On communication, professional and otherwise.
by David Murray // 3 Comments
One day last week Scout came home one evening and told me that for no reason at all, her classmate Julia S. gave her ten dollars.
I told Scout she had to give it back, on account of, "I doubt Julia's parents know she's giving away money at school."
In case Julia found the give-back ungracious, I told Scout she could simply say, "My dad made me give it back."
So the next day I asked Scout if she gave the sawbuck back.
"Yeah," she said. "Julia said, 'What—doesn't your dad like money?'"
by David Murray // 3 Comments
Last week you read where four motorcyclists from Veterans of Foreign Wars accompanied U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords to the airport to fly to the rehab hospital in Houston.
More power to them. Like all motorcycle clubs who provide escorts, they are fuflilling their own desire to give meaning to their motorcycling, and perhaps they are giving people a feeling of support in the meantime.
And I sure understand that. I have a motorcycle, and I too dig meaning.
Did you know I belong to a motorcycle gang?
Yes, except the gang I belong to doesn't go in for that patriotic stuff, like escorting veterans' funeral processions. We don't strap Christmas gifts to our gas tanks and ride them down Western Avenue to give to children so needy they need gas-soaked presents. And we don't ride to Washington to saw a hole in the ozone over the Vietnam Memorial.
The Harley guys have that stuff covered.
Our gang? The Hard Cases?
We ride Triumphs and BMWs.
Our motorcycle jackets have sleeves.
And we bring our rolling thunder to escort battered wives to court dates, gay couples to weddings, corporate layoff victims to the unemployment office, divorcees to the tavern, drunks to their first AA meeting, poor people through rich neighborhoods and rich people through poor neighborhoods, spinsters with lost dogs to check at the pound, sad people to psychiatrists, terminal patients home from the doctor who just diagnosed them, Catholics to confession, kids to get their first cavities filled and panicky people to IRS offices.
It's not glamorous.
But we're the Hard Cases. That's just how we roll.
(Well, when we're asked. Which is never. So we mostly just ride aimlessly around Illinois looking for curvy roads and, when we're ambitious, to breweries in Wisconsin.)
by David Murray // 40 Comments
Scout has a lot of aunties, most of whom are fearsome feminists, but all of whom use the world "cute" a lot, to describe people and things. Generally, I think that, like "nice," "cute" is banal, a way to reduce everything beautiful and homely to the same general category, on sale for $29.95 at Tarjay.
Scout wasn't two yet when I started agitating her, asking her what "cute" means. It doesn't mean "beautiful," it doesn't mean "pretty." What is it then?
Dad!
And now, after seeing this performance, "pretty" is on my shit list, too.