GOODE Thoughts

'Tis the Season

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 21:03:00 +0000

The holidays are upon us--or perhaps I should say that we are currently knee deep in mistletoe, dreidels, and kinaras--and with all of the eggnog-inspired haze, it's probably a good time to remember the true reason for the season.

But don't expect me to define that reason here.

While some traditionalists will most certainly point to the obvious--that this is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ--mercantilists will undoubtedly pursue a more commercial vision. I won't bother venturing my own opinion, which is as valuable as the morals espoused in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, Frosty The Snowman, and It's a Wonderful Life. I will, however, offer this one suggestion. During this season of commerce, worship, and celebration, one would be well served to at least take at least a little time to reflect on the dichotomy of the idea of the western Christmas season versus the spirit of the celebration of Christ's birth as taught in most Christian traditions.

And don't get me started on Black Friday, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Boxing Day. Once they get their own stop-action animated holiday specials, they'll be eligible for consideration as legitimate.

'Tis the season.

A chip on his shoulder...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 15:33:00 +0000

Jimmy Carter had it right when he said in so many words that one reason that “some” Americans are so forcefully against the President is because of his skin color. At least one man of non-color had the guts to tell the truth.

If you don’t like this President because of his policies, and you are able to clearly articulate what they are, that’s one thing; if, however, you are feebly disguising your racism in poorly thought-out opinions about the one or two policies you heard someone pontificate on at the NASCAR race/WrestleMania SmackDown/local feed store/bible belt polishing bee (you fill in the blank), then here’s a thought: turn off the conservative radio, head to your local library, and read a book…on anything. Anything by Theodor Seuss Geisel might be a good start, just to get the nouns, pronouns and adverbs working, then, perhaps, move on to something a bit headier like "Hot, Flat, and Crowded" by Thomas Friedman or Dr. Howard Dean's "Prescription for Real Healthcare Reform".

I’m in no mood to assimilate or to explain any more. I’ve tried that and they (or, maybe, you) aren’t listening. We’ve achieved that imaginary pinnacle of American success, the Presidency, and the only thing that happened was the unveiling of their (maybe your) true colors. They’ve (or you’ve) drawn a line in the sand. I’m (we’re) not afraid to cross it. Yeah, there’s a chip on my shoulder. Go ahead, knock it off—I dare you.

A curtailed curmudgeon...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 14:39:00 +0000

Okay, here’s the thing…okay, I got nothing. No excuses, no sudden developments, no nothing. I flaked. I got lazy. Perhaps—just perhaps—I was even overly ambitious. Perhaps, but in the parlance of the exuberantly optimistic, “He’s back, baby!” The blog continues, though in slightly different form.

With the need to earn a living—yeah, go figure—I’ve got to be more judicious with my time and efforts, which means ~~expansive expositions~~ long-winded blogs using ~~linguistic legerdemain~~ two dollar words will have to go. Instead, I think I’ll take a page from the Rev Run’s Global Grind daily blog. Though I won’t limit myself to what can be blogged on a PDA in the bathtub, I will be briefer than before.

That said, I’ve now got to focus my sometimes vitriolic spewing more narrowly.

Haters beware.

Temps on the rise...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Mon, 18 May 2009 04:16:00 +0000

With the air conditioner on the fritz, he and Ms. Knowitall had been on tense terms as of late.

“I hate you.”

“I hate you back.”

“Well…I hate you more.”

“Hmph.”

“Back at you.”

There’s nothing like a little stagnant air in early May to encourage a body to unreasonably lash out at loved ones.

It was so damned hot in their house all either of them could do at the end of each day was sit on the bed and snipe at each other. In fact, it was so damned hot in their bloody home that they’d actually elevated sniping to an Olympic sport, you know, not one of the really good ones like relay racing or bobsledding or judo; no, more like one of those that no one really cares about anyway like curling or badminton or synchronized swimming.

Air conditioners are like teenagers: no matter how you treat them, no matter how nice you are to them, no matter how well you raise them they still go out when they’re not supposed to and end up costing you a fortune. He hadn’t planned on spending $500 on the A/C unit and, in fact, had postponed calling a repair man for weeks. But as the temperatures slowly rose in promise of summer like an ecdysiast teasing of things to come, he and she finally agreed that silly things like mortgage and food and gasoline would have to wait: cool air was needed…and needed NOW!

Later, after the repair men had come and gone and the air in their home was more like spring in Providence than summer in Needles, he and she apologized to each other and each breathed a sigh of relief. Life was back to normal again…

…until the next disaster broke.

Sci Fi weekend...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Sun, 03 May 2009 01:19:00 +0000

It was a heck of a Sci-Fi weekend for a trekkie like me, and now, as it’s dark, gloomy, stormy and rainy outside, it’s time to reflect.

