I'm Going Radical

No, I'm not becoming a naturist, padding around home in all my glory. I'm not adopting a vegan lifestyle, although I think it would be a good idea. And I'm not adopting a child from an obscure third world country.

I'm giving up TV.

Well - not really, but it almost amounts to that. I dug out my old rabbit ears from the basement and hooked them up to my one year-old HDTV. Now I get crystal clear reception - on FOX, and sometimes channels 20 and 50 (local D.C. channels that show old sitcoms and tabloidy judge shows). If the weather is nice, that is. If it's raining, I get pixellated images, freeze action, metallic buzzing, and stuttering dialogue ("What do you mean, jelly be-be-be-be-be -").

How is my reception on the other channels, you ask. What other channels?

Oh, if I'm really lucky, channel 4, the local NBC affiliate, comes in, and it's beautiful. But that's only about once a week. Other than that - nada. I used to get Unavision occasionally, so I could watch soap operas in Spanish, but not anymore.

My boss can't understand why, in this day and age of technological sophistication, I would choose such an antiquated way to get TV. ("Give it up!" she said one day.) And it's true; it wouldn't even occur to most people as an option.

But in the zip code where I now reside, Comcast is my only viable choice. (DirecTV is also offered, but the satellite dish must be outside and face south, and my balcony faces north.) And I would rather not have TV service at all than to be shackled to Comcast against my will and better judgment.

I know of only one person who has been satisfied with Comcast. Otherwise, it seems unanimous that Comcast provides abysmal customer service. This is borne out in surveys from various sources, and now I have a story of my own to add to that pool of outrage.

When I set up the electricity for my new condo, I was transferred to a third-party vendor to set up other services (TV, phone, Internet). The guy who talked to me was a fast talker who went over the figures so fast that I didn't have time to write them down. There was a regular monthly cost, a six-month introductory monthly cost, and an installation fee, and the prices were different between TV and Internet, which were the two services I needed (since I had decided to use my cell phone in lieu of establishing a landline account). And of course there was the six-month total cost, and the total cost after the introductory period. But he didn't give me these eight figures in any logical order; they were seemingly disclosed randomly.

At some point during the same phone conversation the installation fees changed. I challenged him on this, but he didn't even acknowledge it. When I asked him to go over each cost once more so that I could write everything down, the response was silence, followed by obvious frustration and condescension in both his words and tone of voice. ("When something is good, you just do it. Don't you?") Nevertheless, I caved in to his hard sell tactics because there was no other choice for TV.

I then spent a significant chunk of time on the Comcast website trying to match up their figures with what I'd gotten on the phone. But while some of the costs were the same (despite the agent claiming to have "found" me special rates), I could not confirm his breakdown.

I then received an email order confirmation, but not all the charges on it were familiar.

The next day I called the vendor again to get a different agent. This time I got a woman who was much nicer and more patient, but she said she could not itemize the costs because they did not appear on her screen. She said when the installer came to my condo, he would be able to give me something with the costs on it. I didn't want to be faced with the situation of being inconvenienced with an eight-hour appointment window and then turning someone away at my door, but we had reached an impasse.

I then called Comcast directly, but even they could not break down the charges for me - until after everything had been installed. I was incredulous. "So if the bill is different from what I was told when I placed the order, I'm going to be forced to call and argue with you about the charges," I said. And of course if I wanted to cancel at that point, I would be slapped with an early termination fee and shipping charges for returning the equipment. "Oh, no," said Comcast, "I'm documenting everything you say." (I think that's what they call a non sequitur.)

After several days of frustration and anger (at both my treatment and seeming lack of choice), I decided on a major change in lifestyle and cancelled the order. If I was this stressed out even before installation, there was no way I wanted a long-term relationship with them. I then placed a DSL order with Verizon for Internet service and hoped for the best with TV.

After all, what did we do before Comcast, satellite, and Verizon FiOS? Wasn't there a time before six-month introductory pricing, Triple Freedom, and waiting for the cable guy to show up, when you just plugged in your set and got regular network TV?

