Sniff! Sniff! Is That the Stench of Santorum I Smell?

OK, it’s time to take off the love glove and dick-slap Rick Santorum for his calculated attack on the U.S. porn industry.

Come on, Rick, can’t you find a real issue to incite the mindless masses of Christian conservatives who have the mistaken notion that you are relevant.

You’re not relevant. You’re not realistic. You are so far out of touch with reality, you will need to catch a rocket ship just to be within sight of reality.

Rick, pornography didn’t fuck up the economy. Pornography also didn’t send our troops halfway around the world to fight for lower gas prices. Pornography isn’t behind homelessness, the Occupy movement, Al Qaida, Iran’s nuclear aspirations, double-digit unemployment, or China’s rise to economic prominence.

Pornographers are people too. Hell, even Mitt Romney believes in corporate citizenship, and pornographers are just like corporations.

The porn industry is made up of people. Real people with real, every-day problems, like paying the rent, keeping the lights and heat turned on¸ buying groceries, and raising families.

Just like you, Rick. They’re people. Real people.

Good people.

Honest people, who believe everyone has a right to be whoever he or she wants to be within their own space. That means letting us use our bodies to our best advantage, to our own ultimate benefit.

Pleasure is one of those benefits. Pleasure was created to reward man and woman for their good works, not to be something repressed, of which one should be ashamed, or to be regulated against our own personal will.

Pornographers provide an outlet for that pleasure for many of us. As free Americans, it is our choice to buy and watch pornography, in the privacy of our own homes, or in a theater or arcade that we choose to patronize.

Rick Santorum, for his part, says pornography is "toxic to marriages and relationships," and contributes to "misogyny and violence against women" including prostitution and sex trafficking.

It does? I would think abuse of alcohol and prescription drugs might be the culprits, since you’re more likely to find drugs and booze in a hooker’s place than boxes of “Debbie Does Dallas” or “Shemale Strokers”.

Let’s be honest, Rick. You don’t have any real issue on which you can rally your small-minded constituency, do you? You are whipping up the flame on the porn industry because you know the simpletons who believe you’d be a great president are too fucking stupid to recognize a snake selling his own oil.

So thanks for “looking out” for us, Rick, but I think I’ll pass on your brand of morality and American living. I like my America with lots of freedom, and a healthy seasoning of choice.

And pass the remote.

Older Fans' Behavior Dishonors Frampton's Talents

Amazing!

Sixty-one-year-old Peter Frampton came alive again Monday night at Bakersfield’s Fox Theater. It was as if he’d never aged a day since his break-through hit album Frampton Comes Alive! some 36 years ago now. His voice still sharp as ever, Frampton strolled through FCA! front to back, as it was on the album.

But while Frampton, who will turn 62 next month, was weaving his lyrical magic through hits like Show Me the Way, Baby I love Your Way, and Do You Feel Like We Do?, the real show was in the seats.

Average age of this crowd was well-above 50, though there were the occasional Gen X and Gen Y among the masses (probably there as mom and dad's designated driver). This is a crowd one would assume would act like responsible adults.

Think again.

Despite several admonitions to not make sound or video recordings during the performance, I could see dozens of cell phones glowing steadily in the darkness below my perch in the front row, stage left, of the balcony.

Most weren't snapping photos, and they weren’t texting the grandkids either.

People were recording video, despite the best efforts of security and even Frampton himself. At one point during his opening song, Something’s Happening, Frampton walked stage left and in between guitar riffs, he motion for security to stop a guy who had been standing near the stage recording with his cell, but who had returned to his seat when Frampton had approached, where he continued to video the performance.

Security took care of him and a few other violators as well. But by and large, people ignored the video embargo and took home snippets of the performance.

The damnedest thing about it is this: For $35, you could get a recording of the evening’s show, in its entirety, within minutes of the end. For this tour, Abby Road Live has been recording the concerts at each venue on the Frampton Comes Alive! 35 Tour. Only 1,000 three-CD sets are pressed at each venue, and you also can download it from Frampton’s website for the same $35.

