Leaving New York: True Love

Track Four #TrueLove

He loved Central Park. It gave him a feeling of liberation from confined space; oozing out of the pores of the freest city in the world--of possibilities outside its verdant borders. Staring out at the Park, the reality of his abrupt exit from FormCorp nearly suffocated him this evening on the way to the airport; slowly making his way north on Fifth Avenue, a sad soundtrack playing in the dark limousine.

The four years spent in Manhattan exceeded every dream he’d had of life in the City that Never Sleeps. It breathed life into him every morning as he walked the concrete canyons to work, even trudging through grey, slushy snow. As CEO of a wholly-owned subsidiary, he spent four years immersed in FormCorp and the culture of the financial district. Large corporations have diverse networks and traditions so ingrained they live like old families, oblivious to their dysfunction and set in their ways. With many of his ideas ignored or marginalized by the parent company and on the verge of a leadership shift; he’d decided to leave without much fanfare. It was time to go, but the city's twinkle faded before his eyes, refracted by tears. The city was moving on without him.

As an outsider from New York, coming into lead a major division was a difficult challenge; the ethos of this culture was an elitist brand of excellence, and every team was a team of type-A leaders. As hard as it was to gain the high ground in his group within the larger corporation, the years had flown by in “New York time,” making this evening’s final ride even more shocking. This was it. He was leaving her. The end of a short, torrid love affair, doomed from the beginning. How appropriate that the driver, Mike; like a friend by now, slipped Coldplay’s latest reflective album "Ghost Stories" into the stereo system; a musical representation of his crushed, defeated torpor. He lifelessly leaned against the door staring out at the city bustling by, seemingly like a lover fading down and away on a busy street, lost in the crowds.

He would miss the wild changes in seasons, fashionistas, the art, and the word-on-the street. Dining in Manhattan always presented challenges, but he enjoyed the “hunt” of finding just the right place to eat. Often you didn’t brag about some local discovery because you wanted to keep it to yourself, keep it from being overrun. Here, everything moved with such a velocity; from public opinion, to speeding cabs, the rise and fall of the markets, even the lithe Central Park “joggers” had a running pace he always envied. This was the City of the World; nothing like it.

["Most other American municipalities are segregated by class and culture, education and personal choice. But in New York everybody is jumbled up together and bounced around until you have African princes walking side by side with Appalachian Daughters of the American Revolution, and aspiring starlets making room for hopeful housewives past their prime. Even with real estate costs climbing above the reach of almost everyone, you can still find all the elements of humanity riding #1 train down under the West Side of Manhattan."

--Walter Mosley (The Long Fall 2009)]

His company spent a lot of time helping its leaders learn what to do, say, how write email, or drive production and profits; however, not enough time was spent helping those same leaders learn what to stop doing. His early mistake was not in governance of his team, but failing to ask the right questions about the company which owned FormCorp. Before he even took the job in New York, he could have delved deeply into its leadership structure and how its centralized nature diluted the power of the divisional CEOs. Like why did the Executive VP working closely with the President & Chairman have the right meddle in his operation? She wasn’t above him on the org chart, but he couldn’t get her out of his business: "that's just not how we do it at FormCorp," was the mantra; but he believed that without freedom and creativity, collaboration looks like conformity.

His ability to change or even accommodate the executive leadership team of FormCorp’s parent company was slight in the first year of his tenure; and yet business practices they couldn’t stop doing would be the harbinger of his end, even though three years later. This may seem as minutiae out of a MBA class; but power struggles are as old as time; and it came down to that.

Taking a risky leap exposes one to all sorts of danger and timing is everything.

He’d heard those bromides forever, but their truth hung on every word of the songs Chris Martin sang this lonely evening. His family had moved back to California already, giving him time to close up his tenure at FormCorp and exit the city. All the “what-ifs” had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks, as the end approached; he’d even considered taking some time off to consider resurgence--staying in the position but taking a different approach. Ultimately, it was the permanent finality of this trip out of town making him feel so broken, ancient, and sad--and gone.