Friday was the premiere of X-Men Origins: Wolverine, and as a childhood fan of the atomantium-clawed hero, I was ready to be disappointed. We’ve all been there: the promos hype some new movie based on a book or a series of books that we’ve greatly enjoyed, then we buy our tickets only to be incredibly disappointed at how the director has treated “our” story. Need I remind you of the first Hulk movie? Or how about Michael Crichton’s Timeline? Or Relic by Douglas J. Preston and Lincoln Child? Hollywood is notorious for messing up a good thing by putting it on the big screen.

So I was more than a little elated when Hugh Jackman’s fourth outing as the hero Wolverine was handled deftly and with subtlety (well, as subtle as you can be with leatherwear, super-human powers, and a storyline fraught with military excesses and megalomania.) The audience learns from where Logan (Wolverine’s real name, by the way) gets his cool cutters, the origin of his “strained” relationship with Sabretooth, and the role of the sinister Colonel William Stryker in the development of not only Wolverine’s super abilities but in his superego (as well as his regular ego and id to boot.) I found the movie well done, though perhaps a little light in the plot department. Still, when watching superhero fare, it pays to remember the phrase it is what it is.

What truly, truly made my weekend, however, was the Saturday sneak preview of Star Trek. In case you haven’t noticed in one or three previous postings, I’m a bit of a Trekkie…a bit of a trekkie like Lindsey Lohan is a bit of a tramp. (I know that was wrong, but when the muse is working I don’t argue.) The movie started at 11 a.m. so I suggested to Miss Knowitall that we should perhaps get there no later than 10 a.m. While humoring me, she obviously didn’t get IT…not until we got there and found about 75 people in line already, including those wearing Star Trek tunics and other geek ware. Once inside, the hosts, DJ’s from several local radio stations, hyped the crowd, not a difficult task considering we were ALL fans anyway. The pre-picture fanfare included a trek trivia game in which Miss Knowitall insisted that I participate, and after great urging I acquiesced.

Realize dear readers that I’ve spent much of my life NOT learning things like formulas for quadratic equations and my multiplication tables past 10 and the state capitols and the second, third, and fourth stanzas of the Negro National Anthem so that my brain would have more room for such weighty material as the names of all the actors who played Dr. Who in the last 20 years and a critical analysis of who would win in a fight between Batman and Spiderman (Batman, of course,) and especially ALL THINGS STAR TREK.

Following the contest and movie, I brought home four bumper stickers, two posters, a gold Star Trek tunic, and a (toy) phaser (with settings for both Stun AND Kill.) And to think that my parents use to tell me that my watching TV would never get me anywhere in life.

And the movie? Well, I can’t speak to those who aren’t fans or aren’t familiar with the franchise, but I can say that Star Trek was in dire need of a reboot. The bevy of movies and television shows were and continue to be great fun…but they have gotten old and unable to inspire newer, younger viewers (younger than those who, like me, can [barely] actually remember watching first run ORIGINAL episodes back in the sixties.)

The movie was good, good by any standard. The characters were well played, not as caricatures, but as the three-dimensional figures that true fans like me already know them to be. The story was also true to what is known as “Trek Lore” while at the same time credibly allowing for expansion into a new alternate Star Trek experience that, I believe, will take the franchise “boldly where no one has gone before” and excite a new generation of fans.

I even cried a little during the screening…but I usually do that right after a really good nerdgasm.

Guilty pleasure...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 14:41:00 +0000

During the last seven days or so, as I’ve convalesced from shoulder surgery, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, and frankly I’m sick of being “sick.” Now, I realize that I’m really not technically “sick” by any stretch of the word, especially when I think about those who suffer from or fight or have succumbed to much more serious medical situations; still, I’m not at my physical 100%, and it’s that status that has me sidelined.

So what have I done to pass the time? Well, I’ve been slowly working my way through dozens of DVR’d shows I’ve been stockpiling since November, not knowing when I would get to watch them; mentally working on a novel I plan on putting on paper one day as soon as my wing will let me fly; and bonding with my mastiff Barney who, I think, finds it somewhat odd and a little more than disconcerting that his pack leader is home now each and every day.

…and watching a lot of television, too. Did I mention that? Whew…thank God for cable television.

The other night I saw a couple of episodes of HBO’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, a cable television series based on the book series by Alexander McCall Smith. I found it a guilty pleasure, guilty because after catching two episodes I felt guilty for not having read the series (or at least a few books in the series). Jill Scott is magnificent as agency owner and investigator Precious Ramotswe as she leads a cast of relative unknowns (in the United States, that is) in this smart, fun and novel take on the detective genre.

This morning, after seeing Ms. Knowitall off to work, I watched a movie on HBO 2 or 5 or something or other called Guy X. I won’t bore you with the details except to say it was a look at military absurdities in the vein of Catch 22 or M*A*S*H with that same kind of black, deadpan humor that is sorely lacking in most films today. It featured Jason Biggs (Eight Below, Jersey Girl, American Wedding, Saving Silverman), Natascha McElhone (loved her in The Truman Show and Ronin), and Michael Ironside (you may not know the name, but you’ve definitely seen his work; he’s sometimes a good guy, sometimes a bad guy, but always plays a heavy.)