I moved into my new place, and yes, it was a little stressful at first. Not only did I no longer have all the channels I was used to watching, but I had no broadcast at all. Even after finding and hooking up the old rabbit ears, only a few channels came in. And those channels were seemingly dependent on the weather, placement of the TV set, and whether the sliding glass door was open or not. (I recently discovered this was not true - it's only the weather and placement of the TV.)

It was an adjustment getting such limited programming. But my boss is right: these are indeed days of technological advancement. I can get full episodes of "Desperate Housewives" for free on the ABC website. I can watch episodes of "The Dog Whisperer" on the National Geographic website and "Curb Appeal" and a lot of related content on the HGTV website. And I can buy episodes of my current obsession, "Mad Men," on iTunes.

The only thing I really miss is reliable TV news - to be able to switch on CNN Headline News, MSNBC, BBC World News, or the local news at 6:00. I even miss the news I never watched but could, like BBC Asia or CNN Europe or whatever. It's amazing and wonderful to me that one can tune in to any of those specialized channels to get news that never makes it onto mainstream TV, whether or not I actually take advantage of it. There's a whole world out there, and now we can discover what's happening in it.

But there are countless Internet news sources - every newspaper, magazine, TV station and network, and radio station has a website, and you can pick and choose videos of stories that interest you. I even came to think of it as a more intelligent way of procuring news; you choose your source (even one from your hometown), scan the headlines, click on links that seem important to you, and ignore the rest - similar to reading the paper. And you get the news whenever you want, not just when it's broadcast. All this leads to using your time more wisely. And if you missed how that news story began, or if you want more info from related content, you can always link to those items.

I've learned a couple things using this approach:

1) It's nice, and even beneficial, to be spoon-fed the news.
You only find out about certain things when a newscaster tells you. It's part of the show, so you sit there and listen to it. In an interactive setting, I won't learn about those things if I don't choose to click on them.

2) What's important to know is not always what interests me.
I usually follow links to the big headline stories of the day, but those I most want to click are human interest stories. So even though getting news interactively might be more efficient and intelligent than absorbing it passively, I might miss out on things I should know about (see #1).

Regardless of whether I want to watch news or something else, however, I have found that having control over when and how I watch TV content has allowed for another option: not watching it at all.

Rather than being controlled by a broadcast schedule or the burden of finding time to watch a stack of recorded shows, I most often simply pursue other activities. Recently this has meant focusing on settling into my new home, but as I finish up, it will mean writing, reading, playing the Native American flute, volunteering, and engaging with friends, among other things - all healthier for my mind and spirit than sitting in front of the TV. When I look back at what has really enriched my life, it's not "Mad Men"; it's workshopping a story for a week at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. It's being with friends who have reached out to me, whether in person locally or online from far away. It's reading letters from prisoners and sending them books they want.*

Some use the TV for company. I do understand that; when I've lived alone, it has been comforting to hear human voices and see people. This time, though, I'm trying not to lean on TV this way and want to focus on contact with real people.

So far, I haven't heard of anyone else who has chosen the same route. But I did find one friend who has gone a step further: she doesn't even own a TV. As much as I dislike FOX news, I'm glad to have one local station. I'm not sure I could go as far as not having a TV at all. She said at first it was hard. But then she thought of what else she could do, like - read a book.

And in these days of technological sophistication, THAT'S radical.

* See 7/16/09 entry

For The Glory of the Old Maroon and Gold

An older man with white facial hair pulls a well-loved brass sousaphone out of his car, hefts it onto his shoulder, and begins shuffling down the slippery sidewalk. "Only a band person," I say, catching up to him, "would be crazy enough to be out here at 5:30 a.m. in the dark and freezing cold on icy streets!" He gives me the once-over to determine whether I am referring to him or myself. I wave my saxophone neck strap at him, and he agrees.

Who knew there would be 30-degree temps, wind chill, and black ice in mid-October?