 “It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young.” ― Joan Didion, from Slouching Towards Bethlehem  

Stuck in traffic on Fifth Avenue, listening to Coldplay’s transparent, very personal CD, “Ghost Stories,” he recognized that his sorrow was different than Chris Martin; but they both carried bruised and tattered hearts. The melancholy of the fourth song, “True Love” played as a soundtrack to his grieving; lament reflecting back off the tall glass towers peering over the Park. Going to the airport on his last trip out of town lifted the burden of his corporate battle against dysfunction; even though physically, he slumped down, hidden in the dark leather seat like it was a cave. His sentiment was mournful, even weeping, like Jonny Buckland's ethereal guitar solo toward the end of the track. She couldn't look him in the eye as she left, that was the worst of it.

Darkness engulfed like none before. A long, successful run in this business made him to this point unaware of the pain of rejection or the agony of defeat. He saw his underlings and some friends endure disaster before, and subconsciously, he probably knew that renewed growth would come out of this day; yet on this drive none of that coalesced in his mind. For a while he was in control, but he lost it. He sobbed. Unbelieving, agonizing with regret. The song was about a pain too great to face:

"Tell me you love me, New York; if you don't, then lie. It can’t be over. Lie to me."

(end)

#Fiction ©Mark H. Pillsbury (2014)
©Coldplay 6th album "Ghost Stories" rel. by Atlantic Records in N Am. on 05/19/2014

Part VI: Code Yellow Series (Aircraft Carrier Fiction, Ripped from the Headlines)

The Trashy Side of Life on Aircraft Carriers

(Persian Gulf) A wide array of vessels, called a Strike Group, sail with one nuclear powered aircraft carrier like CVN-74; indeed, much of the writing in the “Code Yellow” series involves the actions of this Strike Group’s fictional air-wing; featuring a squadron led its dynamic leader, Lieutenant Harrington. (See previous posts)

Part One:  http://goo.gl/YOCE0V

Part Two:  http://goo.gl/fetXVg

Part Three:  http://goo.gl/Tv7Z2o

Part Four:  http://goo.gl/rv1IFK 

Part Five: http://goo.gl/7z1757 

Other ships include three destroyers carrying Aegis weapons, some even equipped with tactical, “Tomahawk” cruise missiles. As if this Posse rode out to battle feeling unprepared, lurking underneath the roiling sea is a pair of attack submarines also armed with vertical launch systems and protected from above by ten “angels,” known as antisub warfare-helicopters.

Zipping in and around the group like a concierge with ADD, is a handy, multipurpose, fast, combat support ship; coordinating operations so that all of the necessary supplies and parts are available to this large peace-keeping force.

Called a peace-keeping force because an aircraft carrier is the most powerful forward deployed tool of United States foreign policy ever devised, CVN-74 floats as if a city, housing close to 5,500 people. Few countries have even one carrier, the United States has 10; and yet most of the US Navy sailors want to peacefully circumnavigate the globe for six months, see the world, have some fun, and return to port without any provocation. How carriers are used is up to politicians; how carriers function is up to unrecognized hundreds of resourceful young sailors.

Non-combatant support ships straddle alongside others in the group, about 150 yards apart; passing even bulky supplies via heavy, long ropes in a fashion ships employed hundreds of years ago. This replenishment allows the group to remain at sea for prolonged periods. Barrels of fuel (both for the aircraft and for the ships), other petroleum products, ammunition, provisions, and various vital supplies transverse through this crude system of exchange, sometimes done in vaulting seas.

Returning to these nimble non-combatant support ships is often the unpleasant remnants of thousands of citizens of these large sea-faring cities; separated, segmented by type, and compressed into large round “pucks” ready to be submitted for re-cycling. Bio-degradable waste is either burned, or dumped into the sea, like greywater; while blackwater is stored and later treated.

This story skates around these pucks like a hockey team playing in the Stanley Cup© finals; they are the work product of an unsung group of enlisted Seamen, mostly the lowest ranking workers on the ship, E-3 and below, who receive this assignment in a 90-day rotation.

 

They are officially FSAs (food-service attendants), exiled to the fourth deck below, deep in the innards of the hull, near the stern. With almost half of the ship’s inhabitants in the air-wing; 3,000 support staff, called the “company,” operate below the main flight deck, the stage which dominates movies and shows depicting life onboard.

18,000 meals a day produced garbage in all varieties: a few mess-attendants gather, divide, classify, and dispose of piles of waste in a process called, “mess-cranking,” comparable to the digestive system of a gigantic beast. It’s not the material of movies like Top Gun; you wouldn’t want this job if you were in prison.