Another reason that watching movies is a guilty pleasure for me is that, inevitably, sometime during or just after watching the flick—or reading a good book for that matter—it occurs to me: “You shouldn’t be enjoying this; you should be writing the next one.”

I guess I know how I’ll spend the rest of this week.

Preparing for the knife...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 21:21:00 +0000

I’m preparing to undergo surgery to repair what my doctors call a “slap tear" on my shoulder in the area of my rotator cuff. I wasn’t in a great hurry to be cut on but my injury has progressed to the point where I don’t sleep well at night and need this problem fixed.

The ordeal has progressed slowly, first appearing as a slight nagging pain last October and slowly but progressively growing in intensity over the last six months until I found myself at my personal physician’s office earlier this month seeking relief. After an initial examination, she sent me for an MRI; after a review of those results, she recommended I visit an orthopedic surgeon. Three days later the specialist she sent me to recommended I have a more exacting MRI called a arthrogram which is an imaging procedure that highlights the joint spaces by use of an injection of a liquid contrast material into the joint space that lets the joints become more easily visible during the MRI.

On my return visit to the surgeon, I was expecting to be told when I was slated to be scoped but instead, after viewing my latest pictures, my expert sent me to another expert, a sports medicine surgeon who works on professional athletes…just like me! Unsure what to expect, I arrived at the offices of Doctor Don Buford Jr. who took x-rays, reviewed the results with me, and scheduled me for surgery this week.

This will mark the third time in about eight years that I’ve been cut on (once on my back for a crushed disk and once for a torn rotator cuff in my right shoulder.) I don’t worry about surgery; it is my nature to trust those who are charged with my care, which is odd because I tend not to trust too many people in general. But my doctors have always done well by me and I have every expectation that they will do so again.

I also understand that this is relatively minor surgery. I have friends and relatives who have undergone much more serious ordeals than mine and some survived and some did not, so I try not to make a big deal about a little thing like shoulder surgery.

I expect to be home for about two weeks before I can return to my normal routine. I’ll continue blogging during that time, albeit one handed.

Thanks docs. All of you.

The same river twice...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 13:59:00 +0000

The first thing that comes to mind when I return to my hometown of Corpus Christ, Texas is how much the place has changed. But as I spend more time in the “Sparkling City by the Sea”, aka “The Texas Riviera”, I realize that the change isn’t so much in the Coastal Bay city as it is in me. Thomas Wolfe had is right in many respects: You can’t go home again.

Not that I have been literally or figuratively banished from the home of my childhood; Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher, predated Wolfe by a millennia or two when he mused that one cannot step in the same river twice, but the sentiment is the same: everything changes.

When I drive around Corpus, I see remnants of the city in which I grew up. Many old establishments that were landmarks when I was younger are still there and still look the same. The Harbor Bridge, a huge metal structure that crosses a span of the Port of Corpus Christi still looks as regal as ever, and the view of my hometown at night when crossing that edifice remains magnificent. Local radio still remains as lousy as ever with a few pop, rock and oldies stations; more than a handful of country stations; a public radio station that lacks the majority of available NPR programming; no real news radio to speak of; and a conspicuous lack of African American programming. There is, however, a wide assortment of Spanish-language programming—as has always been the case.

There are changes too. New shopping outlets adorn SPID (South Padre Island Drive) along with a wide variety of restaurant chains. Shoreline Drive is undergoing a major facelift in what appears to be an attempt at yet again redefining the downtown area as a major tourist destination. Ocean Drive, which is really the eastern portion of Shoreline Drive, is still replete with which I used to believe were the homes of the super rich, but now with perspective, find them to be moderately opulent homes of the upper middle class and conservatively wealthy.

The biggest change I find upon returning home however is how much I’ve changed, especially when I walk through the home in which I grew up. It’s the same, but it’s different. My father has passed on and his absence is conspicuous. My mother is growing older and needing more personal attention, and that is quite different as she has always been the one looking after the rest of us. My room, and my brother’s room, are in the same locations, but now, to me, they seem oddly like guestrooms that I faintly remember visiting years ago. Very familiar, but also very different.

And me? I am no longer the boy or the teen or the young soldier that I was when I left many years ago. I’m not even the college student or newlywed or divorcee who returned for frequent visits many years after that. Instead, I’m simply a traveler attempting to step into the same river that I once swam in many distant years ago.

Sometimes I wish I could go home again.

Los libros...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 17:36:00 +0000

The problem with consumption is that it can be all consuming.

I'm talking about by collection of books. I've never actually counted them, but a quick, non-scientific survey leads me to believe that there are at least 1,000 tomes in my library (also known as my spare bedroom that also holds a computer desk, television, five book shelves, and more boxes of books and "things" than I dare to mention.)

I need more book shelves, and I need them NOW!

