(don’t forget to subscribe to the moose report right here!)
After a rather heavy discussion last week about race in America following the Texas Pool Party, I was planning to keep things on the lighter side this week. Given that Father’s Day is this weekend, it seemed like a good time for a reflection on dads, the start of summer, etc. etc. I even had a funny little anecdote picked out–if you’ve been reading these things, you know that I do a decent amount of thinking and observing on trains (something about them is just good for meditating, you know?). There are usually two cars on each train that hold bikes, and since most cyclists sit in those cars and most people take the same train every day, you end up seeing a lot of familiar faces.
There’s one guy in particular I’ve seen quite a bit since I started taking CalTrain; he rides a Cannondale, so let’s call him Dale. He’s a tall skinny guy, with straight brown hair and glasses, and his face is sort of pinched, which always makes him look a little annoyed to be there. Since the trains are so crowded, some mornings we really have to stack up the bikes, and given that his is pretty nice, it’s not unreasonable that he would be pissed if other people bunched their bikes up on top of his (in just a few months, mine has already gotten scratched and dinged from exactly that). We share the same destination, and once we arrive, he inevitably seems frustrated at the crowd of people trying to disembark, usually speeding off like a madman once he’s outside. I can understand his annoyance, but still, that’s the nature of the train, so I’ve always silently regarded him as somewhat of an asshole.
Much to my delight, I boarded the train the other morning and saw a purple child’s bike leaning against Dale’s. Its pedals and handlebars seemed positioned just perfectly to get entangled in his chain and cables, and there wasn’t anyone standing nearby who looked like it might have belonged to them. With no destination tag attached, I figured a parent and a kid who had no idea how the bike car worked must have dropped theirs off and sat down elsewhere in the train. Certain we were going to get a show when Dale saw, I angled myself to watch when I saw him trying to squeeze through the crowd of people waiting to get off at our stop. And sure enough, he looked as sassy as ever, until he said:
“All right sweetie, here we are.” He turned around to address the little girl on his heels, her blond hair sticking out in pigtails from underneath her pink helmet.
“Daddy, how do I get my bike off the train?” she asked.
“You go wait on the platform,” he told her, “and I’ll get your bike.”
So maybe I should have just expected it would have been his daughter’s, but the whole image was so incongruous, this man who usually looks so angry now swallowing whatever pride I’d ascribed to him, and marching off the train with princess bike in hand, its long purple streamers billowing from the handlebars as he stepped down onto the platform.
I wanted to tell this story as a reflection on parental love and the many things parents do for their kids, and as a reminder to call your dad if you’ve got one, and tell him what he means to you. I wanted this to just be a cheery letter; on Wednesday night, I started having second thoughts.
Many people have already written quite a bit about the violent attack on the Emmanuel AME church in Charleston this week. It’s left me disgusted; I cannot comprehend how a person could bring himself not just to kill, but to sit in a church with his victims for an hour, and then stand up and slaughter them. It seemed deeply wrong to let it pass without mention. As I thought about it over the last few days, I wasn’t really sure what I could add that hasn’t already been said–there have been tons of discussions, some more productive than others, about everything from terrorism to the history of the AME church to guns to South Carolina’s legacy as a Confederate state. And even though much of that has been discussed by people much smarter than me, what I will say is this: let us not forget the victims, especially those who were parents, whose children must now be enduring unfathomable grief. As we try to wrap our heads around what happened Wednesday night, recognize how lucky you are if the people you care about are safe and sound. And tell them if you feel that way; God only knows when you might lose the chance to, for good.
News & updates.
I’ve got a story I’ve been working on for work in the pipeline, which I’m hoping to share next week (fingers crossed). Other than that, I’ve mostly been working on fiction stuff honestly, which hopefully somebody will want to publish some day, but that’s why there’s been relative silence on my end. The good news is, lots of other people have written lots of other stuff, so on to the links!
Read this.
Giant purple blobs are washing ashore in the Bay Area, and people are freaking out.
The Saga of Rachel Dolezal, the white NAACP leader pretending to be black, continues.
Also, her brother is a writer, which has provided perhaps our best peek into her childhood.
High schools realize that women and non-whites can also write books.
Kindle will now be paying authors based on how many pages of his or her book people read, instead of paying them for something like, I don’t know, how good the book is.
Back to Chicago, a lovely little reflection on the tie between smell and memory.
Some cool works by a Sudanese political cartoonist.
The Agency. This has been out a few weeks, so maybe you read it, but this is a fantastic story about a secret Russian agency whose job is to fill the Internet with pro-Russian and anti-American propaganda.
In case you haven’t heard, there’s an election coming up! (In over a year.) Since a number of the candidates haven’t really clarified their position on torture, Melville House Books is sending them complimentary copies of the Senate Torture Report and asking for their thoughts.
Speaking the Unspeakable: Charles Pierce’s thoughts on Charleston, by far the best thing I’ve read about it so far. Thanks to Allie for sharing it.
Watch this.
A sneak preview of the Jurassic World sequel, Jurassic 5. The funniest damn thing.
Fic Pick.
“Punch, Brothers, Punch” An oldie but a goodie, from Mr. Mark Twain. (And if you’re familiar with the band Punch Brothers, this story is where they got their name!)
moose dribble 