“Another fine Navy day, sir!” He saluted the Chief Petty Officer.

“Right, right;” “we’re all thrilled to be here, Seaman Pellegrino, but your sunny attitude is not going to get those canisters cranked up!”

During the first extended cruise of his Navy career, the slight, Detroit 19-year old lands on every shit-list on the boat; one of the lowest ranking enlisted men in his section.

“I’m grateful my rotation is early in the cruise,” he said to his friend.

Sean was thinking, “If I knew about mess-cranking when I signed-up; it would have caused me to think twice about the big ol’ U. S. Navy?”

Drawing closer, glued to an ashen-gray conveyor-belt 3-yards wide, little clumps of trash separated crudely above in the cafeteria quarters; wheeled along a squeaky, slimy, stinky delivery belt. Sean cleaned off any residue from recyclables and flung them into Kelly-green receptacles resembling the trash containers of any suburban street. They’re called, “puck trucks.”

Across from Sean on belt-duty worked a stout, young Seaman named Vincente Vasquez from Texas. He was obscured by a plastic mask, the face shield worn by riot-police, or dental hygienists; but his was smarmy and cloudy from hours battling against the droning, descendant highway of refuse.

“Vince, did you see the movie last night?” With long arms, Vince craned and plucked dexterously; as discriminating as a jewel dealer, but as dazed as a sleepwalker.

“You know I don’t like Hockey—I like Los Spurs; and I was born 15 years after that damn game, man;” referring dismissively to the 2004 inspirational movie about the 1980 USA Hockey team.

“Like we say down here, drop the puck dude—drop. the. puck.” Sean shouted over the wonky belt, “ours are probably 100 times bigger, Vince; we could let Jaegers play Hockey with the pucks we make, you know-what-I-mean, Vince?”

Sean loved movies and sometimes the carrier movie-house showed older, corny, sports movies like “Miracle,” but the most popular are the modern Sci-fi flicks like “Pacific Rim.”

Vincente would rather workout on his free nights, but since mess-cranking ruined his appetite; he couldn’t keep his weight up to the standard training required.

Sean envisioned to himself what it would be like to be compressed into a large “puck” 36-inches in diameter and 12-inches thick; similar to the ones they stored in the ship’s walk-in cooler. Refrigerating the pucks, the Navy astutely discovered, reduced their more malodorous qualities.

Boilers constantly hissed, their steam drowning out other sounds like mechanical tinnitus; yet, the slow, wobbly creak of the constantly turning conveyor belt prompted him to look down.

Gleaming and proud, above deck in crisp blue Navy garb, washed and cleaned of the grease and grime of his tedious job; Sean Pellegrino looked and even felt of himself, that he was actually part of the modern #Navy, hashtags and all?

“How did I end up below the waterline of a ship over 1,000 feet long, plowing my way through the Persian Gulf’s dark waters,” he pondered. “I’m sorting trash for God’s sake, like a robot in some post-apocalyptic movie I saw while in port; just a gear in the bowels of a massive mechanism.”

Sean thought, “we dump out plastic pellets like 21^st century industrial poop; later sold on the global market, as if roasted Arabica beans. How cheaply commoditized I’ve become?” If there was still a city like his father’s Detroit; this negative motion, end-process, conveyor-belt, would be a vast assembly-line for upwardly-mobile American drivers; supplying the market with shiny, sleek automotive boats painted colorfully, accented with chrome?

Vince worked quickly, “Sean, c’mon—can you come to the party?” He sorted for both of them while Sean drifted off.

Struggling to interpret the ship’s detritus, staring at the conveyor belt; Sean subconsciously searched for ominous signs. “I was on dry land for awhile; sorry,” as he got back to work, apologizing; using a common synonym of the ship’s slang for day-dreaming.

When the steam operated catapult coiled tight, violently tense (enough to throw a 32,000-pound FA-18 Super Hornet hurling into artificial flight), the explosive release of raw, physical, propulsive power four decks above, shook them in their filthy, fouled, rolling office chairs; converted for cranking by removing the armrests and backs.