My collection is rather eclectic. I've got near complete collections of Mosley, Grisham, Crichton, Patterson, and Hayter (that's Sparkle Hayter, for the uninitiated.) My collection of fiction is comprehensive, from gothic romances (you know, the paper backs that usually have one white female in the foreground either running away from a large, dark Victorian house/mansion/castle/lighthouse/ tower with a single light illuminating a room on the top floor; or in the arms of a buff, often swarthy, Lorenzo Lamas type, looking as though at any minute both will need a private room...or a cigarette;) to multiple genres of mysteries, adventures, and horror. Why, my science fiction section alone is worthy of its own booth at a Star Trek convention!

And don't get me started about my cookbooks. If there is a dish that can be made with ingredients found in the upper 48, I would bet my wire whisks that I can make a dish with them.

And in spite of the fact that I've read 95% of the material on my shelves, I am constantly stumbling upon a gem or two that I've for some reason or other overlooked, put down for a spell, or simply forgotten about as I added NEW books to my collections. For instance, the other day I stumbled upon Bill Clinton's 2004 autobiography My Life that I was so excited to read when first published...I don't remember why I never started it, but probably it was because the day after I purchased it something else anew caught my literary attention and I simply never got back to the former President's personal story.

Three books that I've recently rediscovered that I am bound and determined to read over the next two months include Richard Esposito and Ted Gerstein's Bomb Squad: A Year Inside the Nation's Most Exclusive Police Unit; The Fine Art of the Big Talk by Debra Fine; and Zombie Survival Guide by former Saturday Night Live writer Max Brooks (son of famed comedy artisan Mel Brooks and Emmy Award winning actress Anne Bancroft.)

As I said before, my taste is eclectic. I've also got about a dozen books on Freemasonry; another dozen on hypnosis; all of Valery Wilson Wesley's Tamara Hayle mysteries; more than a few post apocalyptic tales; and enough Octavia Butler works for me to comfortably call her one of the finest writers (women, science fiction, African American--you name it) I've ever read.

I need more book shelves.

Existentialistically speaking...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 20:09:00 +0000

The economy is in the tank.

Overt racism is still prevalent throughout the land.

Tyler Perry continues to make Madea movies.

And I continue to ask myself: am I happy?

It is my own pervasive question that I still have yet to definitively answer. It comes to me more and more frequently as of late, though it would appear to me that the immediate answer is “Yes, relatively so I suppose.” But the real answer that I give myself is the same answer that I would give most anyone else who told me they were happy…or unhappy…or discombobulated…or constipated…or any other of the myriad emotional states that one might feel: “Who gives two sh—s?”

Okay, maybe not “constipated”, but you get my drift.

Yes, I know—I’m pretty cold hearted when it comes to whining, but nearly anyone who’d dare complain to me of their own happiness would be among those I’d consider whiners.

One exception to my somewhat callus answer would be my teenage son for whom, to me, the sun rises and sets. For him, if he said he was not happy, I would take extraordinary steps to ascertain the reason for his malaise and give both my left and right…thumbs…to remedy his emotional discomfort. But he is my son and as a father, that’s what we do. Besides that, he sort of looks like me.

As for me, I have it better than many: decent, respectable employment with an organization that has yet to bounce a paycheck; a good woman who seems to know everything (as disconcerting as that might be;) respect and affection from friends and family; and a dog who has truly mastered his role as man’s best friend.

But deeper and more probing questions would be: “What do you mean by happy?” and “What would make you happy?” and “Who do you think you are to presuppose that you have any more right to happiness than the rest of us?”

It is questions like those that make me wish for a keyboard emoticon for shoulder shrugs.

Albert Camus (7 November 1913 – 4 January 1960), an Algerian-born French author, philosopher, and journalist who won the Nobel Prize in 1957, wrote: “You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life.”

Leave it to an African-born Frenchman with a nickname like Beauchard to put things in perspective.

…but still I ask…

Three days to smell the roses...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 16:16:00 +0000

I've now got three days off. Three WHOLE DAYS OFF! How awesome is that? Three days to do whatever I want to do. Three days all to myself. Wow!

What could possibly go wrong?

Bad juju to say that, huh? I mean, you've seen the movies. What always happens right after someone says "What could possibly go wrong?" And in horror movies especially, what usually happens to the black guy?

Riiiight!

So anyway, here's the plan: spend time with my son; do a movie; grill some burgers, hotdogs, fish and veggies; chill out. I don't give a flying fig about juju; this weekend is gonna be aces. That's the attitude that I've decided to take.

And I believe that's the attitude that you have to take, not only about weekends but about life in general. Bad stuff is going to happen, there is no doubt. Rain's going to fall on some weekends that you plan a picnic; flu is going to strike the day before the ballgame; and a close friend may suddenly be gone before you know it. That's life. Things happen that are unplanned and often unforeseeable.

But still and yet, life goes on, we keep marching forward and we keep planning for the good stuff. I know folks who've dedicated their life to living in the past, living in the what-if, living in the "better not", and sometimes that's exactly the thing to do. There's nothing wrong with a "little" caution (there are some who know me well who will tell you that my adopted name is Caution.) But life's too short not to enjoy yourself a little, to kick back and enjoy the occasional three-day weekends and precious time with loved ones.

