What Have You Done Lately?
In Toastmasters, the public speaking group I belong to, we have a regular feature of our meetings called “Table Topics.” One person thinks of questions in advance to ask to club members. This teaches impromptu speaking, something I am notoriously bad at.
On Thursday night at our meeting, the Table Topics leader asked “What’s the latest thing you have done for the first time?”
I prayed that she would not call on me, because I could think of only one thing, and there was no way I was going to say it. But because I was so freaked out, it was the ONLY thing I could think of.
Thankfully she passed me by.
I pooped in a box. That was my new thing.
It’s not some kinky practice. I just didn’t want to get another colonoscopy, so the alternative was the Cologuard test. The company sends you a kit that consists of a small bucket with a tight-fitting lid, a bracket for your toilet, a swab that goes in a vial, and some preservative.
In the privacy of your own home, you poop in the bucket, swab it, seal it all up, rebox it, and send the whole thing back for testing via UPS. Did I feel strange handing a box of poop to the poor polo-shirt-clad kid at the UPS store? Yes, I did.
But it saved me from the horrors of colonoscopy prep and the sedation and recovery, so it was all worth it.
I remember the days when my friends and I used to dream about winning an Oscar for best screenplay or a Grammy for Album of the Year. No one ever told me that the wildest thing to happen to me in a week would be that I would get to poop in a box and mail it to someone.
The question I got was “How would you like to die?” I said “Surrounded by family and friends at a big happy meal, keeling over face-first into a big plate of artichoke risotto.”
Not quite artichoke risotto, but grilled artichokes would definitely do.
My Greatest Accomplishment
My spiritual center (it’s not a cult, I swear. We just decided to stop calling it “church” because that is a scary word for some people and we don’t really care what you believe, as long as you’re on board with the whole being kind and trying to make the world a better place thing) is in a charming old building. I assume it was once a house, because it looks like one, but now it has some colored glass windows and a platform, but it is still chopped up in tiny house-like rooms for the most part.
So yes, it’s charming, but it is also old, with some of the less charming attributes of old buildings. One of those is cranky plumbing.
Today we had an amazing gathering (we also decided to stop saying “service,” see above) full of laughter and love and sweetness, remembering our music director, Terry O’Hara, who died last week after serving for 25 years.
Then, because it was the first Sunday of the month, it was Potluck Sunday. We all headed into the basement hall to do some carb-loading.
Are you seeing where I’m going with this?
Well, let me spell it out for you. I went into the restroom and the toilet was clogged. I looked at the swirling water. I wanted to walk away. I sighed and thought “What would a spiritual person do?”
A spiritual person has to deal with the crap that is right in front of them, obviously. Even when it isn’t your own crap sometimes.
I went to make a sign that said “Toilet clogged.” I came back to find my friend Tony occupying the bathroom. They had gone in, not knowing the situation. They soon discovered it. They flew out and said “I didn’t do it!”
I said, “I know.” I held up the sign.
“Oh, thank goodness,” they said. “I thought you were going to blame me.”
Nope. But I was going to use an internet trick to fix it! I poured about half a cup of Dawn dishwashing liquid in the toilet, shut the lid, placed my sign, and waited half an hour.
I came back with a pitcher of hot water, poured it in, and flushed.
I waited. Nothing. Swirling. Water level rising. Oh god. Was it going to overflow? The water crept closer to the rim.
Suddenly, it flushed away, every horrible bit of it.
I ran through the basement, victorious, arms raised, humming “Gonna Fly Now” while Tony laughed at me.
Sometimes being spiritual is praying or meditating. Other times it is being the hero of the toilet. You really never know what life will bring.
My Realm is Room 201
Car
I’m playing a game of my own invention. I am the only player. The goal is to correctly guess whether the next vehicle to appear on the interstate outside my window will be a car or a semi truck. I have to correctly guess ten. My record is 1 minute and 38 seconds, but sometimes my scorekeeping is a little shaky because I lose track in all the excitement.
It is day seven here in room 201, by myself, facing an Illinois interstate, racking up the Hilton Honors points and blowing my nose.
I was on a trip and I got Covid. I had been scheduled to spend 3 days with my brother-in-law, but my sister called from South Carolina (the previous leg of my journey) to tell me she was sick. I Covid-tested myself and the faintest double line appeared, so I slapped on an N95 mask and checked into a hotel to avoid infecting him in his small house with one bathroom.