Rolling slightly backward, and looking skyward Sean screamed, “Before we get back, I’d like to work on the flight deck, just once!” Either jealousy, fantasy, or both fueled this imagining; life in the dim, excretory dungeon of the carrier stimulated such thoughts as an antidote for futility, misery, and boredom, which bordered on depression, until just about the 85^th day of “crank” duty.

Compressed like garbage, yet stretched to the breaking point by dreary, tedious, unpleasant shifts deep in the ship; these crankers felt entombed; which often turned into simmering rage, nothing like heroes.

“Copy that, Tomcat,” replied Vince, muttering under his breath, “aye, baboso.”

The entire shift they bandied back-and-forth like a married couple; keeping desperation at bay, forbidding it to get a word in edgewise. Unlike the aviators, who endured long periods of boredom, punctuated by flights of sheer terror; E-3 mess grunts acted in slow motion, anesthetized by sound, smell, and sadness. They were the Navy’s coal miners—trapped beneath earthen piles of garbage; trying hopelessly to breathe, making sense of the rubbish by gathering and grouping, grabbing and dumping… as if one could make freshwater out of the sea.

Part 6 of Carrier Fiction copyright©2014 by Mark H. Pillsbury

*fair use of any copyrighted material shown above such as pictures, is not an infringement of federal copyright laws, per 17 U.S.C. 107*



Golf's Holy Week: The Metaphor of the Masters

Golf's Holy Week: The Metaphor of the Masters

In a sports-saturated culture like the U.S., people compare themselves to the games they like to play. Reading the newspaper, magazines, television, even sermons use sports to illustrate their points of view. Businessmen refer to moving their players around the chessboard of the market; using the “team” analogy in almost every presentation about their groups.

The Masters®

Bobby Jones (co-founder) on the course

If there is a “holy week” in golf’s religious calendar this is the week. We’ve hosted the PGA Tour® in Houston and all of golf’s attention now focuses on Augusta, Georgia and the Masters® which is the first and most prestigious major tournament; a tradition unlike any other. Most golf fans consider this the official start of golf season, like NASCAR®’s Daytona 500; and they worship Augusta as some sort of mythical Shangri-La location, like mecca to where all golfers hope to ascend. My two favorite Masters tournaments were 1984 and 1995 both won by Texas Longhorn Ben Crenshaw in dramatic fashion; yet first time winners Larry Mize (1987) and Phil Mickelson (2004) were the most remarkable and rewarding for the players as professionals.  

I’ve previously written a blog post about golf (August 2011):  http://bit.ly/1qdrHkV

I look forward to watching the Masters® broadcast over the weekend, in part because it includes so few commercials. Even though they appear on the same network, seemingly every game-break during MarchMadness® necessitated another loud advertisement. Everything about the Masters® telecast radiates the soft pastel beauty of an azalea spring; even the music, narration, and camera angles. (Full disclosure: this is the first time I’ll watch it in full-HDTV!)

From the concessions (burger, chips, and a beer for $6.50), to the bathrooms (all have attendants), to the pro shop (ship directly from UPS next-door), and the immaculate condition of the grounds (no cart paths), the event exudes pure southern class more than any commercial sporting venue. Many consider this tournament the highest priority for viewing in the entire year of sports; more important than the SuperBowl®--put simply, because of its “old school” charm.

Like chess, with its distinctive board, players, and strategic moves; golf involves fighting against an opponent in an intensely mental competition. I propose that golf provides an excellent canvass on which to paint the metaphor of life; but it is difficult game to embrace.

As a family man, golf extracts a certain amount of guilt as a result of dedicating half a day to the game. It’s inconvenient, expensive, and elitist. By elitist I don’t mean snobby, but the fellowship of golfers is not broad like sports we all play as youngsters. Like scotch, one develops a taste for golf later in life; however it is a “human” game with great historical significance.

Although many complain about its archaic and cumbersome format and rules, the handicap system gives an egalitarian opportunity for any player to challenge any fellow golfer to a match. Each golfer is equally weighted against the other based on the difficulty of the individual holes and how many shots the weaker player is given. It’s pretty cool.

After a long time apart, I re-acquainted myself with golf last October on a beautiful Sunday when all conditions were right for a game. KHOU-TV ran a story about the old Gus Wortham Park falling into disrepair and the city’s intent to re-organize the golf course or even demolish it. My family was out of town and the weather was perfect. The story provided me with the opportunity to learn some local history and get some casual exercise as well.

