When your lover gives you a gun

I know Dale. He's an amiable middle-aged recovering alcoholic who has more than 10 years of sobriety. He's lost something between the time he left the Navy and now. Maybe the booze took it. He shakes his head over the chessboard singing, “A game of chess is hard to win/ you'll probably just lose / might as well resign right now/ let me show you how.” He's playing a casual game, so his singing is tolerated. He makes comments after every move. “Looks like we're gonna have some exciting chess,” or “a pawn is a pawn is a pawn.” If his opponent slips up and utters anything, he throws it back, “An 'uh-oh' has been declared,” “An 'oh-shit' has been declared.”
Dale is warm, giving, trusting, and wouldn't hurt anyone. When I saw him last he invited me to go with him to dinner at the poor house. He tells me he's going to meditation after his game is over. He says it's great.
I'm not here to talk to Dale though. My mark is Erik, a young man who doesn't fit the chess stereotype. He's slender and medium-height, with a black 'Tool' ball cap, a goatee and visible tattoos – 'strength' written in blackletter gangster lettering down one arm and what looks like a dense ball of black fire on the other. A former long-haul truck driver, he is as down to earth as Dale is disconnected.
The trucking job brought this Easterner to Montana. Hauling a load of energy drinks from Wisconsin, he stopped at a truck stop here for a pack of cigarettes. The woman behind the counter asked if he'd like to meet her at a bar later. “We hit it off,” Erik says.
After several months of telephone calls, Erik moved to Missoula to be with her. It was his opportunity to quit trucking. “It's a lonely life. I got real fat, got depressed,“ Erik says. He thinks the loneliness accelerated the relationship.
Within two months, Erik realized his lover was cheating. “She started not coming home,” he says. Then Erik found out that she'd been married all the time they'd been together.
“She gave me a gun though. I kept the gun.” Erik says. “She told me she wanted me to kill her husband. I laughed, but she didn't. I wouldn't have done it.”
Erik is 27, and he's sure he won't marry, “Not my style,” he says.
What I respect about Erik is the way he doesn't let his ego get caught up in chess. When he wins he doesn't pump a fist, and when he loses he sincerely congratulates his opponent. “When you're a beginner, everyone is looking to beat up on you,” he says, explaining his empathy for the uninitiated. Erik relates how when he started playing chess four years ago, he was entirely wrapped up in it. “Chess is the most dangerous game in the world,” he says.
He credits his rapid improvement in the past year to playing chess three times a week with Greg Nowak, a master strength player known to just about everybody in Missoula as 'The Octopus' for playing hordes of people simultaneously.
“Greg is my idol,” Erik says, “He doesn't have a phone. He doesn't have a TV.” Erik says that Greg is the highest rated player in Montana, so not to play and study with him would be a waste of an opportunity. Erik is willing to pay the two dollars per hour that Greg charges. “He's just trying to cover [the cost of] his coffee.”
Erik considers Greg a mentor, which is why Erik gets upset when Greg tries to take more than his advertised price. "You gotta watch your dollars when you play him. He's tried to take dollars from me a couple times, he's tricky." Despite the occasional breach of the relationship, Erik can forgive. “I'd be pretty sad if he died,” Erik says.
Tonight, Erik is playing a guy whose personality could not be more different than his own. Tim is a young mortgage broker who smirks when he wins, makes excuses when he loses and gives an intentionally crushing handshake before every game. Erik has never lost to Tim, but tonight he does.
“Bullshit,” Tim says as Erik turns over his king, apparently accusing him of throwing the game. He didn't, but his calm over the unprecedented loss only stokes Tim's paranoia. Tim leaves in a huff without saying goodbye.
Greg wanders by and is incredulous when he hears the news of Erik's loss.
“Did you blunder?”
“Yep. Twice.”
Greg seems the more upset of the two.

What I'm working on, and what is Mariah Carey on?

For the past couple of days I've been working on a story about unscrupulous Microsoft software resellers who are selling the vastly cheaper academic versions of products to people who don't qualify for the education license. This might be a case where crime does pay, for the seller and the buyer, and if it is, then its a good story.

But for now...

My mom left her Ipod hooked to the stereo in the living room, and I decided to see what was on it. So I chose to shuffle the songs and find out what she was into. John Mayer, Five for Fighting, Janis Ian and Beyonce - in other words, nothing too racy or controversial, and with the exception of Ian, artists I don't dislike.

Then the shuffle hit a song called "It's Like That," by Mariah Carey, an artist I do dislike. I let the song play, knowing that the shuffle feature meant I'd hear a different artist next song. Plus, I was too far away to hit the skip button.

Midway through the song, I thought I'd just heard Mariah Carey rap about chicken and lotion. I assumed I'd heard wrong, and this was just a case of "S'cuse me while I kiss this guy."

But I later googled the lyrics, and my ears were vindicated. Here are the lyrics for that verse.