I’m lucky, I know. I have the resources and time to sit on my butt in a Hilton for a week, and DoorDash is a thing. And my case wasn’t severe, just a few days of fever and coughing, and a very fuzzy, slow-moving brain.
It is weird to think of being isolated as a skill, but I feel like I have become rather adept at it over the past few years, building my ability to pass my days static and solo like a muscle. First the realities of being camped in RV sites far from town with no car, then the long grey slog of Covid-related lockdowns and accommodations. This barely feels like any trouble at all, though I can imagine a time in my life where it would have seemed like a huge, dramatic indignity worth railing at.
There is an endless Below Deck marathon on Bravo right now, so I can watch rich people and lithe post-teens frolic, dine and drink in Croatia and St. Croix on superyachts nestled into sapphire-blue coves. During commercials, I get up and predict what the next vehicle on the interstate will be, again.
OMG: How I Write, According to ChatGPT
Inspired by the Daily podcast today, I asked Chat GPT to write a story about going to Disneyland in the style of my blog. The NY Times reporter featured on the pod tried this experiment and said the result sounded uncannily like her writing.
The result of my test is below. Please, for the love of God, tell me I don’t write like this. Otherwise I cannot go on. My sister assures me I can write. This monstrosity argues against that fact. If this is my voice, I deserve to be silenced. Tell me whether I should duct tape my fingers together or not.
Red Stapler Chronicles: The Magic of Disneyland
Hello, my sweet and wonderful readers. I hope this finds you all safe, well, and, as ever, in search of life’s moments of magic.
Last weekend, I embarked on an adventure that whisked me away from my humble abode and transported me to a realm where reality collides with fantasy, dreams take flight, and nostalgia wraps around you like your favorite soft and cozy blanket. Yes, my dears, I went to Disneyland.
Now, many may think that Disneyland is a destination primarily for the giddy little humans who can’t tie their shoelaces yet and teenagers wanting to take daring selfies. But let me assure you, it is a place for the child within all of us, no matter how deep we may have tucked them away.
My day started bright and early, armed with sunscreen and my indomitable spirit, ready to embrace the magic that awaited me. The iconic entrance, with its floral arrangement of Mickey Mouse, greeted me with an enthusiasm that only Disneyland could muster so early in the morning.
The first thing I did was to stand before Sleeping Beauty’s castle, the heart of Disneyland. And trust me, even though it’s been recreated in a million photographs, seeing it in person is something else. It’s grandeur, mixed with the inherent innocence of the fairy tale, creates a sense of awe and warmth that makes you pause, even amid the bustle of excited visitors. And, oh yes, I got my picture taken in front of it, feeling every bit a part of the Disneyland magic.
And then, the rides. Oh, the rides! From the high-speed thrills of Space Mountain to the slow, cheerful journey through It’s a Small World, each one invoked a different emotion. The Pirates of the Caribbean made me chuckle, while the Haunted Mansion sent delightful shivers down my spine.
One highlight of my day was the immersive Star Wars: Galaxy’s Edge, a must-visit for every Star Wars fan out there. It felt like stepping into a different galaxy. Even if you can’t tell your Yodas from your Vaders, you’ll still get a kick out of the detailed environments and interactive experiences.
Disneyland is not just about rides, though. It’s the little moments that make it special. It’s the friendly wave from Goofy during the parade, the smell of popcorn wafting through the air, and the delight in a child’s eyes as they meet their favorite character.
Food is another highlight. Whether it’s churros dusted with cinnamon sugar or the famed Dole Whip, there’s something for every palate. The Mickey-shaped beignets? Out of this world. And let me tell you about the Blue Bayou restaurant, where they serve New Orleans-style food in a twilight-lit setting, making it feel like you’re dining under the stars. The Monte Cristo Sandwich is a must-try, but be warned – it’s a dish as big as your head!
As night fell and the fireworks exploded in a riot of colors over the castle, I found myself moved almost to tears. The synchronized display of light and music, along with the gasps of wonder from those around me, made for a perfect end to the day.
