Pet Cobra

Yuma

The sandstorm - it was like something out of T.E. Lawrence, or Frank Herbert, or Anthony Swafford. It blew through the Arizona desert like a malevolent djinn, tumbleweeds and garbage everywhere, the sun reduced to a vague glowing whisper, the howling winds and dust buffeting the car, rattling the occupants. Well, two of us: Lucas slept through most of it. This was outside of Yuma, a town born of the legendary Old West, built by dusty boots and Colt revolvers.  What brought us there: we were driving through it on the way home after a Christmas with my parents. The sandstorm was the cherry on the cake on my day; earlier we'd driven through the mountains of northern Arizona, right through a blizzard. Four hours later, we were in a sandstorm. I marveled. The world and how it works.

Yuma had attached itself to us long before this. There's a bit of family history there. My grandmother tells us, as often as she can, that her father - or maybe it was her grandfather? This is a detail that I should remember, but the story's as good as if it were either - was Yuma County's very first sheriff. Dusty boots and a Colt revolver, and a jail cell for the drunks and pugilists and cattle rustlers. Were there cattle rustlers? I hope so. Even if there weren't, it's a fine story. Sheriff of Yuma County in the days of the Wild West. Before Yuma as it was, with horses and those swinging saloon doors, passed into legend. These days Yuma is more akin to Mos Eisley than Dodge City. It's a town of Taco Bells and truck stops, weeds pushing up through cracked blacktop, surplus stores and a Wal-Mart (of course).

She has other stories, of course. Dances at the Hotel Del, long before the Bridge or the skyline. Delivering mail down the dirt road that eventually became the Pacific Coast Highway. Living in a cabin on Palomar Mountain. Train trips. Days and nights spent in a California that had yet to become the semi-autonomous amusement park that it is today. Watching her boys and girls become men and women, and watching their boys and girls become men and women.

Yesterday, via IM. Beth: "Don't freak out. Your grandma had a heart attack." I reeled. It was a gut-punch.

There were phone conversations with my dad and my aunt, her son and daughter-in-law. She's doing ok, was the refrain. We made plans to go and visit this weekend. Meanwhile, Yuma continues to pass into history. The world and how it works. 

The Last Breath of Dying Days...

The year ends, this year of war and murder, of malfeasance and corruption, of the harpies and vultures of consumerism and greed coming home to roost.

Anyway. I was thinking about a dream I used to have. This particular one came into spiritus mundi when I was in junior high, all bowl haircut and thick tortoise-shell glasses and D & D and hormones, all of which informed this particular dream. It's pretty straightforward: I am staggering along a nameless shore, wearing battered armor, bruised and bloodied, an angry defiant snarl on my face. I drop to my knees and plunge my sword into black sands, howling as I do so. Then I wake up.

2008, ending with bangs and many, many whimpers. Explosions and cries. A bleak finish to a generally bleak 365 days.

And yet.

Anduril

First, I need you to read this, and if you have, humor me and re-read it. That was four years ago.

We're not born to be what we are. We're forged. We are hot malleable steel and our defining moments are the blacksmith's hammer-strikes. We shatter and we are poured back into a crucible and made anew. We are reforged. What was broken within us as we looked down at him lying on that hospital bed was remade. The Japanese swordmasters had a mythical technique of folding steel, hundreds of times over upon itself, so that the razor-sharp katanas that the samurai carried into battle were strong enough to slice through stone, indestructible. We don't think that we have that strength but we do; good steel is supposed to bend, but not break, and it's a surprising truth that we're of the same caliber. Distance and time have not made bearing those memories any easier, but we are katanas, we are swords of legend, and we are not easily destroyed.

The baby who was so stricken has grown. Saturday he suits up in his do-bak to test for his yellow belt. He can kick, punch, chop, and block. He does so with determination, but also with a particular glee. He too was forged on that hospital bed, though it's taken us a while to recognize. His joy is that shared by most four year old boys - the joy of being a child in a big wondrous world. But it's also the joy of one who's known battle, who has faced down a particularly virulent enemy, and who has emerged triumphant.

Of course, we were very fortunate; the disease has claimed far too many victims. For more information about Kawasaki Disease, visit the Kawasaki Foundation website, at www.kdfoundation.org.

Intern

Two weeks before Voting Day, and I was knee-deep in garbage.

The internship was American politics in action from the get-go: I got a good job with the campaign because one of the campaign consultants was an alumni member of my fraternity. My qualifications: working on a Poli Sci degree (the emphasis was on International Relations, which meant that I could tell you all about the sordid history of the French/Middle Eastern arms trade, but couldn't tell you who my Congressman was - turns out my Assemblyman was an Assemblywoman), and I'd done some volunteering for the other side a couple of years ago, doing some canvassing for a Congressman who as of this writing is rotting in prison. I knew the guy was a crook even back then, but his party gave away free booze on Election Night to underage staffers.

So my internship, working for the Assemblywoman: I was a Point Guy, who did a couple of things. First, I was tasked to arrange a series of Meet N' Greets - my candidate speaking to small groups of voters at the homes of various top supporters. Second, I was to gather "actionable intelligence" on our opponent. Meaning that every ad, statement, flyer, mailer, was to be obtained and fact-checked, and any lies...let's call them what they are, I was told - "mistakes" are made by stupid people, and stupid people don't run campaigns; assume that whatever is done or said is deliberate, and aimed at a certain block of voters with the intent of winning their hearts and minds - politics is war by other means, and words and images are the political operator's smart bombs and guided missiles. Actionable intelligence. Data wins elections. Information is everything. There are facts and there is "truth"; the operator's job is to take the facts and mold them into the truth, more accurately a truth. Ideals...ideals are for voters. Idealogues have no place in a campaign operation. Leave what you believe at the HQ door; it'll only get in the way of getting your candidate elected. Assume this: the opponent's team will lie and cheat and have his or her people do whatever it takes to win. You must do the same, and the only validation is a victory.

So one day I found myself knee-deep in garbage. Specifically, in the early evening, in a dumpster behind our opponent's HQ. They'd all gone home for the evening and now I was rummaging through their trash, in the hopes of intercepting a flyer that was to go out the following morning. Actionable intelligence. The world before the Internet was a much different place, where campaign mailers actually meant something. A simpler time. Bingo. Found a stack of extras...and the proofs. Who throws away the proofs? Amateurs. We shredded everything, because we assumed that they'd be sending their interns to dig through our garbage. So, actionable intelligence - I found the mailers, and learned that the other side wasn't as paranoid as we were. Useful data. I'd earned my stripes for the day. I took the documents straight back to our offices, still smelling like a garbage disposal. I dropped them off on the boss' desk, with a note: "Nothing new as far as policy goes, but take a good look at the photo. Wedding ring."

The next day, the story was the photo, with the papers asking all sorts of questions about Divorced Candidate Seen In Publicity Photo Wearing Wedding Ring. Actionable intelligence. We won the election.