OK, so it isn't a video. But unless you've smoked way too much weed or have fried youre brain cells with some other form of chemical recreation, the memory alone is worth far more than any shaky cell-phone video from the 20th row.

I guess my point here is that we've come to expect the kind of behavior those individual with cell phones in hand on record, or on camera/video exhibited. And the fact is, it is piracy. No different that downloading a movie without paying for it. And that is illegal.

More than that, it sets a poor example. And personally, I think it is juvenile.

Grow up, people. Be responsible in every aspect of your life, at every opportunity.

And for the record, my copy of FCA! 35-Bakersfield is no. 21/1,000. And the video replaying in my mind as I listen to it is priceless.

Grillin' and Chillin': Food for the Soul

I love to barbecue. It’s a man thing, I suppose, but when that grill is smoking and the food is sizzling … it’s just the most fun you can have around fire with your clothes on.

I cook with gas these days, though I was raised on charcoal and hickory chips. Dad was an ace with the grill, and could prepare any cut of meat to perfection. I watch him take ordinary bargain cuts of meat and make them taste like the finest filet. He’d build his fire with care, waiting until the coals were just right before placing the meat over it.

These days, I prefer the simplicity of cooking over a gas-fueled fire. Propane and propane accessories; Hank Hill would be proud.

My Weber is piped right into the same gas that lights the stoves and heats the water for the house, so I never have to worry about running out of fuel. It has four burners and a charring flame. Plenty of room to cook, but this night, the grill would be tested, as would my skills as a barbecue chef.

Tonight, the fare was ribs – beef and pork – chicken, and grilled veggies for my niece’s birthday. Three rack of pork ribs, a rack of beef ribs and about a dozen beef short-ribs, and a dozen skewers of tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, pineapple chunks, and zucchini; rice pilaf, green salad, and garlic bread completed the dinner menu. Dessert was German chocolate cake and rocky road ice cream.

I cooked in shifts, staring with the beef ribs, then the pork, followed by the chicken. The veggies were last as they don’t require much time.

The family is small now so the gathering was more intimate than usual. They all visited with each other as I tended the grill. We ate. Dessert was served and consumed. While everyone sat around the table and talked, I cleaned up. It’s what I do. Afterward, as everyone drifted off to their respective homes, appreciation … thanks … love was shared. It was a good day, and the company was good.

I love to barbecue. It’s a family thing too.

Once in a Blue Moon, and Other Lunacy

Driving home from work last night, I was treated to a display of nature’s beauty that was truly breathtaking.

As I steered my Sonata the 42 miles from the college to my home, the March full moon slowly, gracefully was revealed on the horizon, peeking inch by inch over the Tehachapi Mountains to the east. As the radiant globe sat on the horizon in its golden fullness, I thought about the moon and the science and folklore it has inspired.

I remembered watching, along with the rest of the world, back in the summer of 1969 as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin romped around the lunar surface. I thought of honeymoon and wondered where that word came from. I also thought about other folk wisdom inspired by the cold rock that circles our planet.

I thought about “the man in the moon” …

“Moon River, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style, someday” …

“I see a bad moon risin’” …

“Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own …”

So with this serving as inspiration, I went to the computer and searched for “full moon names.” The list I found is both interesting and amusing. According to The Farmer’s Almanac (www.farmersalmanac.com), the names were bestowed upon the months by the Native American tribes as a way of keeping track of the seasons. Here is their list:

January – Full Wolf Moon

February – Full Snow Moon

March – Full Worm Moon

April – Full Pink Moon

May – Full Flower Moon

June – Full Strawberry Moon

July – Full Buck Moon

August – Full Sturgeon Moon

September – Full Corn Moon or Full Harvest Moon

October – Full Hunter’s Moon or Full Harvest Moon

November – Full Beaver Moon

December – Full Cold Moon, or the Full Long Nights Moon.

So where does the Blue Moon come in. Well, it seems the lunar cycle is just 29 days long, which means every couple of years, there are 13 full moons, putting four full moons in a three month period or season. When that happens, the third full moon of the quarter is the “blue” moon.