The city bought this course from the old HCC in 1972, and I curiously drove far into east Houston to find this historic site, originally designed in 1908. I suspected that it would be a classic styled shorter course, with cousins in Fort Worth, Austin, Oak Cliff, and Hermann Park. Besides, wasting another Sunday on the Texans or Cowboys did not seem like the best use of my time. The day provided a serene atmosphere and an enjoyable round; nature’s beauty combined with man’s ingenuity. The quiet solitude, the fall breeze, the beautiful pastoral setting; all combined for a therapeutic session of reflection and escape.

I decided to re-approach golf with lowered expectations. My game is weaker with no practice and ancient equipment, my attitude was simple: it’s a nice day, just go play! I lean toward hitting range balls for stress relief, my performance never exceeds inconsistency, flashes of brilliance, or the perfectionism bred by watching too much televised professional golf. My conscious goal was to learn the course by studying its terrain, grass, and greens; as well as walk the course in the pure golf tradition, taking care not to compare myself to any other golfer on this beautiful day. Secretly, I wanted to see the amber sunset over the last green as I finished the round, but I wasn’t sure I could finish all 18-holes that evening. Other than that, I held no agenda for this fresh round of golf.

One can learn about golf at an early age in “Junior Golf;” it’s like Sunday school—basic and easy to consume, but fundamental to proper mechanics. Even so, golf and life get more complicated when you get out onto the course and each shot presents risks & rewards, challenges & hazards. Learning the game early in life doesn’t guarantee future success, but like the scriptures admonish, raise a child right and when they grow up they will not depart from the Lord’s ways.

I resisted the innate urge to focus on completing tasks successfully. After a life of competition, the meticulous score-keeping of golf would naturally attract me, right? Yet, it isn’t a perfectionist’s game—they left the course long ago. Golf in all its complexity and seriousness is a game of grace. Like life, for those of us in the big, competent, average middle, golf reflects the ceaseless requirement of circumstances in life requiring mercy, patience, and forgiveness. 

Simple elegance or refinement of movement describes the subtle “grace” of a golf swing. I mean grace as a temporary exemption, a reprieve from the harsh criticism deserved for plunking a ball right in the water hazard. Grace in golf holds the hope that the next shot will be better, and finishing the round successfully generates smiles and the peace of mind enjoyed from simply playing the wonderful game on a pretty day. Grace is good for us, so golf is good for us. I keep trying this difficult game both for the good of the game and for the good of me!
 
Golf is like life in that every day is like every hole or every shot; it must be embraced one step at a time, and we cannot lose focus of our own vision, focus, or swing. Without concentration and balance, along with rhythm and confidence, I tend to rear back and hack at the ball with questionable results. The beauty of golf’s structure is that even after the worst hole, the score is written on the card and you proceed to the next hole. All the previous good or bad is forgiven and forgotten. [Jack Nicklaus, after making a quadruple-bogey 7 at the 12th hole of Augusta in 1991 and then making four consecutive birdies, said: "You have to put such things out of your mind."]

Each shot requires individual consideration and execution just like every day of our lives. The past is gone, the future uncertain; all that exists is the shot before you right now. Alistair Cooke said, “Golf is an open exhibition of overweening ambition, courage deflated by stupidity, skill scoured by a whiff of arrogance.” I’ve always remembered the great courses and the good shots, even years later.

“What makes the Masters different from the other 3 majors? Every shot was a summation of every shot played in my whole career. As fans, or as an announcer, one senses that. We very rarely see quick, careless swings at the Masters. Poor shots, yes, but never lax ones. Only the Masters brings that out.”  --Nick Faldo as told to Jim Nantz

Each hour is a swirling storm of thoughts, feelings, desires, etc.  Some are good, some are bad, like golf rounds with sweet shots and balls in the water hazard.  The rules of golf established by the Royal and Ancient Golf Club at St. Andrews Scotland are similar to God’s established moral standards, telling us which actions are good and which are bad.  Romans 7 says we should resist the bad impulses and cultivate the good.  A person's feelings vary hour-by-hour, just as my mood changes every shot and every hole on the golf course; yet they don’t change the standards of the game, even when I desperately want them to.

