Boca Raton, FL, August 23, 2010
I have a jogging route that takes me through the back of a shopping mall where deliveries are made, onto a busy highway, and through what used to be a Cancer Center, but is now an empty building since the Cancer Center moved to Miami.
My routine is to stop and stretch at benches in front of the Center, as this usually is the end of my jog. The past few weeks I have come upon homeless people sitting on the benches. First it was a man. We exchanged pleasantries. He grew up in New Hampshire and recognized my New England accent.
Today I came upon a man and a woman sitting on the ground because the benches had been removed. The day the benches disappeared I was puzzled, but then realized the owners of the building must be trying to discourage the homeless from making this walkway into a shelter.
One thing that I’ve noticed lately is how much my life is no longer my own. I guess on a highly metaphysical level we could argue if our lives are ever our own, but my point is a little less complicated.
As a young adult, and early into your life of autonomous adulthood, you have those day-to-day choices specific to who you are. You order a hamburger. You get to put whatever you wish on that hamburger. You get to eat that hamburger without fear of someone taking it from you: at least in most rational and reasonable settings.
I’ve got a problem. I was raised to believe that we are supposed to be responsible for our own actions, and that the responsibility also included making good choices. After all, outside of our opposable thumbs the human ability to be sentient, to think of consequences BEFORE making a choice is supposed to be one of the elements that separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom.
So when the news breaks about the single mother who went to a fertility clinic to have just one more girl, and ended up coming out with octuplets, I cringe at how everyone thinks it’s just so wonderful.
I’ve witnessed the birth of my two boys, and it was the most amazing experience. Thankfully, however, some critics have started to surface questioning why a single mother with six children would even consider having more children, even if it was an
Bent Spoon has been a great outlet over the past couple of years, but a fragmented outlet. I’ve come to realize in the last couple of weeks — due to a few related and unrelated circumstances — that Bent Spoon has a focus, and one that I need to refine.
I had a very idyllic childhood. I thought that as a child, and think that now as I reflect upon how my parents raised me in rfespect to how I'm trying to raise my children. This, oddly enough, is causing some conflict.
Well, after the first episode of I don't want to talk about it, the power chord from the garage was not our oldest's signal that he was ready to talk.
OK. No fair. My third-grader just pulled that on me.
“I don’t want to talk about it, dad.”
Oof. What do I do with this one?
The Dow Jones Industrial average leaps 3 percent one day, then drops 1 percent the next, and even with hindsight I doubt anyone can say with authority why this is happening.
From CNBC.com: "Indeed, the housing recession is single-handedly responsible for sending the credit markets into crisis following an unprecedented run up in home prices between 2001 and 2005."
Really? What about the consumers, and the financial institutions, and the (lack of) regulators that lead to the conditions predicating the "housing recession."
My take on how this all went down…
INT. McCAIN WARROOM — NIGHT
Can't do the two old white guys for the ticket any more, fellas. Whaddya think now?