Over the years, it seems that the definition of “blue moon” has been misinterpreted to mean the second full moon in a given month. But not every 13^th moon of the year is blue. When the fourth moon falls between the equinox and solstice, it is deemed “blue.” But occasionally, the 13^th moon of the year falls after the solstice or equinox, putting it outside the definition. That moon is just … well, extra.

Any way you look at the moon, though, one must admit it has a definite appeal to our imaginations. People are thought to behave differently during a full moon. In fact, the full moon was once thought to cause insanity! (That’s where we got the words “lunacy” and “lunatic”). The moon, it seems, is ingrained in the culture of the world it serves.

Lovers pledge their undying allegiance to one another by it. Poets are led to volumes of lyrical exposition by its golden visage. Scientists wonder about its past, present, and future. And “Old Blue Eyes” immortalized it in song:

“Fly me to the moon, let me swing among those stars …”

Crazy, man.

Like It or Not, We Are All Teachers

I just finished reading a chapter in one of my text books about the ethics of teaching. Not surprisingly, there is more to being an ethical teacher than just not dating your students (yes, it is not just frowned upon) and taking bribes to change grades. It also extends to some behaviors one might not think were ethical issues at all.

One such issue is allowing retests. Do-overs. Giving students a second chance.

Now, I am all for second chances, and in fact I have given many a student an opportunity to improve a score. But according to McKeachie’s Teaching Tips, which is considered by many to be the definitive handbook on theory, research and strategy among college instructors, there are ethical questions surrounding the idea of allowing a student to take a test again while not offering the opportunity to the whole class.

An interesting proposition and depending on the circumstances, there are myriad answers to the ethical question of fair or unfair. Certainly, we want our teachers to be fair and ethical, and how we exercise such discretionary power can make a big difference in how one is perceived by their students and colleagues alike.

So while the book raises questions about a teacher’s ethics, it also raises the more important question concerning the teaching of ethics. While we certainly want our students to act ethically, our own values determine our ethics; how we define fair and unfair frames what we teach others about those concepts.  

So in essence, we teach values. We have no other option. It is who we are, and it is reflected in how we act, not just what we say. As teachers, one of the most powerful tools we have in our arsenal is our own behavior. Students see how we act toward them, toward our colleagues, toward our institution, toward out community, and they model that behavior. Certainly this is true among young children, who look to their elders for cues on every front.

But it is just as true among adult learners, maybe even more so, as they look to us to show them how to be successful, how to act professionally, how to think critically about the world around us.

My point here is this: You never know who is watching you and basing their lives on your example. So set an example of which you can be proud. Behave in a manner that inspires people around you to emulate you, not immolate you.

We’re all teachers, after all. The only difference between me and the non-educators in the audience is perspective.

With a Song in His Heart, and a Hand in My Mouth

I have a dental appointment tomorrow morning, and I know it sounds strange, but I can’t wait!

That’s because I have the best dentist in the world.

For me.

According to studies, fear of dentists and dental work is common among 75 percent of adults in the United States. This “dental fear” ranges from mild to severe. Of them, it is estimated that between five and 10 percent fall into the classification of “dental phobia," a condition that makes them so afraid of the dentist that they go to extreme lengths to get out of going. (For more complete information, check out the entry on Wikipedia).

I used to think the dentist was only necessary when something was wrong: toothache, broken tooth, or some other painful reason. And of course, when you only go to the dentist when it hurts, you equate that pain with the person who is really trying to relieve it. Unfair association, I know, but that is how we think, we humans.

So why am I so eager to see my dentist, and what makes him “the best in the world – for me?”

One word: music.

My dentist is also a musician. He plays and sings in a garage band of other 50-plus professionals (their guitarist is an attorney). He also does local musical theater, so the man has a prodigious talent. But what makes him a perfect dentist for me it this: He not only listens to you when you say you’re not quite numb yet, he sings to you while he works!

Two visits ago, I had to have a broken tooth removed. My dentist is current rehearsing troup a production of “The Music Man,” so between grunts and yanks, I got a mini concert of tunes from Meredith Wilson’s classic. (I tried to sing along and sprayed blood everywhere, so now I just hum along in my head!)