So the next three days are just about me...and my son...and Miss Knowitall...and Barney...and yes, some smoky burgers and a nonsensical movie or two.

What the heck--I might even stop to smell a rose or two.

Nerdgasm...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 15:28:00 +0000

The clouds broke. The forest grew still. The angles sang, and at 4:30 pm yesterday afternoon I purchased my iPhone 3G. As I described later that evening to a friend on Facebook, I believe, right at that very moment, I had my first nerdgasm. In fact, I’m still quivering a bit. Don’t touch me. I’ll be okay. Just give me a moment.

Eight months ago I announced publicly in this very venue that I am a geek, and with that bold step out of the techno closet, I said to the world “I’m here, with tech gear. Get use to it.” Nonetheless, due to the fact that Apple is extremely proud of their little invention and have thusly priced it, it took me more than a minute to amass the small fortune to purchase it.

To be fair to myself, I’ve needed a new phone for some time now. My old Treo 650 was on its last legs, with large gaps where the hardened plastic use to be sealed, a third battery now in use, calls being dropped like they were passes from Tony Romo, and pieces regularly falling off like losing American Idol contestants.

Truth be told, I could have purchased a more mundane cell phone a while ago, but the heart wants what the heart wants…and damn it, my heart wanted the iPhone.

I’d been planning this purchase for a while and had already downloaded the requisite iTunes application along with more than about 30 other applications that I absolutely had to have to make my eventual device ownership experience all that it could be. You know, productivity applications like Scrabble and Magic 8 Ball and Hypnolight and LieDetector and Black Jack and Labyrinth and three different camera programs and two different clock programs and a cannon shooting game—applications that would most certainly help me be more productive in my work and in my life in general. Oh yeah, there was also Google and Facebook and Earthcomber and a WiFi finder program too—you know, stuff for the grownups.

So now here I sit in my new favorite Friday coffee location completely geeked out: typing a blog on a laptop while periodically checking my iPhone for websites, emails, texts, and, yes, phone calls too. Yes, in fact, my iPhone does make phone calls as well.

Got any buyer’s remorse, you might ask?

…are you kidding me?! Uh oh…I feel another nerdgasm coming on. Wait for it…wait for it…

A cold beer, a warm dog, and a smokin' Cuban...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 15:00:00 +0000

There’s not a shrink’s couch in the world that can compete with a cold beer, a warm dog and a smokin’ Cuban cigar. At least, I heard Cuban cigars are smokin’…after all, I’d have no idea about Cuban cigars, you know, with the continuing embargo and such.

But cold beer—now, there’s a horse of a different color. I could write a treatise on the therapeutic use of hops and barley but it would probably end up sounding something like a Homer Simpson sigh: “Mmm…beer,” or perhaps, “Homer no function beer well without.”

Then there’s my dog Barney…you remember him—my 165 pound mastiff who thinks he’s a person. It turns out that he’s a better listener than the NSA, and he’s a lot less expensive than some touchy-feely psychoanalyst who would try to link everything back to a latent hatred of my mother or bowel movements or...oh no, here it comes again…cigars. (You know, sometimes a cigar IS just a cigar!) Barney just sits and listens…and slobbers a little; mastiffs are like that. Then I scratch him behind the ear, tell him he’s a good dog, and go have another beer.

I once tried that with a therapist, but she said she preferred her co-payments in cash.

Yesterday was…difficult…and by the time I arrived home from the job, my steering wheel looked like a deformed möbius strip. I hurried inside my abode, grabbed a bottle of that wonderful brewed elixir, lay on my couch, and began my therapy session with a fur-faced, brindle-striped counselor. Twenty minutes later and the day’s…difficulties…seemed years away.

Aetna, Blue Cross, and United Health could each take a lesson from Barney.

So could we all.

Connectivity overload...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 17:00:00 +0000

Social networking is killing me…really. I don’t know how to keep up with keeping up! Right now I’m a member of LinkedIn, Twitter, Facebook, MySpace, Classmates and Youtube… and those are just the few I can remember. Every week I stumble across some hitherto forgotten network that I was once a member of that still has my info in its memory banks after nearly ten years of inactivity, and I am flummoxed as to what it is and what it all means. I’ve never been this in-touch in my life, and yet having to maintain multiple conversations and update regularly and renew long lost relationships is making me schizoid…and not in the good way either!

Just last month I ran a Google search on my name—don’t laugh, you do it too, don’t you?—and found that I had a Xanga account. Anybody remember Xanga? Yeah? Well, then you’re much better than I am, because it took me more than a minute to realize that this was a site that I had started working on back pre-911…PRE 911! In case you don’t remember, that’s also pre Bush, pre Iraq, pre Afghanistan, and pre J-lo and P-Diddy.

Xanga’s been around since about 1999 but for some inexplicable reason I never got around to building my site and basically just dropped the site like an ugly blind date. Years later, the egocentric blogger that I am is searching the net to see how often my name and site pops up (not nearly as often as I’d hoped, I’m sad to report) and suddenly I’m presented with what amounts to a blank slate, an empty journal book waiting for something important to be written upon its pages.