Character in life and golf is doing what is right when no one is watching; golf’s intense culture of self-regulation, and long held gentlemanly standards reflect daily life as much as any game I’ve played. The final day of The Masters® Tournament provides heightened drama: golfers' caddies traversing the back-nine like sherpas, competitors matching birdie for birdie with shot after shot. The greens of Amen Corner, with undulations and tricky pin placements call out for shots like the "Sirens," living on three small, rocky islands enticing golfers, but ultimately causing them to crash their ships into them, sinking their hopes for winning. ##

Scattershooting:

Dan Jenkins, covering the Masters® for his 63^rd year:

"I can only tell you that eggs, country ham, biscuits, a pot of coffee, a morning paper, a table by the window overlooking the veranda and putting green, listening to the idle chitchat of competitors, authors, wits and philosophers; hasn't exactly been a torturous way to begin each day at the Masters all these years." (end quote)

The Masters®

[2014 Tournament Facts:

• This is the 78th Masters Tournament
• 97 players were invited to play this year (six are amateurs)
• 25% of the players have never played this tournament before
• The favorite to win, Tiger Woods will miss the tournament this year for the first time since he was an amateur...
• Defending champ: First-time winner Adam "Ozzie" Scott (only 3 winners repeated)
• It is the only major where a winner hasn't shot in the 60s for all four (4) rounds in victory
• Coverage Thursday and Friday on ESPN
• Coverage of the final two rounds is on CBS
• Wall-to-wall coverage on Westwood One and SiriusXM satellite radio]

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Taking Potshots at Potholes

Taking Potshots at Potholes:

Public Stewardship & Public Enemy #1

An immediate gratification, “rock-star” culture says, “you can have it all;” so why can’t the City of Houston have sexy parks, bridges, trails, foliage, bayou views, separate paths for bikers and runners; as well as smooth streets without potholes?

 

Citizen drivers weave around on decaying streets, further burdening them as they try to live their stressful lives. A smooth ride is interrupted by a sudden jolt, unexpected and jarring. Pressure builds, heightened by the inconvenience and pain of traffic in Houston: too many people going in the same direction at the same time. I believe that minimally, our government owes us good roads, just as it says it owes its citizens equal justice under law. Don't you agree?

As my car’s under-carriage rattles over concrete crevasses, dodging massive cracks in our pavement the size of the San Andreas Fault; there’s no avoiding the havoc wreaked by this civic catastrophe. If you’ve ever survived the gauntlet of Houston’s potholes in almost any neighborhood, look at the vehicle in front of you as the road tries to eat it alive; most of our automobiles weren’t made for this kind of abuse. Watch the violent shaking and jostling  of the car’s suspension in front of you; if you see natural mechanical reactions then let me know: it looks horrible to me.

Blogging about this problem is my humble attempt to echo satirist Paddy Chayefsky’s famous line spoken by the outrageous Howard Beale in Network (1976). Don't view my effort as caricature; indeed, my hopes are that at least one local elected official, even the Honorable Mayor, would read this and know that there are thousands of honest, taxpaying citizens of this city that are thinking the same irate thoughts but don’t have the time, voice, or platform to yell out from their car windows:

"I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!"

(MGM, 1976)

Buffalo Bayou Park stretches over 10 miles from Shepherd to the central business district with a wide variety of public recreational areas on both sides of the bayou. Multiple years and millions have produced a gem for all Houstonians. I’m not anti-park or anti-public recreation; this new area along the bayou is Houston’s answer to Central Park. Having exercised in this area, it's clear it is a wonderful addition to our public life; however, I also drive hundreds of miles all over Houston’s lousy streets, bouncing from one canyon to another in the regular roadways of our city. To which person do we cater? The commuter or the tri-athlete; the delivery truck or the strolling mommy? If the solution is not unlimited taxation; civic priorities must constantly be weighed like a personal budget: wants versus needs?

 

Buffalo Bayou Park Under Construction

I’m not complaining that there are as many construction cranes and concrete trucks barreling along Houston’s roads as any city in the country. There is inconvenience in “progress;” just as the drought and roots of our massive live oaks buckle the ground underneath the road beds.