"You like this and you know it - Caution it's so explosive
Them chickens is ash and I'm lotion
Baby come and get it, let me give you what you need..."

Wow. Mariah is so hot she's explosive. That's not good. And she's also lotion. I gotta say, there had to be other, more suitable words that rhymed with caution.

That album sold like gangbusters.

Next song please...

"Who on the bus got my money!"

Here's an editorial I wrote while I was still at the University of Montana. I'm still not sure what to think about this strange incident.
“Who on the bus got my money!” Aboard the campus shuttle bus, my face in a book, I look up and see a 6-foot-5-ish black man holding an aluminum baseball bat. I look around at the other passengers - some have a look that lets me know their fight-or-flight response has been activated.
“Speak up! Who on the bus got my money?” the man repeats, talking loud, but not yelling. It's only now that I realize he's smiling, and that he's not wielding the bat, just leaning on it. Nobody responds, and he takes a seat across from me.
The passengers who seemed frantic begin to relax. The man starts chatting with two women next to me as if nothing had happened, mentioning that he's headed to play softball.
I think this guy is a genius. This was a performance by someone very aware of the image he is projecting – the African-American student athlete. And he was aware of his audience – predominantly white University of Montana students.
He made a point by playing a joke on the bus that day. Playing the thuggish black man and playing off the fear that image generates got everyone with a brain thinking about race.
On one level, I have to respect someone with the bravery to get on a bus and create this intense situation. In a homogeneous place like Montana, why not force people to confront race directly? Why not create a situation where people come face to face with their attitudes and stereotypes?
Maybe that was his motivation. But whatever it was, I have to believe it was counterproductive. It doesn't do anyone any good to get people to confront stereotypes if those stereotypes are reinforced at the same time.
But what to do on a campus where events promoting diversity are poorly attended? What to do on a campus where panel discussions in the University Center are largely ignored? These events have their place, but lack power and immediacy because they happen in a context removed from daily life.
As a campus community we need to figure out ways to address racial issues in a more immediate and meaningful way, otherwise we leave it up to individuals to address them.
And it won't go well if those individuals have baseball bats.

How to make your kid want to play chess

Like all good uncles, I wish great things for my niece, who just turned three in January.
And like all chess players who learned the game after high school, I wish I could have learned the game when I was three.
I don’t think that’s possible, but in Peyton’s case, I’m willing to set up the pieces whenever she’s ready.
Already I’ve won some small victories in pursuing my devious and admittedly vicarious scheme. She knows the names of the pieces and can distinguish them all, and what’s more, she loves to play - asking almost every time she comes over if we can play “the chess.”
She first knew chess as the thing that her uncle does on the Internet after dinner.
I played it coy, though, keeping the mystery of the horsies and castles to myself, until one day she asked if she could play.
This was my cue to give her a chess set I’d bought for $3 at Target for just this occasion. We sat down to open it, and when I unfolded the cheap paper board, she picked out a knight and danced it around the squares, saying, “Neigh, neigh,” as the horse galloped willy-nilly.
I felt proud and hopeful, glad that phase one of my plan had worked itself so efficiently.
We were so close, I thought. We had everything we needed - the board, the pieces, she was sitting on her side, I was sitting on my side.
And then she threw the knight behind the couch.
We remain in phase two to this day. Her favorite activity involves piling my weighted pieces in the middle of their vinyl board and, with one swipe of her hand, sending the pieces in all directions. She calls it “crashing” the pieces.
But we make a little progress each time, because when we clean them up we look for and put away each piece in turn.
“OK, pass me a rook,” I’ll say, and she always finds the right one.
I’m not sure how long we’ll be playing “crashing” chess, but it has its own simple fun, and, for her, I have infinite patience.

Do fish really have loins?

Being unemployed, I consider it my duty to make dinner for my family, who is temporarily sheltering me. Since I'm horrible at home remodeling or repair, this is my way to be useful.
The other day I decided to make a fish recipe. A brief search of the freezer turned up a package labeled "Tilapia Loins." Although tilapia was perfect for the recipe, I was confused. The cartoony skipper on the package - his autograph read 'Captain High Liner' - assured me that these were the finest fish loins I could get.
Clearly I was missing some basic knowledge that would make it OK for fish to have loins, which until that day I thought were located somewhere close to an animal's inner thighs.
I was used to seeing pork tenderloin and top sirloin at the grocery store, but never saw any fish loins. In fact, I thought pork tenderloin was tender because it was a cut of meat located close to the pig's unmentionables - no doubt its tenderest parts.
An Internet search seemed to confirm my worst fears. From phrases.org.uk - "

Should you be asked to 'gird up your loins', or otherwise wonder where your loins are exactly, you could refer to this rather coy definition from the [Oxford English Dictionary: [Loins]: "The part of the body that should be covered by clothing."

That is what might have been called in the UK throughout most of the 20th century as 'the nether regions', and more recently 'the wobbly bits'."