But I got nuttin’. I got nothing because it’s all spent here on GOODE Thoughts and it’s spent on Facebook and it’s spent on Twitter and it’s spent on all kinds of other neighborhoods around the net as I answer new friends requests and answer “What are you doing right now?” requests and update what I’ve been up to since high school and college and since my last job and my last blog and since my last cup of coffee and…whew—I just can’t keep up. I’ve got connectivity overload!

I could go on and on about this, but nowadays, time is a factor…and besides…I’ve got to hurry and update my old/new Xanga Site with a video blog, or at least something.

To Preserve, Protect, and Defend...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 19:15:00 +0000

Barack Obama is President of the United States. It’s done.

Now what?

As I’ve written before, those of us who are among the extremely patriotic who support the American president no matter what now may suffer from another malady: too high expectations. It’s been more than a few days since the inauguration and both wars are still not over, the economy is still a mess, the reputation of the United States is still tarnished around the world, and even though the president is a black man, I still don’t think that all white people love me. What gives?

Actually, there’s an even greater question: So what of it?

For the last eight years this country has had an absolute buffoon as its Commander-In-Chief. I’m not saying that he had to be perfect or right all the time or even right some of the time (though that might have been pleasant); I’m only saying that it would have been nice if during the last eight years more of us had gotten at least the glimpse of an impression that W gave a hoot. That smug grin and cavalier attitude about everything from his “bring ‘em on” dare to the terrorists of the world, to the “Nice job, Brownie” declaration during the Hurricane Katrina debacle, from the “Mission Accomplished” staged landing on an aircraft carrier to the now infamous press conference during which the former president failed to remember even a single thing that he could have done differently during his entire presidency—many of us in the proletariat felt like we were mere hapless drones, unable to do anything but play witness to a honeycomb of lies, mismanagement, and cronyism.

So if this current president does nothing during the next eight—oops, I meant four years—but cater to that portion of the American public (and the world for that matter) who didn’t enjoy the blessings of liberty and prosperity during the previous administration and say things that make us at least feel like someone in power gives two cents about us, well then I can safely say that he’s done a whole lot more than the last guy did. And if he actually uses the power of the presidency to protect us and defend us and make us strong again, economically, militarily, diplomatically, and morally—and President Obama, I’m going to expect that you will—well then, all the mo' better.

Good luck and God speed.

Head shop...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 20:59:00 +0000

Recently, on the north side of Dallas, Texas, a head shop was the location of an armed attack during which three unidentified gunmen opened fire on the 10 occupants of the facility. Four people were shot, one fatally. According to the Dallas Morning News, The gunmen ran empty-handed from the store in the 18600 block of Marsh Lane – which sells rolling papers, pipes and novelty items – without trying to rob it.

The headline describes this place as a “Smoke shop” but those of us old enough to remember the seventies or eighties or Cheech and Chong remember these establishments as “head shops”, places where pot heads and dopers purchased supplies. But reading the article, one would believe that a mom and pop grocery store had been targeted, and that the poor shooting victims were merely plying their trade of selling milk and cookies, not “rolling papers, pipes and novelty items.” The write-up even detailed one of the more seriously injured victims, 60 year old James Caldwell, with absolutely no irony. Caldwell, it seems, was recently released from federal prison after serving 18 years of a 30 year sentence on drug charges involving a two-ton marijuana drug bust. He’d only been working at the shop for about a week.

Dallas News may not see the irony, but I sure as hell do.

On Wednesday January 14, 2009, Dallas Police identified 20 year old Arsenio Desmond Petty as the prime suspect in what was later determined to be a "botched robbery."

Even more recently, I heard another "smoke shop" in Keller, Texas was the victim of robbery. The purveyor of this news was the local Fox affiliate. The story featured video of the hapless criminals doing their dirty deeds, and a pretty blond with braided hair mournfully telling how this was a "family business" and how violated she felt.

The video featured a shot of the sign outside: "Easy's Tobacco: The best Glass in Town" and then showed some of the store's wares including numerous glass pipes used to smoke...well...you know.

I'm not saying that I condone crime, but if you sell products that the majority of your customers use in an illegal activity, you're bound to get some criminals interested in more than acquiring a glass pipe or rolling papers.

Smoke on that.

I'm really, really trying...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 09 Jan 2009 20:51:00 +0000

Christmas 2008 is has come and gone, the Times Square New Year’s Eve ball has dropped, and the holidays are officially over.

Whew! I don’t think I could take another minute of being jolly around my fellow man.

Where to start, where to start…

As I write this, I’m in a Starbucks in a major metropolitan suburb, eying my fellow patrons and wondering which one is the dumbass driving the black Mercedes E320 who feels that it is socially appropriate to utilize two parking places for one vehicle in a crowded parking lot. Not that I minded the four block hike over the hills and through the woods to get my morning dose of java juice. Nor does it bother my delicate sensibilities that the dark specter of ill wishes toward that unknown driver has begun osmosis through my own semi permeable membrane of tolerance.