 

This blog-post is heavy on advocacy and light on blame; potholes surpassed mosquitoes as public enemy #1 in the bayou city—the solution is not complicated: spray for pests and patch the holes in every neighborhood. If NASA can put spaceships into orbit, our elected representatives can fix the plague of potholes. One district, one street at a time!

 

This chastisement of public stewardship finds root in the recent wasting of city funds on non-performing investments like red-light cameras (Civil settlement, $12MM), or Astrodome maintenance ($1MM/annually). One repaired hole costs $20, so I'd trade a dark Astrodome for 50,000 less potholes, wouldn't you? And this pothole-burden isn’t an isolated situation; there are other city's municipal budgets shrouded in debt, or floundering in mismanagement whose streets engulf drivers too. On the other hand, this city is booming; there’s no reason all our gasoline taxes can’t fix the crumbling roads. It's a management problem Houston; but where is the political will to fix it? Is anyone listening?

 

(Ever heard the joke; Q: How many City of Houston workers does it take to fill a pothole? A: 9!)

 

Government at the local level is about as basic as it gets in politics! This isn’t about Super-PACs, Hilary Rodham-Clinton, or Meet the Press. CNBC’s Rev. Al Sharpton won’t stoop so low as to talk about potholes, because they don’t involve race. Nevertheless, this political message carries immediate impact: the same way my car shakes with a boom; unexpectedly careening over a gaping chasm of concrete. If Houston is a first-class, global city; it should act like it.

Mayors famously lose their elected offices for not clearing snow or rescuing stranded citizens in a hurricane? The key component of a city government is their Budget: it’s the city’s business plan. Whether to spend important budget dollars on one project over another (especially when they're both good) provides circumstances in city government critical to quality of life in the town. Even in a city as large as Houston, tough choices can cost elected officials their jobs. Now is this sort of time. I’m urging our city government to drive around the streets and realize the embarrassing condition of the roads: pocked and pitted, gaping gashes, ribbons running like giant fissures; streets grey and cratered like the Moon's surface. While running along our largest bayou is a newly constructed, pristine fitness path:

Trail under the Waugh Bridge

Unlike Howard Beale, I’m not trying to get you to do anything. No class-action lawsuit, no riots, don’t call your favorite talk show on AM Radio, don’t even write your Congressman. I wouldn’t know what to say to a Congressman anyway. They answer your letters with canned forms, computer-generated rhetoric, anyway?! If you feel led; communicate however you feel comfortable. If you hear me, forward someone a link to my blog. I’m speaking for you right now by saying, "I'm mad as hell about these terrible Houston roads ruining my nice car!” 

Scenes from the Pothole Playhouse: 

(Screaming)
(Citizen): “I'm not going to take this horse-pookey anymore; our city has enough money to fix the potholes; if it would just use the political capital to do so;” he adds, "I'll be the chairman of the Pothole Task Force."

(Pointing accusingly)
(Second citizen): “For once, do something practical with our money; not just what gets the fancy attention, like a pretty new Park!” “Jeez, dude. Do your job, or let someone else try…” "It's not that darn complicated."

 

 Op-ed©2014—Mark H. Pillsbury (Houston, Texas)

Follow more on Twitter® (@markpills) 

[Serious Legal Disclaimer:  thoughts expressed here are my own, and do not represent the political opinions of any group, organization, or corporation with which I associate. The first amendment and the rules of the blogosphere protect all the free speech exercised herein. This doesn't represent a political cause or party, nor does it endorse a particular candidate. If an elected official feels offense or shame over the subject matter of this post, their response is out of my control, and they need to take a long look in the mirror.]

All pictures are ©2014—Mark H. Pillsbury (Houston, Texas) #nofilter

 

-30-

 

These Old Boots

These Old Boots:
A Personification of Life and Literature

“Antique,” “vintage,” or “retro,” typically describes older furniture, cars, or equipment; but between the learning years of college and midlife, my “old” Red Wing® boots became personal relics—walking me through life. Since 1983, in Austin, Texas, they’ve watched three very active decades fly by; taking a lot of abuse along the way.