Disneyland, my dear readers, is more than a theme park. It is a symphony of joy, laughter, and wonder, playing an enchanting tune that resonates with the child within us. It reminds us to dream, to hope, to find joy in the smallest of things, and that magic exists if only we dare to believe.
I came home tired, my feet sore, my wallet lighter, but my heart full. The magic of Disneyland is real, and it’s something everyone should experience at least once.
So, until my next adventure, remember: “All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.” – Walt Disney.
Stay well, stay kind, and keep seeking your own magic moments.
International Transgender Day of Visibility
Happy Transgender Day of Visibility. I wish we were celebrating in better circumstances. All across the U.S., Republicans are trying to ensure trans and gender-nonconforming people have fewer rights and protections under the law. At least 8 states have restricted gender-affirming medical care for trans youth. Missouri just completely defunded public libraries, lest people have access to information about gender and sex.
Why should everyone care? Not just trans and genderqueer people, not just those who love them, but everyone?
We should care because this is an authoritarian tactic. Pick on the least well-regarded in society. Demonize them by telling terrible stories about them. Punish them for existing. Rile up the masses into witch hunts. And then take a step up the ladder to the next group and the next. You think I’m joking? It’s a page in the Authoritarian Playbook.
It’s not about being trans. It’s about conformity and control.
Authoritarians exert control by creating in- and out-groups. They exert control by taking away your right to express yourself freely, to be different, to pursue your own interests.
They don’t give a crap that trans people aren’t hurting anyone. They will simply make up stories about them. And they won’t care that you aren’t hurting anyone with your lifestyle, your religion, your culture, your clothing, your books, your poems, your music, your hobbies.
They’ll tell you that you’re a deviant because you want to act like yourself. They’ll call you perverted for expressing yourself in the fullest, most beautiful way you know how.
Then they’ll lock you up, torture you and kill you. They did in
Oh hell, everywhere. I don’t have time to list them all.
That got a little dark, but this is serious shit, folks. We all need to pay attention and throw our support behind our trans and gender non-conforming communities.
A little palate-cleansing
Alok V. Menon has become one of my guiding lights. Go check them out on Instagram. Their words are so powerful and their thinking so clear. Alok is a joy. It took me a while to see a very hairy person in fabulous gowns, makeup and jewelry as beautiful, but now I think Alok is one of the clearest moral voices speaking today.
Clara Olshansky is my favorite nonbinary comic. Hilarious.
It’s a Good Day for a Donation
The Trevor Project is often listed as a top charity to support for trans and other queer youth, but I also like Transanta because it feels so personal.
Remember that the ACLU is a strong advocate for LGBTQI+ rights and is well-established and effective. The National Center for Transgender Equality is specifically dedicated to advocacy for the rights of transgender people.
It’s a Good Day to Support a Trans Person
Tell the trans people in your life that you have their back. It’s a scary time, and they need to know they’re not alone and that they are loved.
Mission Critical
I was always terrible at accepting criticism. ANY criticism. If anyone dared question my absolute rightness, I would come at them with the fury of a wasp whose nest has been poked with a stick.
I don’t know how I got away with this for so long, but I did. I limped along being smart, but not working smart. I had to figure things out on my own because no one dared approach me. What a jerk I was.
Then, when I was 40, I went back to college and got a freelance gig as a newspaper reporter. I found myself surrounded by people my own age who had been journalists for 15 years or more. They obviously knew what they were doing. For the first time, I found myself with my nose pressed against the glass, wanting to be really good at something. I had to ask for criticism and take it.
My editor, Mike Hoffman, was kind and patient with me. He would sit with me and go over articles line by line, pointing out where my writing could have been stronger or clearer. He wasn’t much older than me, but he treated me with a steady, calm, fatherly concern.
I remember one article about a Parks and Recreation Commission meeting where the annual budget was to be approved. No one showed up except me. I pointed out that fact in the first paragraph.
He told me that opening the article that way telegraphed my feelings, and doing that wasn’t my job. My reporting needed to state what happened, not shout how I felt about it. Get the facts right and let the readers make up their own minds.
My copy editor, Doug Feldman, was a lot less kind and patient, but equally effective. “Davis!” he would yell across the newsroom, “Do you want to come see how you messed this up?” God love him. He was crusty as hell but had a great sense of humor right under the surface. There were a couple of occasions where he threatened to wing erasers at my head if I didn’t straighten up. He reminded me of my dad, so we got along great.