Now by no means am I suggesting that I approve of keying other people’s cars…or the wholesale use of small, contained explosives set to timers or vehicular ignition devices…or the contrived, yet convenient, plot device of having the car’s brakes stop working just as the driver hits a steep down-hill grade…no, I would not suggest nor condone any of the previous demises—no matter how well deserved or deliciously humorous they be—but I am beginning to understand the state of mind of the common urban terrorist.

As I wrote in my previous posting, I am working hard to be more…tolerant…of…people. All people. It’s one of those resolution things I’ve tried to eschew. But even in this very new new year, I’m finding it very difficult.

…but I am trying.

Resolution...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 14:53:00 +0000

It’s once more that time of year when we all begin thinking about making resolutions, but this year I’m thinking that, historically, making resolutions has been one of the most useless activities in which I’ve ever engaged …and yet…here I go again resolving to resolve once more.

First, let me explain why I say the act of making New Year’s Resolutions is, to me, useless. You see, I am a man of resolve, stubborn, really, the kind of guy who knows how to make a decision and how to stick with a decision once I’ve arrived at the inevitable conclusion that I’ve made the correct decision (which, obviously, is more often than not.) I’m not saying that I’m inflexible, though some people might have reached that erroneous conclusion; I’m simply saying that I usually know my mind and I usually stick with my choices, selections, conclusions and decisions.

Unless…

Unless, that is, I preface said choices, selections, conclusions and decisions with the arbitrary title of “New Year’s Resolution.” When that moniker is selected (irony realized), any chance I have of seeing my decision to completion is exponentially reduced by a factor of 10. Something happens when I announce to the world that I have RESOLVED to lose weight, exercise more, write more letters, advance my career, fix up my home, perform better vehicle maintenance, write in my journal on a daily basis, contact old friends and lost relatives, attend church more often, be kind to republicans, refuse to point out the faults of stupid people, love my loud ass neighbor two doors down who plays Tejano music through a loud speaker on Saturday mornings…whew…where was I? Something happens when I announce that I’ve made a New Year’s Resolution that dang-near always causes those attempts to fail.

This is why I say that, for me, making New Year’s Resolutions is one of the most useless activities in which I’ve ever engaged. It’s right up there with attempting to explain to Miss Knowitall the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars, or attempting to explain to a service desk in Mumbai why I missed my monthly payment for blue-collared, fur-lined, digitally enhanced widgets.

That being said, I’m still something of a traditionalist, and because of that, here are my New Year’s Resolutions for 2009: I hereby resolve to be a better listener, to be more patient with my fellow man, to give more to charity than I did in the previous year, to call my mother more frequently, to more often tell my son that I love him, and to maintain a once-per-week posting average for this blog.

I resolve that 2009 will be different from 2008. Different and better.

It had better be.

Be it resolved.

One hundred words at Christmas...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 20:00:00 +0000

Merry Christmas to all the GOODETHOUGHTS readers and subscribers.

May you and the ones you care about enjoy the blessings of warmth, safety, fullness, companionship and hope on this day and every other day from now on.

May you never know despair and loss, and may you never want for peace of mind.

May you find kindness, and may you share it as you found it.

May your desires never outreach your compassion.

May you know joy, and may you find it often.

May you find rest, and may it replenish you.

May God bless you as he has me.

My favorite things...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 21:02:00 +0000

A few of My Favorite Things:

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes;Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes;

Silver-white winters that melt into springs;These are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bits, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad—I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.

--Oscar Hammerstein II and Richard Rodgers

Also (in the tune of My Favorite Things)…

New admin coming and old losers leaving, Hopeful for changes and not for deceiving;

2009 and I’ve started believing; These are a few of my favorite things.

When the war strikes, when the markets fall, when I’m feeling sad—I simply remember just how I have voted and then I don’t feel so bad.

Some of the other favorite things I’m reminded of this time year include television holiday specials like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and like those specials for Rudolph and Frosty and Ebenezer and Ralphie (from A Christmas Story) and Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life and watching the Times Square Ball drop on New Year’s Eve and so many more. I also like the ubiquitous ringing of the Salvation Army bells in front of so many stores and the kitschy holiday sweaters, scarves, hats and other pieces of apparel that many people trudge out each holiday season.

And let’s not forget the office parties too. This year I was a little disappointed that Miss Knowitall’s office party that I’ve had the privilege to attend for the last few years won’t be held at all this year, another casualty of our poor economy and proof that it’s effecting the nation’s largest company’s just as it is those of us who count ourselves down here among the consumer masses. Still, I’ll probably attend at least one Christmas office party this year with the hopeful heart that perhaps I’ll witness (and even get to photograph) an act of such depravity by one of the bosses that a promotion or raise will most certainly be in the offing come Monday morning.

Ah, yes…one more of my favorite things: blackmail.