After several blocks of taking careful half-steps and nearly landing on our butts several times, we finally arrive at the stadium, grateful for the warmth and light of the band facility. Not surprisingly, it's hurry up and wait, but we use the time to catch up and chat. After all, it's the first time some of us have seen each other in over 25 years.

Last night we met on the corner of Pillsbury and University Avenues, across from Folwell Hall, where I had my first class at the University of Minnesota (Japanese at 8:00 a.m., September 1979). True to the reputation of the alumni band, we looked a bit ragtag - sweatshirts, band jackets, running shoes, and a lot of gray (or no) hair. Especially next to the uniformed, youthful, good-looking student band. But in my mind, the alumni band also had experience, maturity, and an undying spirit borne out of having lived through the band years of college and experienced the iron-clad bonds of friendship and camaraderie, made only stronger by the passing years.

Oh my God, it's Bill and Liz Pick! And who's talking - that voice, it's so familiar - it's got to be Carol Herbert, my Stoogemaster! And look, it's Jean Gray!

The Homecoming parade was the first time I'd marched and played since 1982, and while I was excited, I also worried about the seeming lack of organization. No one called names - they just told us to line up - and when I asked if we weren't going to tune, someone burst out laughing. After a minute, the drum line began their cadences, and we took off down the street.

What I came to realize in my determination to look and sound good - and my subsequent discovery that perfection was not possible, given that the cadences, horn movements, and chants had all changed over the years - was that the crowd didn't care whether we were as good as the student band. Whether making fun of the old geezers or truly supporting us, they were just out for a good time. And after getting up at 4:00 a.m. to fly in from DC just for this, that should be my goal, too.

Oh, my God, it's Janet Denenny marching in my rank! We wave to each other across 27 years.

Marching past the decorated frat houses and a crowd all revved up to beat Purdue the next day, I felt what a thrill, an honor, and a privilege it was to be in the parade.

Now, ten hours later, shuffling through the bowels of the stadium and into the passageway leading out onto the field, my anticipation builds. Just ahead, the student band, fully uniformed, is already on the field, going through their motions. Being in this brand new stadium on campus after 26 long seasons in an indoor domed stadium downtown is historic and momentous enough (and the reason for my trip) - someone murmurs, "Isn't this something?" - but seeing the band in uniform under bright stadium lights in the pre-dawn dark, humming their parts while marching in the 30-degree stillness, students using leaf blowers to clear the snow off the stadium seats in the background, infuses it with surreality and makes it even more unforgettable.

This person looks familiar - it's John Gibbs! And that person is looking at me, but it's hard to see who she is under all those bundles of warmth - it's TD Kiernan - now Gibbs!

Thankfully, the sky eventually brightens, and we eventually play the music and forget about the cold as we march across the field.

Hours pass. The sun comes up. Tailgaters arrive and heat up their grills. Students come with blankets. Maroon and gold covers everyone. You can actually feel the University of Minnesota pride in the air.

Shortly before kickoff, we file onto the track surrounding the field and make our way to the bleachers reserved for us. We wait for the band to make its pre-game entrance, and when they come out in running cadence, it's almost like watching myself 25 (okay, 27) years ago. As they perform, even though I am excited, I have the distinct feeling of being left out. Nothing compares to marching down the field, bursting with pride while playing to 50,000 Gopher fans under a bright blue sky, anticipation in the air. And these guys look and sound good - really good.

To our left, in the bowl end, is the student season ticket section. These guys should be paid for the enthusiasm they generate throughout the rest of the stadium. A solid mass of maroon and gold, they make a lot of noise, follow all the band cheers, and sing along with the Rouser. In the front is the requisite row of shirtless men - 30 degrees plus windchill be damned! - with painted chests and faces. But what really makes this section is a guy inexplicably dressed in a full-body white chicken suit.