I eventually learned to love criticism – if it is from a competent source. I didn’t start becoming a semi-decent person until I could accept feedback and incorporate it into my work.
I still don’t have much patience for internet randos picking at my life, but if someone with demonstrated expertise wants to weigh in, I will listen carefully. My angry wasp days are over.
(I know, too many adverbs. Gotcha).
The Ethics of Naming Rabbits
Reverend Bonnie had a mad idea. She wanted a bunny garden at our church and she would not be dissuaded.
I said to our church Board President “A bunny garden? Really?”
He said “I don’t know either, but she does so much and it makes her happy, so I’m all for it.”
Plans were made, a corner of the garden was cleared, a structure was built, and the church went through an almost ridiculously rigorous adoption process to secure two spayed and neutered bunnies. We had our bunny garden.
Now the bunnies needed names. Bonnie said that the congregation should choose the names and a friend and I were put in charge of the process. We had fun with it, making an announcement in church on Sunday asking for prospective sets of names, one for the male bunny and one for the female. We ended up with a stack of index cards bearing suggestions (Mickie and Minnie, Petal and Blossom, etc.), which we narrowed down to five possibilities. People voted on their choice among the five.
We came up with a statistically unlikely event: a three-way tie.
I sent Reverend Bonnie an email asking her to break the tie, since the whole bunny thing was her idea in the first place.
She called me the next day. “I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I told the congregation they would choose the name, so I don’t feel right choosing the name. We need to have a run-off.”
So with much laughter, we had a runoff election and chose the winning names, which were based on writers important to our denomination: Waldo and Emma, for Ralph Waldo Emerson and Emma Curtis Hopkins.
This tiny matter of naming bunnies gave me even more respect for my beloved Rev. Bonnie. Her integrity prevented her from fudging even on this little thing, that’s how important it is to her to stay true to her word. Now when I confront an event where I have to make a difficult ethical or moral decision, I think about telling Reverend Bonnie about my choice and imagine her reaction. This is true leadership – she has impressed me so much over the years that she is my touchstone even as I live thousands of miles from her.
And what did the bunny garden mean to the church? Well, people started going behind the building more to visit the bunnies. They noticed that the garden area needed improvement, so they put in a lawn and benches and flowers, beautifying the back of the church and making it a place people hang out. The bunnies needed food, so an amazing congregant put in a vegetable garden on the church property. There were more vegetables than the bunnies could eat, so extras were distributed to people who needed them. And everyone loves visiting the bunnies.
We talk a lot at church (now via Zoom) about kindness – Bonnie calls the church “the kindness cathedral” and the ripples being kind produces. Our silly bunnies produced ripples far beyond the original idea. Reverend Bonnie’s wild notion made big changes happen and brought people together. Not so crazy after all.
Welcome
Bruce Sinclair Swasey taught me the power of welcome. I had an inkling before, of course, but Bruce was a real sensei of the art, wielding his skills with grace and sincerity.
Bruce was what you might describe as a charming old gent. He favored baggy pants, suspenders and golf caps. He was always studying something. He spoke terrible Spanish and Korean with enthusiasm and conviction, deploying it on hapless busboys and customer service representatives. He often stayed up all night in a house that was festooned with papers and notecards, working on advanced math problems he created for himself. He had a roving, curious mind.
He had been in the military, he had been an engineer, but Bruce’s real talent lay in making people feel welcome.
He belonged to six or eight Toastmasters groups at a time, and he was the unofficial greeter. He made sure each new person that walked through the door felt like they were in the right place.
He had studied techniques for remembering people’s names. He told me to say the person’s name three times when you first met them, then mentally write their name on their forehead. He rarely forgot anyone.
He remembered details about people – relations, jobs, anniversaries, health issues. If you got to know him well, you could expect to begin receiving Bruce Mail – big envelopes of articles, poems and writings that reminded him of you. I had a file in my cabinet simply labeled “Bruce” for all of these missives.
I saw Bruce angry once in all my years of friendship with him. He brought a friend to Toastmasters and no one greeted the friend. We heard about it at the end of the evening, his face red and his words sharp. He couldn’t believe we were so rude, and he was right.