My last visit was a preparation visit for some bridgework I am having done. As he’s grinding down the two adjacent teeth that will support the new dental devise, this I what I am hearing:

“I could while away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain
And my head I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain …”

Yes, I was being drilled on by … the Scarecrow from “The Wizard of Oz!”

And while it was a lovely rendition, I stopped him at the end of the chorus and said, “That’s not the most comforting thing to hear from the man with his hands in your mouth!”

He laughed and shot right back: “It’s all in the hands, my boy!”

And, indeed it is! I have complete confidence in my dentist, and in his ability to make my visits a pleasant experience. Now, when I think of the dentist, I don’t think of Orin Scrivello, DDS, the abusive and sadistic dentist and boyfriend to Audrey in “Little Shop of Horrors.”

And that is important, since your dental health has major bearing on your overall physical health. According to the renowned May Clinic, your oral health can give you clues about your overall health. (For the complete story, go to the Mayo Clinic.)

So as I approach my 60’s, I realize just how important good dental care is to my overall plan to live a long time! And having a dentist I can trust, one who cares about my pain, and one who makes sure I am totally comfortable as he cares for me is an important part of the team that will help me live into my 70’s and 80's (and beyond?) .

It helps that he has a great voice too!

Like I said, I have the best dentist in the world – for me.

Let Us Make Ourselves Perfectly Clear

I am a communicator by profession. It will be 43 years this July since my first byline in my local newspaper. I was just a few months shy of 16 and I was writing about a swimming meet – that I was in!

The whole “article" was about 15 inches in length – all of three inches was my stellar prose (and the coveted byline), the rest all results. Three lousy inches ….

I’ll wait while you make jokes here … OK, done?

I was hooked! One glance my name in bold face type was enough to propel me on a wonderful career that covered most of four decades.  But even with all my experience, I still find myself not communicating as well as I should with those around me. Oh, I do just fine when I am face-to-face with folks. It’s this damned Internet that is causing me to re-evaluate how I communicate.

Words on a computer screen have no context. There is no voice inflection. There is no facial expression to see, no body language to interpret. In short, we are sacrificing some of our most valuable and most accurate communication tools when we limit our communication to a chat room, or a social networking site.

Without our eyes and ears to add the much-needed context and attitude to a conversation, it is easy for misunderstanding to develop. Lives can change because one person’s interpretation of meaning is inaccurate or otherwise flawed. I once lost a job because my words, written in an email, were not read with the desired intent; the words I wrote were angry words and the point I was making was completely lost in the misinterpretation.

Sure, the Internet can be a great communication tool. We can converse with people anywhere on this planet through it, as well as do business 24 hours a day, seven days a week through it. It had made our vast planet a smaller, more accessible community.

But it has also spawned a generation of people for whom technology like the Internet is the norm, an army of techno-geeks who have reduced communication “dwn 2 jst a fw chrctrs.” And while I am more than sure anyone reading this will be able to “decipher” the end of that last sentence, I wonder if this generation realizes the value of good, fluent communication. And as much as it pains me to say this, I have become just as guilty of the sin of poor communication.

But no longer will I be part of the communication problem. My challenge to everyone is to make communicating a priority. Instead of talking at people, try talking to them.

You may be surprised at how much better you get along.

There's More at Stake Here Than Just Busting a Nut

OK, confession time: I like pornography. I have ever since I found that first nudist camp magazine under my dad’s bed at age seven or eight. I grew up looking at and being entertained by pornography, and I find it interesting and stimulating to this day.

I have been reading a lot about the industry in the mainstream press lately, particularly stories about Los Angeles’ new mandatory condom law and how the industry may have to leave L.A. because of it. All very alarming, all very disturbing news; seems the Land of the Free is shrinking …

Today I read about another trial that is about the end, the outcome of which will have major ramifications for not only the porn industry, but those of us citizens who buy it, watch it, and truly appreciate the artistic value in it (along with the stimulation is provides). The case I am talking about is United States v. Ira Isaacs.

If you aren’t familiar with Mr. Isaacs and his legal predicament, you can read all about it in detail in his Open Letter to the adult movie industry published just today on AVN’s website. In a nutshell, The U.S. Department of Justice prosecuted Mr. Isaacs for making porn that most would agree is outside the mainstream – his films, after all, feature people having sex with animals and people pooping and urinating on other people.