The people around me are very into football and provide running commentary. I myself didn't watch a single game of football in my three years of marching. In this new stadium, I could watch it much more easily on the gigantic screen in the open end if I wanted. But what I remember most about the games is spending two or three hours with my closest friends, making fun of the cheerleaders, chitchatting, and generally being silly. Sometimes there was ice on the benches, but we all cuddled together in our heavy wool uniforms, and the cold was generally forgotten. And in early and mid-fall, the sun low in the crisp, blue sky, there was no better way to skip studying!

And what I am thinking about now is how wonderful it is to discover that a lot of people - most, in fact - are the same great people they were when I last saw them. Jean Gray is still cheerful, fun-loving, and caring. Steve Kreitz is still the life of the party. Janet Denenny is still the same nice, positive, helpful person. We are heavier and grayer, but the essence of who we were has not changed.

After the game, I hear, "Is that Mark Abe?" I look up. Who is that big man smiling down at me from the stands? Wait - that raspy voice, those clear blue eyes. "Brian Benson." Brian Benson! I go running up the bleachers towards him.

We are back in the band facility for a reception of big cookies and "vintage" video of 1989 Spat Camp. (Wait a minute, they're calling it "vintage" and it's from seven years after my final year in band?)

And there's Rick Trembley, my old college roommate, and Celeste, his wife and fellow alto sax player! I haven't seen them in 15-20 years, but it doesn't take long to catch up.

Eventually the crowd begins to thin, and I realize this event is coming to a close. It saddens me, as I know this was a special year for people to come back, and succeeding years won't be as well-attended. But I celebrate the joy of reconnecting with old friends, if only for a day or two, and the affirmation of treasured memories from my years in the Finest Band in the Land.

Photo credits: 1) Homecoming Parade - Matt Abe, 2) Pre-Dawn Practice - Mark Abe, 3) Janet (Denenny) Linkert and Mark - Matt Abe

Books Can Set You Free

The letter is from a nineteen-year-old. He's in Texas doing thirty-five for murder. He'll be fifty-four when he gets out. He is requesting science fiction or fantasy and a Spanish dictionary, but any book will do. And that's how most of them end: an entreaty for any book at all, closing with profuse gratitude and blessing for the work we do.

I am at church, helping Books to Prisons, a volunteer organization that matches donated books to prisoner requests. It's my assignment for the day at Foundry United Methodist Church's "Great Day of Service," a church-wide half day of volunteering. As a writer and book lover, I requested this assignment; I believe in the power of books to educate, entertain, and transform.

I open a letter, read it, and try to find a few books on the shelves to meet the request. Then I package the books, weigh them, and add them to the appropriate group of packages based on weight. Then I choose another letter to read.

It's a huge task; there are stacks and boxes of letters on a metal shelf, and still more fill paper grocery bags on the floor. I can only do about four or five packages in one sitting, especially when I write a note to the prisoner (which always ends up being a full-fledged letter taking both sides of one sheet). There are only about four of us fulfilling requests. It's like bailing a flooded basement with a thimble. The standard message on the strip of paper that gets inserted into a book in every package asks the prisoner to wait at least five months before requesting more books.

Some of them want westerns, sci-fi, or fantasy; others want educational materials, like GED study books or accounting textbooks; still others want books on foreign language instruction or self-improvement. Most of the letters are well-written, with correct spelling, punctuation, and grammar. Most are in legible cursive handwriting. All express deep appreciation for the work of Books to Prisons.

A good number say they have no friends or family to visit them and no money or way to buy books. I choose the thickest books in the best condition I can find for them. Five months is a long time to wait for something else to occupy one's mind.

I have always felt slightly ambivalent about prison ministries. How much should we improve the living conditions of those who have stolen from, raped, or killed other people? How much sympathy should we feel towards criminals in solitary confinement when we don't know what landed them there?

Overall, though, I think that the loss of freedom, identity, friends, and a future, is probably plenty punishing even under the best of prison conditions. Giving them a Louis L'Amour novel is not going to coddle them. And if we are truly concerned about recidivism, then maybe sending a requested book to improve their minds or gain some personal insight is just a tiny investment in the future of all of our safety.