Bruce’s gift to the world was a friendly face saying “There you are!” when we came through the door. Isn’t that what every human wants – someone to be glad when they are there?
Bruce passed away some years back, but I think of him daily. I try to honor his memory by being the one who welcomes others, and I imagine that there are many others doing that as well, all because of the example Bruce set. He made my life better by welcoming me, but he continues to make it better when I welcome others, because seeing others happy makes me happy, too.
We could all do with a little more welcome. I challenge you to be like Bruce and welcome someone this week.
Get Back
The Beatles have been with me ever since I have been conscious. I was a toddler when they became famous. The first book I ever bought – at my school’s Scholastic Book Fair – was a paperback of all the Beatles lyrics. I spent hours reading them over and over, trying to parse their meanings.
When I was young, everything the Beatles did was news. Their music was the soundtrack of my life.
Because I had heard Beatles music so much, I rebelled a few years ago and started boycotting. I figured I had heard those songs so many times that I would be fine never hearing them again.
It’s probably strange, then, that I recently sat down to watch all 7 hours and 48 minutes of the documentary series “Get Back,” which is mostly footage of the Beatles practicing for their last album. But I did it, and I’m glad I did.
I liked it for a variety of reasons. First, it was lovely to see the Beatles as they were, free from all the hype, myth and speculation that surrounded them and that has persisted until now. The footage shows that they were at heart just musicians who really, really loved to play.
During their practice sessions, they spontaneously drop practicing their songs to launch into joyous, silly versions of numbers by Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash and others. It’s clear from their schedule that they should be urgently practicing their music so they can produce their album, but they can’t help themselves. They are playing because it is fun and it is what they want to do more than anything in the world. Every time they slam into some old rockabilly tune, they are grinning and laughing.
They also play at songwriting. They are unafraid to start playing songs in front of each other that aren’t fully formed yet. Some are barely begun. This spoke to me because I always want to have all my bases covered before I present my work to others, nervous that it won’t be perfect.
John and Paul just blare out tiny bits of song over and over, substituting mumbles for words, building the composition, growing and embroidering and changing so fluidly. “Get Back,” one of their most famous songs, comes together during a break as Paul fiddles on the guitar, then gets played and replayed, changed and improved over the next three weeks into the hit song we have all heard.
There is a lot of love between them, that is clear. The flashback scenes remind us that John, Paul and George have been playing together since they were young teens. They each have their own role. Paul is the leader and the poet, willing to keep sculpting songs as long as it takes to achieve perfection. John is the jester, always showing up late, making jokes and playing with language, changing lyrics to make himself laugh. George is the mystic, quiet and thoughtful, observing everything. And Ringo is the steadfast workman, showing up early, staying on task.
Another joy of watching the documentary is the nostalgia factor. The Beatles, for all their success, had so little management or business wrapped around them. If they had that level of fame today, they would probably have a team of dozens working on management and marketing.
It’s stunning to see how shy they were in front of the cameras and to realize how abnormal it was back then to have people filming you. Even if you were quite famous it was weird. The Beatles awkwardly joke about it the whole time. They mug for the camera, wave at it. In 2021, toddlers are used to being filmed and know how to strike a pose.
They discuss their plans for a concert vaguely the whole way through the month that the documentary covers, but it never becomes concrete. No one gets very upset about this. They don’t even know if they’re going to do their famous rooftop concert until the day before they do it. No team of marketing and finance people is screaming at them. No attorneys are reviewing terms. They are just allowed to bumble their way through. It’s like this is a fifth-grade play, not the biggest music group of all time.
I also loved seeing the 60s fashion as it was, too. George is one stylish dude, appearing in purple satin ruffly shirts and striped bell-bottoms. Ringo is often on trend, showing up for the rooftop concert in a red vinyl trenchcoat. Paul is in his bearded farmer phase, and John tends toward shaggy furry things.
The middle episode starts to be depressing. The band was mired in an endless swirl of practice and indecision. The documentary began to drag, as nothing seemed to be happening. Everyone seemed checked out and a little sad. George even quit briefly, simply saying that he would see them around the clubs before walking out suddenly.