It’s called “bestiality” and “scat” for the unenlightened, and there are those among us who find these niches appealing. For the record, I am not a fan of either genre; there are plenty of other niches that draw my attention, including transsexual erotica. But reading about Mr. Isaacs’ obscenity trial got me thinking about the whole idea of pornography’s place in our society. And that got me thinking about one of the all-time great “B” horror movies, “Motel Hell.”

Did I lose you? Let me explain …

If you have not seen “Motel Hell” (1980, starring Rory Calhoun, a guy from “CHiPs” and the lady who played Miss Balbricker in “Porky’s”), here’s a brief description, courtesy of IMDb.com:

“Farmer Vincent (Calhoun) kidnaps unsuspecting travelers and is burying them in his garden. Unfortunately for his victims, they are not dead. He feeds his victims to prepare them for his roadside stand …”

Farmer Vincent, you see, makes jerky out of his guests at the little motel he and his sister operate. They are equal-opportunity ghouls, though; their gusts come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. It is, in fact, the couple’s motto that came to mind when I was reading about Ira Isaacs:

“It takes all kinds of critters to make Farmer Vincent’s fritters!”

Regardless of your opinion of what he does for a living, Mr. Isaacs has every right, under this country’s Constitution, to make whatever kind of porn he wants to make. The First Amendment guarantees it:

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

Unfortunately, the both the Bush and Obama administrations have been playing fast and loose with the Constitution, and where “W’ sought to take down the porn industry by going after the fringe element, such as Isaacs, Max Hardcore (who was convicted and imprisoned for his brand of erotica), and others, the goons from Barry-O’s DOJ are looking higher: they want to shut down the porn industry altogether.

Certainly the White House is involved in efforts to harass and harangue L.A.’s multi-billion-dollar porn industry, including the L.A. City Council’s recent ordinance requiring condoms on all porn sets within its jurisdiction.

What’s next? Mandatory birth control? State-sponsored sterilization? Thought police?

The jury has had Mr. Isaacs fate in their hands since last Friday. One can only hope those 12 individuals will agree that it does, indeed, take all kinds of critters. Otherwise, were heading for a scenario right out of “1984.”

And if that happens, we are all diminished by it. and it will mean one important thing:

George Orwell was off by about 30 years.

The Model of a Modern Major Generalization

Generally speaking, generalizations are good things. One can say that, generally, the weather in California is good, and you’d get little argument.

But what if you said simply, “I hate the weather in California because it never rains” then would that be an accurate assessment of the climate of the Golden State?

Hardly. It rains, sometimes for days.

So when someone says they are glad they see how a certain group of people behave because it keeps them from having relationships with them, that raises a red flag for me, particularly when I am a member of that larger group being maligned.

It’s a type of racism, actually. Like saying all Mexicans are lazy, all African-Americans have rhythm, and all Asians are bad drivers.

Or all men are just out to get in your pants, or that all women are bitches. Certainly, there are men among us who think with their penis, just as there are any number of unreasonable women walking the Earth.

If you’re going to comment on the behavior of a certain group of folks, you might want to leave the generalizations in you tool bag and go right for specifics. Makes it easier for people to comprehend your position; takes the guesswork out of the equation.

And that generally makes for a happier life.

Some Pain Never Goes Away

I have been told recently that I have a great smile; a little crooked from an ill-conceived leap into a shallow pool, but pretty good nonetheless. It is my calling card. People respond positively to a smile as opposed to a frown, or even a neutral expression.

My smile hides a lot of pain, though. Think Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown.”

“Now if there's a smile on my face,
it's only there tryin' to fool the public,
but when it comes down to foolin' you;
Now honey, that's quite a different subject.
But don't let my glad expression
give you the wrong impression.
Really I'm sad.
I'm sadder than sad.
You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad.
Like a clown I pretend to be glad.