I recently went through all my books at home, gleaning the surplus from the still-treasured. Not only did I have books on shelves in my office and bedroom, but I had stacks of bins full of them in the basement - I have so many books I have to keep some in the basement! And I can walk to Barnes & Noble anytime I want and choose any book from thousands of volumes and buy it on the spot - or go onto Amazon.com in the comfort of my own home, order virtually any book I want from a vast pool of millions, and find it on my doorstep in a couple days. And yet in letter after letter prisoners ask for any book at all because they have no other way of getting one. And they are very, very grateful for that book.

Books to Prisons is housed in our church basement. It's a dimly-lit room with no windows, ringed by tall shelves of worn books. But I can come and go as I please, whereas others are not so fortunate. So the work done in that room is not depressing; it's energizing. Every package assembled in that room directly affects an individual person in a significant way.

So give me that thimble - I've got more bailing to do.

Choose One (and one only)

Here's an interesting question:

Quizzes by Quibblo.com

Think about it carefully; your answer may surprise you.  Can you live with only one?  Imagine having the one you treasure most but without the other.  

Wait, That's Our Band!

Producers and commentators, it seems, don't have kids in marching bands. Coverage of the inaugural parade by the major networks skipped nearly all commentary on the units in the parade, most of which were bands. They either continued analyzing the inauguration or the historic nature of the election, broadcasting the parade only as it appeared in the background over a reporter's shoulder, or reduced the parade to half a screen, again so they could show the reporter making observations of matters unrelated to the parade or the reaction of the new President and First Lady. If they did show the parade full screen, it was usually without any disclosure on the part of the journalists as to who was marching by at the moment. They didn't even bother displaying a graphic on the bottom of the screen so we could read it for ourselves while the unrelated commentary continued.

A bunch of us neighbors congregated over food and drink to enjoy the ceremony and parade, and we flipped through NBC, ABC, CBS, CNN, BBC, MSNBC, and FOX, trying to find someone who would tell us who the bands were and where they were from. We finally settled on NewsChannel 8, our local all-news station ("More Local. More Often."). The hosts seemed fresh out of broadcast school, but at least they were talking about the parade they were covering.

I was eager to see the ceremony. But I was excited to see the parade. Having marched through both high school and college, I still thrill at the sound of drum cadences coming from a nearby high school on a crisp fall night. If a football game is on (at someone else's house), the sound I key in on is not the ref's whistle or the quarterback making a call, but the pep band. And I still love watching bands in the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade and the Rose Bowl Parade.

I know what it's like selling M&M's, chocolate bars, raffle tickets, Entertainment coupon books, and fertilizer (yes, fertilizer) door-to-door to raise money for band trips. I know what it's like putting in hours and hours of practice, memorizing music and marching up and down streets for days on end in heat, cold, and rain, to prepare for the spotlight. And I know the excitement of travelling across the country or around the globe to compete or to march in a parade broadcast on national television.

I also know that my parents and the parents of all the other kids were just as excited about our trips as we in the band were. And if they were not chaperones on the buses, the only way they could share in our experience, after months of sharing in our practices and fundraising, was to stay glued to the TV if we were marching in a major parade, so as not to miss the twenty seconds we'd be in front of the camera.

So I am particularly frustrated with the bush league parade coverage because I identify with those parents, as well as the siblings and alumni of the band being ignored as background to the parade hosts' blather. When they say, "More on that when we return after this short break" just as a band is marching by, I want to scream in solidarity with all those moms and dads going, "Wait! That's our band!" as the screen fades to black for a message about leaky pipes or ED. We've been hearing perspectives, retro-analyses, and commentary of all things political for the past several months, and it will continue for at least the next four years. Can't we put it aside for two hours and just enjoy the parade?