George came back a few days later. Then a miracle occured – pianist Billy Preston showed up. He was just in the neighborhood and dropped by to visit the new Apple studio. The Beatles asked him to sit in and suddenly everything burst into technicolor with Preston’s infusion of talent and soul. It’s like watching a garden spring back to life after a drought. The Beatles started to have fun again, and Preston kept coming back every day.
There was a bit of talk about asking Preston to be the fifth Beatle, but the idea got shot down by Paul, who said that it wass difficult enough to make decisions with four of them. I think he doomed the Beatles at that moment. Billy Preston was the best thing that ever happened to them. Not only was he a genius on keyboards and vocals, but his sound filled in and lifted theirs. Everyone could feel the difference. Their music became joyous again.
The last documentary I watched before this was Taylor Swift’s “Miss Americana.” It was a good contrast. Taylor seemed to have a precise vision for her songs, always. The Beatles had a drug-fueled, loosey goosey approach to making an album.
The Beatles documentary inspired me. I took from it the lesson of focusing on fun and joy while being creative. Don’t be afraid of throwing a silly little start out there and building on it. The process is as important as the outcome. Don’t expect perfection the first time around, or the seventh, or the thirtieth. Just let it be.
Off the Road
When I woke up last Friday morning, I heard the wind howling and thought “We’re not getting out of here today.”
Denise, our hostess, checked the weather and told us the wind was only blowing 22 mph. The plane wouldn’t leave if the winds were over 35 mph. The winds were supposed to keep getting stronger and were predicted to be 35 mph at 10 a.m. Our flight was scheduled to leave at 9:30, just before sunrise.
I was out of ramen, my underwear were all used up, and I hadn’t had cell service since we got there. I was ready to go home.
I never thought I would find myself in a native village in rural Alaska, but that’s where I spent the week. Population 900, the town is on the Lower Yukon delta. It takes 3 airplanes to get there – a jet to Anchorage, a smaller jet to Bethel, then an 8-seat air taxi to the village.
Two years ago, I was working for a Fortune 50 company, supporting executives who had 10,000 employees in their departments. Now I was giving a presentation to 5 Yupiq Tribal Council members in a community center with cracked linoleum flooring in the most remote place I had ever been.
I couldn’t have been happier.
My friend and I went there to see the progress on a big project funded with money from a grant she had written. The grant not only paid for construction of a beautiful dock that will make unloading barges much less treacherous and will save the river banks from eroding, but miles of hard-surface roads in a community that had only had muddy, rutted roads before. Everyone kept taking us around to show us the lovely, new roads. Little kids rode 4-wheelers towing their friends on sleds. Dogs ran alongside us, some barking happily, others a little menacingly.
The town is tiny. There is one hotel located upstairs in the Community Center building. It has six rooms and bathrooms down the hall. There is one restaurant, and that is a rather new development. Some homes still don’t have running water or sewer service. People still get their food by hunting, fishing and gathering. Few people have cars, because there isn’t anywhere to drive except around town – there are no roads connecting the town with anywhere else. People ride 4-wheelers or snow machines or walk. The only way to travel there is by a small airplane, or on a barge during the months when the river isn’t frozen.
Denise is part of the construction crew. She is my age, tall, thin and strong. She has been working in rural Alaska her whole adult life. She has a home in Florida but doesn’t mind spending her days in the gravel and mud. “I really care about this,” she says.
Life is so funny. If you told me two years ago I would be doing this, I would never have believed you. Now I wake up every single day thinking about Alaska and how to help the Native people there get what they want.
We got out at 9:40 and flew at about 2700 feet, under the cloud layer. I knew the elevation because I could see the tiny plane’s instrument panels from my seat. Everyone could. The inside of the windows kept icing up. We landed in Bethel and the pilot said “I hope it wasn’t too warm back there for you!” Haha. I was wearing leggings, jeans, snow pants and had a little lap robe, along with my gloves, scarf, hat and neck gaiter, so I stayed warm enough.
There was a guy at Bethel checking his luggage that included a massive moose antler rack. Of course there was.
The flight to Anchorage gave us views of the frozen rivers, Denali and a couple glaciers. I got tears in my eyes seeing them because it was a glorious, beautiful experience I never thought I would have.
God is good. Alaska is huge, and I left a piece of my heart there when I climbed on that tiny plane.
Suebob's Red Stapler 