These boots cut down Cedar trees in the Hill Country and climbed the steps of higher learning at UT’s Old Main. Leo Schuster had a pair once, just like these. These tough old partners trudged to courthouses and jails all over North Texas, and they’ve had all sorts of spirits spilled on them at Greenville Avenue, or near the Crescent, in Dallas, on McKinney. Robert "Gig'em" Doggett polished them up one time after he lost a bet on the UT/A&M game. These trail blazers searched the creek bottoms of the Trinity River with the best DA investigator I’ve ever seen, George Espinosa; and they’ve helped Bill Bratton defend a murder trial in Ellis County. Red Wing® boots supposedly never wear out; although they have been torn, scuffed, and bruised along this life's journey.

(in their younger days)

I'm thinking of my boots in a literary context: like some of the popular “Male Detective/Protagonists,” tromping through recent paperback mystery thrillers. They are strong, but weathered, strident yet, they’ve slipped a few times. In this way they are like Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch. These boots are 100% American made in the early '80s. They hold justice dear, and have walked through the fire of conflict with a fierce determination to stay on the right path, even when bullets whizzed-by, too close. In this way they are like Stephen Hunter’s Bobby Lee Swagger.

 

They’ve been the shoes of a caring family man, walking through good & bad decisions, unexpected change, moving & uprooting, including the deeply troubled pursuit of truth in all of life’s mysteries. In this way they carry the same hidden nobility as Henning Mankell’s Inspector Wallander. Being over 30 years old, they’re boots of a time traveler like Stephen King’s Jake Epping in 11/22/63; a guy who believed Catcher in the Rye should be in school libraries in 1962, and was brave enough to try to stop Lee Harvey Oswald. John Grisham’s Jake Brigance practiced law in Ford County, Mississippi, an hour south of Memphis; surely, he has a pair of Red Wings®. Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett, the character of C.J. Box, can destroy one pickup after another, but not his boots; they're forever.

Most of all they are Jack Reacher’s boots; walking quietly in the shadows, performing like him with strength and integrity, even when it would be easier just to walk away from a powerful but evil opponent. Quintessentially American, bigger than everyone else but slow to use his insurmountable power; Reacher saddles up as a one-man posse, a lone wolf drawing a hard-line against injustice of any kind.

 Like Reacher, these boots have been cut, stitched back up, rubbed raw and bloody; persistently standing against all odds. They are rugged, and comfortable carrying the load; ready and able to help wrongdoers reap what they sow. Jack Reacher isn’t as "flawed" as the protagonists mentioned above, maybe that's his appeal. Author Lee Child’s 18 Reacher novels consistently show readers a suspenseful story line with an ending as reliable as the hero: his opponents first ignore him, then they mock his lonely walk through life, often laughing at Reacher as they prepare to fight him greatly outnumbered; finally, they fall victim to his fierce prowess as a lonely warrior. Jack Reacher always kicks-ass. 

Photo from Flickr: ©Kati Giblin (for personal use in this post, I call it "Reacher's Shadow")

These Red Wings® traversed Washington and Fort Bend County with Barrett Davis, and they’ve scaled the bleachers of Texas Stadium with Brent Pogue at Leon Lett's ice bowl/fumble game of 1993. They saw the final SWC game at Kyle Field with Rob Holmes; and I’ve worn them with shorts while dove hunting near Brady, Texas, with John Hamlin. On a balmy morning in 2013, they carefully stepped around some gooey, abandoned retention "pits" in Galveston County. These boots love RodeoHouston® every year; they go perfectly with my rancher granddaddy Hampton’s felt Resistol® (pictured below w/ his great-grandson). In the harsh winter of 2014, they took over 21,200 steps through midtown Manhattan, jumping around puddles of gray, slushy snow, with real estate broker Alex Leopold. They go where they need to go and do what needs to be done, just like the boot and safety apparel company founded in 1905, in Minnesota.

The boots' layers of wax peel back like pages of my life story; it's best they can't talk. Looking worn out, much like their grateful owner; slipping them on is like catching-up with an old friend: mindful as you fall back into lock-step, commiserating on the past, hopeful about the future. When I think about being a faithful friend, father, brother, son, partner, employee, lawyer; whatever I'm tasked with on the day I pull-on these Red Wings® I try to focus on what is true, honorable, pure, lovely, just, commendable, strong, caring, and excellent—and just like these old boots, I start walking in the right direction...

©Mark H. Pillsbury

(3 of the pictures herein are shown by the “fair use” doctrine of using copyrighted material, not an infringement of copyright, but fair use according to 17 USC § 107)

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