Now there's some sad things known to man,
but ain't too much sadder than
the tears of a clown

when there's no one around …”

It’s a love song, really, about a man whose true love leaves him. Try as he might, he just can’t hide that from those around him:

“Just like Pagliacci did,
I try to keep my sadness hid.
smilin' in the public eye
while in my lonely room I cry
the tears of a clown
when there's no one around.”

I can identify with this song, not because of a heart broken by lost romance, but from lost love. Yes, there is a difference. Romantic love grows within us when we find another person who appeals to our visual and emotional sensibilities. We become infatuated, and sometimes, that leads to a deeper feeling of attachment, or identification, which we call “love.”

Truly, though, it is not love, not real love. Real love is that thing we have with those in our lives who have lived what we have lived, who have been there when we celebrated and when we mourned. These people don’t stop loving you because you are stupid; nor do they love you more when you are smart. Their love is constant, unwavering, unquestioned and unquestionable, unconditional.

They are called “family.”

I have shed a few tears over romantic love in my time. Anyone who has been married and divorced three times is likely to have good reason for a good cry – over lost love and lost possessions. Both of those, by the way, can be replaced. I have cried far more tears for those family members who are no longer with me, though.  They are irreplaceable.

We all grow up knowing that someday, mom and dad will pass on. It doesn’t make it any easier when it happens, but we recognize that death is a part of life (the very last part).

Not a day goes by that I do not think about mom and dad. I miss them very much, but I accept the dynamic nature of living and dying, and I can accept that two people who lived on this planet for 75 years are no longer around.

The tears I shed for them are fewer by the day.

I wish could say the same for the tears I shed for my little sister.

Forty-six years is nowhere near long enough, but that’s all Debbie got. Most of those were spent in misery, fighting against an insidious disease that eventually sapped her of all her strength and robbed her of the joy of living a full life.

For Debbie, I cry often. Today is one such instance. I woke up missing her and by the time I had fully awakened with a big glass of Naked Juice “Blue Machine,” the funk was in full bloom and the tears began to fall.

I miss Debbie every day. She was my best friend, my confidant, my confessor. She knew all my secrets, and I hers. And when I really needed someone to talk to, she was always there. She gave me strength to be who I am, without apology, without recrimination, without blame.

Coming from a Southern Baptist upbringing (you might be surprised to know I am licensed to preach), repression was the rule of the day. Keep those feelings inside you; don’t let anyone know you think differently. Debbie understood that, and offered that calm port in my stormy life as I attempted to reconcile my feelings with what I had been taught to believe.

We thought alike, Debbie and me. Same sick, twisted minds. I really miss that too.

So much so that I regularly sit in my office and cry like a big lost baby. I may have been the older brother, but she was truly my big sister in so many ways.

And now she’s gone. And for that, I cry … tears of a clown, when there’s no one around.

Chasing - and catching - a dream

For nearly 10 years now, I have been chasing a dream. It began in 2002 when I returned to college after nearly 25 years. My last attempt at higher education ended like all my previous attempts – with a handful of drop slips.

This time would be very different.

Using the paltry few units I had managed to accumulate between canasta games, handball matches, and hanging out in the offices of the school newspaper and marching band, I enrolled for a third try at the local community college and completed work on my Associate of Arts degree in journalism. After 30 years in the newspaper business, I needed only to complete my general education requirements to get the A.A., and I did that in three semesters (four if you count the one I took off to have both of my knees replaced!)

My Bachelor of Arts degree took just five quarters at the local state university, even though I chose to specialize in public relations in an effort to diversify. I worked hard and graduated cum laude – my GPA would have been higher except for those units from the community college that were 30-plus years old; they were passing but not outstanding by any stretch of the imagination. But armed now with the degree, I found a teaching job at a career college and my dream seemed to have come true.

Funny thing, though. In order to continue teaching, I realized I would need more education – a master’s degree would be required if I wanted to continue. So I found an online program in business communication (the local university does not offer anything beyond a BA in communications) and in two years, I had a Master of Arts degree in business communication. As a bonus, I had managed to complete all 12 courses with a 4.0 grade-point average.

Summa cum laude, baby!

