was
basically going to spray frostbite on the offending spot which would
then peel off in a matter of days. She explained that this was not
cancerous, so the term she gave it immediately became of no
consequence. "But this one," she said, pointing to the blotch, "looks
a little too red. I am going to biopsy it to be safe." Okay, I
thought, but I could have told her from years of experience that it
was nothing to worry about.

It was about a week later that I received the news in a follow up
phone call. I had a basal cell carcinoma and should return to the
doctor so she could measure the size of the piece of discolored flesh.
Two centimeters or more and I would be sent to a Mohs surgeon. Yet
another unwanted term was thus added to my lexicon. Apparently, as I
have been told all my life but refused to accept, size does matter.

Tomorrow I am going to a Mohs doctor in New York who is to slice me up a
little and immediately have the surrounding tissue tested to determine
if it is free of cancer. The waiting room, so I am informed, will be
with be filled with similarly situated bandaged up patients, all
wondering if enough is actually enough. The snips keep coming until
the pathology report advises that no more punishment is required. It
should be an interesting group dynamic.

Yet, I understand that this is indeed a good cancer. No follow up
treatment, no radiation, no chemotherapy, none of those ugly things
that remain vivid recollections regarding my dad. A few stitches, a
few weeks off the golf course, which may actually be a good thing in
my case, and then on to the rest of my life.

I don't know whether to be cavalier or not about this whole
experience. I have spoken to several friends  who, when advised of my
diagnosis, make it seem totally benign (cancer and benign do not
easily share space in the same thought). "I look like Frankenstein, I
am cut up all over," one tells me. Another lets me know that all those
tiny scars on his face are reminders of  the handiwork of his Mohs
surgeon. To them, my problem is much ado about nothing. And I guess,
without tempting fate or angering the gods, I agree.

Oh, by the way, that brown spot on my face failed to follow orders and
remains stubbornly attached. Another round of intentional frostbite is
in my near future. But at least it is still covered on my plan.

The 15th Club

("Woods Gets A Penalty But Is Not Disqualified")

The sport of golf has a 15th club it carries, a stick up its proverbial backside. It has rules which punish without thought or reason, explanation or context. Its history is littered with travesties of justice.

45 years ago at this very tournament, the Masters, Robert Di Vicenzo made a birdie 3 on the 17th hole of the final round. Only he didn't because his playing partner, in charge of the scorecard, miscounted. The 4 that was written down, and signed for as correct by Roberto meant that instead of his being tied for the lead and headed to a playoff, he "lost" by a single stroke. His most famous of quotes, "what a stupid I am" stands as a testament to his dignity and grace and as a signature moment in the idiocy of unbending application of the sacrosanct rules of golf.

In more recent years we have witnessed crucial penalties caused by the brushing of a leaf in a backswing while in a hazard and for grounding a club in a "sandtrap" that had less sand in it than your shoe after a day at the beach.

Just in this tournament, a 14 year old boy, trying to make history not only as its youngest participant ever, but almost miraculously as one to make it into the weekend rounds, was given a one stroke penalty for taking too much time in contemplation. What a miscarriage if he had been sent packing for allowing a  few moments of extra thought.

Tiger Woods plays golf before more watchful eyes than anyone else on this planet. Even if there was an intent to bend the rules to his advantage, which there clearly was not, there is no opportunity in Tiger's universe for anything to go unnoticed.  Probably a little flummoxed after watching a well played stroke end in such disaster, Woods made a boo boo. All the rules gurus at the most prestigious of all tournament venues, failed to find fault with his actions when they occurred.

Golf takes itself way too seriously. Nick Faldo called on Woods to "do the manly thing" and withdraw. Why? The actions on #15 did not warrant disqualification any more than Di Vicenzo's math error mandated that he be kept from the opportunity to put on the green jacket. Bring in some sanity, and let the particulars of the circumstances dictate fair and reasonable outcomes.

The Side of the Road Rage

("The Trauma of the Pink Shirt")

Road rage, especially during a moment of unintended and unwanted stasis, is a male dominated activity. This testosterone fueled idiocy relies on a total abandonment of rational thought as its predicate. I know as I count myself as one among millions who has on occasion left my brain in reverse and entered this arena (while planted firmly in the "safety" of my vehicle).

Inserting a pink shirted male into the middle of this "conversation" is undoubtedly going to be a trigger for some pointed observations. "Swearing like a man" at someone who is showing a softer, more compassionate sense of  understanding of the beauty of the color spectrum is wholly consistent with the neanderthal like qualities of one who has turned off the testosterone control sign. And what better way to demean and diminish your opponent than with an impressive string of sexually laden damaging phrases and images, for sex and power can be a fully intertwined couple.

While the author's wife and friend found his unsuccessful insertion into this fray uncontrollably funny, it is clearly better not to try to enter into a gentlemanly debate in these circumstances. For the raging bull in the red sports car, the pink shirt is an invitation to try to gore and dismember, with words if not fists.