The wobbly bits? Yuck. Captain High Liner may have been selling the best fish loins, but did I want fish loins of any quality?
Fortunately, another search somewhat clarified matters. From wikianswers.com -

The tenderloin is cut from the Psoas Major muscle that runs along the central spine of the animal be it cow, sheep or pig.

Whew. Though it doesn't mention fish exactly, this definition was decidedly more palatable.
As far as I'm concerned, the question remains. After all, isn't it redundant to give a special name to the meat surrounding a fish's backbone?
Just call it fish.

Obama smokes cigarettes, Phelps smoked pot...

... British tabloids exposed Phelps, but haven't captured Obama's habit.
Phelps has been hit with a three month suspension from US swimming and Kellogg has canceled his sponsorship over the photo. The governing body of US swimming says they're sending a message with the suspension, and Kellogg says his behavior doesn't represent their brand.
Phelps is taking this one on the chin, apologizing and promising to win back the trust of his fans. He and his coach are accepting the suspension and are apparently eager to resume training and competition, although Phelps may not compete in the 2012 Olympics.
Journalists are now debating whether Phelps should face criminal charges.
All this because Phelps is considered a role model. Which he is.
But pressing charges would be going too far. Bringing heroes down won't ensure young swimmers avoid drugs, and would only amplify sympathy for a man who is under constant scrutiny and never would have been caught if he weren't so famous.
If we want to keep creating role models for our kids, we need to acknowledge that no one is perfect, and that making mistakes is a part of life. If we don't, we risk not having heroes at all.
Look at Barack Obama. He is, and should be, a role model for our children. He is proof to so many that you can grow up to be President. Should we throw that away because he smokes cigarettes? We don't want our children to smoke, but we shouldn't bring down a hero.
Just so with Phelps.

Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts

"The measure of a book is how carsick I'm willing to get reading it." - Brett Thomas-DeJongh
I got pretty sick reading Shantaram, a novel about Mumbai (Bombay) and an Australian escaped convict trying to survive there. One reviewer called it a "glorious wallow of a novel," and it certainly is that.
Nearly a thousand pages long, it is a mostly autobiographical account of living off the grid in Mumbai, taking crazy risks, and nearly always paying the price for them. Beyond the adventure story lie the themes of redemption, freedom, loss and most of all, love. The authors love for Mumbai - his love for the the Indian spirit and culture - make Shantaram worth reading.
The story is most absorbing when the main character takes up residence in a Mumbai slum. He finds a role there as a slum doctor, giving free first-aid to the slum dwellers. Roberts' fascination with the slum's cast of characters and his awe at how they live in relative peace in such squalid and crowded surroundings lends this part of the book an authenticity and a unique perspective.
I found myself feeling disappointed when the hero left the life of a slum-dweller to become a jet-setting mafioso. I got over it, however, when the realized the story traded the colorful characters of the slum for the slicker and richer but no less interesting characters of the Mumbai underworld.
Roberts' intense introspection and meditations on grief, loneliness, and redemption could only have come from a man who has lived the life of the protagonist. And here, the broad strokes of Roberts' life create a sweeping yet deep story.

Advocacy or fear-mongering?

Death is scary enough without groups on all sides of the assisted suicide debate stoking fears about end-of=life issues.
I live in Montana, where a recent district court decision has legalized physician-assisted suicide in the state. Pro-life groups and others are drafting legislation as well as a ballot initiative, as is a Missoula Democrat who wants to codify the court decision. Until the Legislature addresses the issue there will be a policy vacuum.
Catholic groups are filling that space with rhetoric, with a Catholic bishop claiming that assisted suicide cheapens and degrades human life. He would say that humans don't have the authority to end life - that authority belongs to God.
Advocacy groups supporting assisted suicide are using rhetoric that suggests that if people don't have the assisted suicide option, they are doomed to die a horrible death.
In my view, both sides are using scare tactics to influence public opinion before the Legislature considers the issue.
The pro-life groups are using fear of damnation, trying to convince potential voters that living life to its natural end is mandatory for anyone who is looking for St. Peter's stamp of approval.
On the other side, the advocates for the judge's decision are playing to a fear that we all share - that our deaths will be painful and horrifying.
In the middle of all this are the real heroes = Hospice providers. They know that in the vast majority of cases, a patient can be made relatively comfortable before death arrives. They are the ones who see the gray area surrounding end-of-life decisions because they're exposed to it all the time.
They are aware of all the options available to the dying. Refusal of treatment and doses of morphine can be used to hasten death. Patient's can refuse oxygen, discontinue dialysis, or simply stop eating. And now, patients can ask their physician for a lethal dose of whatever.
Unlike those bound to a dogma, hospice workers educate without passing a judgement.
I'd like to see the pro-lifers acknowledge the complexity of the issue, and I'd like to see the advocates admit that assisted suicide is used (where it is legal) so very rarely.
If that happened, we'd have a better informed electorate that would be making a rational decision rather than voting from fear - something we should always avoid.