Finally, I had realized the potential every elementary school teacherd written about on my report cards! As a curious side effect, I found I was hooked on learning, a veritable knowledge junkie. Classes ended and I found myself yearning for more. So with just a month off to regroup, I embarked on the ultimate educational challenge: a doctoral degree.

That was 2009. Now, in two weeks, the first and most grueling part of the doctoral journey will be over. That’s when my 15^th and final doctoral course ends. Barring a natural disaster, I will notch my 15^th “A” as well (that makes 27 in a row), earning me another summa laurel.

It is also when the challenge ramps up and we will find out just exactly what I have learned.

It is called the “Doctoral Comprehensive Exam.” My school, Capella University, describes doctoral study as being a two-phased study. The exam (aka “comps”) is the culmination of the academic portion of the process, the “capstone.” The dissertation is the research portion of the degree program, and I will be embarking on that immediately upon passing the comps.

Three questions; 15 pages each maximum, not counting cover and reference pages; 28 calendar days to respond; all without any help.

No help at all. Can’t even discuss the questions with family or friends. Not even the dog. The school is very explicit about this:

“Learners who share their comprehensive exams questions with anyone besides their comprehensive examination facilitator or who receive or solicit any coaching, review, or editing from any person or resource in the development or writing of the responses to their comprehensive examination questions are … subject to receiving a “no pass” decision and possible dismissal from the university.” (Capella SOBT Comprehensive Exam Manual, 2012)

There is no doubt that the questions will be difficult, and the challenge to answer them completely will be substantial. But I know I will be up for the challenge, because despite the above warning, I will have three people helping me get through it: my father, my mother, and my little sister. All three of my family members share two things: none of them finished high school, and they were my biggest supporters in my quest until the day they each died.

I lost dad to emphysema three weeks before I received my A.A. Mom made it through the B.A, but passed a month before I received my M.A. Debbie, my only sibling, died in the summer of 2010, unable to fight off a staph infection after years of battling a major case of psoriasis that eventually invaded her entire body.

I’ll never forget Debbie’s last day. She and I spent about an hour and a half together in her hospital room, laughing and crying together. She made me promise, no matter what happened to her, I would finish my doctoral studies. “Mom and dad were so proud of you, and so am I,” she said. I promised her I would see this through, kissed her on the forehead, and told her I would be back the next day to see her.

Two hours later, she was gone.

So I have pressed on, sometimes against my own doubts and fears, and in two weeks, I will take a big step toward fulfilling that promise. And I know the three of them will be there for me, if only in my heart.

Farewell, Daydream Believer

After driving to Los Angeles Wednesday for a meeting and dinner with a friend, and returning home just a few ticks shy of midnight, I found myself less than motivated today. I was awakened by the energetic scratching of my poodle, Bo, on the bedroom door at 8:30 after crawling into bed around 2 a.m. Needless to say, I am dragging a little bit today.

As usual, my day started with a check of the headlines, and that immediately reminded me of something my dinner companion of the previous evening has said to me.

"Davy Jones of the Monkees died."

The words registered with me, but my distraction with my dinner companion pushed processing of that information to the back of my mind, where it remained until this morning. The headline added to my mood: "Monkees star dead of heart attack at 66."

Having grown up with Davy, Peter Tork, Mike Nesmith, and Mickey Dolenz on my television once a week made them feel like friends. My sister, who was a pre-teen at the time, had a mad crush on Jones that she carried into adulthood. Once, at a music festival in Minnesota I was covering for my paper, I met and interviewed the diminutive Englishman. He graciously signed my reporter's notebook: "To Debbie, Daydream Believer! Love Davy Jones" (For years after and until her death in 2010, my sister contended that I had signed it myself. But I swear, Davy Jones signed my book!)

Watching Jones on stage that evening back those many years ago reminded me how much energy the Monkees poured into their weekly romps. It was the Keystone Cops with long hair and silly clothes … who also happened to be a band. The hijinks were peripheral to the music; this was way before MTV and music video was conceived and the television show was a premise to market the band and its music.

It was fun back then, and the music is still fun today. I have “Pleasant Valley Sunday” on my iPod, and I cranked it as I drove home tonight from my class. It seemed appropriate.

Rest in peace, David Jones.