Still, one more item in my basket of favorite things is those horrible, horrible commercials that go far out of their way to link a need for a product with the holiday season. The first one that comes to mind is the Norelco electric razor commercial from many years back which featured Santa Claus riding a Saint Nick-sized shaver through snow-laden drifts. I do admit, however, one current set of Christmas commercials does amuse me some: it’s the Captain Morgan Holiday Miracle ad campaign which features scenarios called "Holiday Miracles," but are really just things that would entertain and amaze you while you're drunk, like reappearing limes and magic redirecting spills.

Captain Morgan always makes me laugh…but maybe that’s just the liquor talking.

Holiday Bittersweets...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 13:00:00 +0000

As 2008 draws to a close, I become more and more melancholy. It’s been a tough year personally, and I find myself thinking more and more about the afterlife. While these thoughts are not the traditional yuletide fare for most, they are becoming a Christmas tradition for me.

Two years ago this month, just after Christmas, I lost my father. I was blessed to have a father who lived 85 years. I was twice blessed to have my father for 42 years. And if you know anything about me or how I was raised or the home in which I was raised or the parents who raised my brother and me, you would deeply understand how truly blessed I am. I am blessed and I am thankful.

Until that time, I’d never had anyone close to me die. I’d had aunts and uncles, cousins and acquaintances to pass on, but no one to whom I was really, really close. As you might expect, I took my father’s death very, very hard.

But my father’s death was not the singular closing of a door that I expected it to be, but instead it was the opening of something much more significant—the first real glimpse into my own mortality and into my newfound hope—faith?—that heaven and the afterlife are much more than the mundane Judeo-Christian concept I’d heard about and studied in Sunday school throughout my childhood and teens; but instead it was a real place…somewhere…where I would one day get to see and talk with my father once again.

This year I lost two friends, the first two friends whom I’ve ever lost…but certainly not the last, I suppose. I don’t have many people whom I count among my friends—I tend to keep my own counsel, much like my father—so the loss of these two cut me to the quick. As a result, recently I’ve been thinking more and more about the afterlife and seeing old friends…and seeing my father.

So, in this time of holiday cheer and festive reunions and commercial reverie, I offer this small peace of advice: if you happen upon a person who isn’t decked out in the latest Santawear or who isn’t singing traditional Christmas carols or who seems just a little bit lost in faraway thought, just smile at them and nod to them and then leave them be; it could be that, like Ebenezer Scrooge, that person is simply communing with the Ghosts of Christmas Past.

Have a blessed Holiday Season

Analog this...

noreply@blogger.com (RODMAN GOODE) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 21:09:00 +0000

I’m sick of hearing about the upcoming switch to digital TV. In fact, right now I’m in the process of writing my congressman a letter demanding that anyone who hasn’t gotten the message yet be banned from watching Matlock, Judge Judy and anything featuring John Larroquette, Angela Lansbury or Dick Van Dyke.

Okay, I admit that was kind of surly, but still, how many times and how many ways must you say it:

February 17, 2009, is D-day for broadcasters to turn off their analog broadcasts and switch to digital. For most TV viewers, the switch will come and go without much notice. But for a small minority of the population, who still get their TV over the air using rabbit-ear antennas, some adjustments will have to be made. If you bought your TV recently, it may already include a digital tuner. As of March 2007, nearly all new televisions should include a built-in digital tuner. If it's older, you're in the minority that has to do something before the deadline if you want to keep watching over-the-air TV. The simplest--and most expensive--option is to buy a new television equipped with a digital tuner. The most economical route may be to buy an external digital-to-analog converter box, which is a digital tuner with an analog output that will let older TVs receive digital transmissions after the switch. Since January 1, the federal government has been offering households two $40 vouchers to defray the cost of designated devices, which cost $50 to $70. Some cable subscribers may need new DTV equipment to view DTV programming in digital format but those subscribers should ask their cable provider what they’ll need and when.

Now unless you’ve been hanging in a cave with Osama bin Laden for the last year, you’ve had to have heard about this…right? RIGHT? Okay, then. I move that there be no more commercials (PSA’s, to be technical) reminding people of the switch. If your television goes dark on February 17^th, you deserve to have to go out and read a book or something, because you’re obviously too dumb to be allowed to possess such a technologically advanced piece of equipment such as a television.

Perhaps, as an accommodation for the digitally unaware, we might create a new class of citizenry, one in which those who can, say, run a television remote control but not a microwave and (certainly not an IPOD) would be relocated to a retraining facility where they are indoctrinated in the digital arts. They would take classes in the difference between an LP and a CD, a VCR and a DVR, an eight track and an MP4, and a telephone and a PDA. It could be called Luddite University and be located somewhere in Florida…or Branson, Missouri, perhaps.

I know, I know: some of the preceding might be considered offensive to some.

On second thought, maybe not: this is, after all, a blog and not the corner newsstand. How would they ever know?

Oh, I forgot: gossip fence, barn raisings, and sewing bees, also known as the Amish Internet.

Dang it.