I put up with all the usual cringe-worthy jokes of parade hosts because they also follow the script in describing the bands, where they came from, and some interesting anecdote about their parade preparation. I realize that there's no other focus for the Macy's parade (other than food preparation), but at the Rose Bowl parade they don't talk ad infinitum about the football game or the players or the history of the matchups, while the flower-covered floats pass by silently, out of focus behind some reporter wearing headphones. So why rob the inaugural parade units of the short-lived, hard-won honor and glory they deserve?

Sure, they'll still have fun and won't even know until later if they didn't make the broadcast or were shown but ignored. But I still want to know. I didn't buy all those M&M's for nothing.

Photo credit: www.ramband.com

In Private Celebration

They've closed all bridges into the city from Virginia. They've prohibited bicycles (although that appears to be in question now). They're encouraging the use of Metro but asking people not to transfer. But there are no restrictions on walking into the city!

In anticipation of gargantuan crowds flocking to Washington, D.C., for the inauguration of President Barack Obama, the authorities have had to take extraordinary measures to deal with the onslaught. You can't fault them for thinking through every angle and putting certain prohibitions in place in an effort to make it an event which comes off with minimal problems. But - walking into the city? No strollers? No backpacks? No umbrellas?

Increased security is now a fact of life, especially in D.C. Hundreds of thousands will be packing every available spot of the Mall, watching the inauguration taking place several blocks away on Jumbotrons. They will be able to see the Capitol from where they stand, but they won't be able to make out human beings in ticketed seats or the form of the new President as he stands with one hand on the Bible. And yet each person watching the big screens placed along the length of the Mall will have to stand in a blocks-long line and pass through security screening, anyway.

Ditto for the parade; you can't just walk up to Pennsylvania, craning your neck for a glimpse of the President without first passing through a security entry point. Even then, they are going to refuse all entry to the parade once a specified saturation point has been reached along the street - meaning the entire parade route will be fenced off?

Ah, the price of watching history being made in a post-9/11 world. Sixteen years ago, I stood near the Lincoln Memorial on a cold January night for President Clinton's pre-inaugural concert. A-list Hollywood appeared then, also, and I didn't care that I couldn't see anyone famous without checking the big screen. It was just exciting being in the midst of an excited, hopeful crowd after twelve years of Reagan/Bush. Today's national mood of hope and relief was similar to that of early 1993. The youthful Bill Clinton and Al Gore were going to change Washington and the world. There were no security checkpoints back then, no cloud of a terrorist threat.

On January 20th, I stood on the Mall and watched the inauguration ceremony while stomping my feet and rubbing my hands. I took pictures of President Clinton raising his right hand on the big screen. And I also volunteered at the Presidential Inaugural Committee in the weeks leading up to the big day, tolerating the snotty, sloppy attitudes of the twenty-somethings on staff and performing menial tasks at night in hopes of snagging the prize assignment of working at one of the poshest Inaugural balls on the schedule - which, in the end, I got.

At the ball, I walked around amidst the rich and famous: Ralph Lauren, Harry Belafonte, Loretta Swit. At one point in the evening I stood at a door to stamp hands of departing guests and got to ask Dustin Hoffman if he intended on returning to the ball.

So I have had the good fortune of living in Washington and doing a quintessentially Washingtonian thing, and it was a great experience I'll remember for a long time. It may not have been as historic as this year, and it's hard to stay home, living a just a few blocks from the Metro and a five-minute drive from the Lincoln Memorial and not needing maps or subway lessons. But I'd rather not walk into D.C. (about an hour and a half to the Mall), stand in interminable security lines and wait for hours in the January cold, only to watch the inauguration on a big screen TV.

Instead, I'll be watching it on a smaller big screen TV with neighbors in a warm home, enjoying the ceremony, each other, Washingtonopoly, and good food and drink. We'll be toasting the start of a new era (and "the end of an error," as one commentator said today) and giving up our spots of the Mall for some of the hundreds of thousands of Americans travelling to our city for this event. We're glad to do it. Happy Inauguration, America!

Photo credit: About.com