The radio and newspapers announced on Saturday the annual, ritualistic sacrifice of one hour this past Sunday morning. In the prime of its life, with still so much to offer, its flame was extinguished. Committed to keeping our cherished weekends depression-free zones, Katrin and I tend to avoid media from Saturday to Monday and so were unaware of the planned execution. The sad news was broken to us on Sunday morning by my mother-in-law at precisely 8:30 a.m. “It is precisely 9:30 a.m.,” she said over the phone. My heart sank. A lump filled my throat. “But what happened to the hour?” I asked. “Killed. Earlier this morning,” she answered. “Don’t you watch the news?”.

We arrived late to my in-laws – by about one, innocent hour. They were sitting patiently on the doorstep, a passive-aggressive complaint of our tardiness. Although I still felt a twinge of sorrow, I had decided in the car not to let the hour’s early demise ruin the rest of my day, which, after all, offered another twenty-three of its kind. As we walked up to the front door, I could tell my mother-in-law was not pleased that our forgetfulness meant a delay in our hiking tour. “Good morning,” I offered, smiling. “Do you remember last year?” she asked as she brushed her hands across the back of her trousers. “No,” I responded. “What happened last year?” “We invited you to lunch one Sunday at noon,” she began. I remembered. I knew where this was going. “The two of you rang the doorbell at 12 o’clock and strode into the dining room, so proud of your punctuality.” We climbed into the car as she spoke. She did not see me cringing. “Except it wasn’t 12 o’clock anymore.” “No. It wasn’t,” I confirmed with a nervous laugh. Katrin pulled the car onto the road. “There we sat at the table in front of empty plates. And you two were so proud of yourselves. You should have seen your faces when you finally realized!” She was enjoying this.

I looked ahead at the oncoming drivers. I wondered how many of them didn’t know yet, how many were traveling along with a corpse in their car, a rotting hour on their dashboard clock, stinking up the cabin.

Out the window, the low hills of Dresden gradually became the rugged, stone spires of Saxony Switzerland. We would reach our destination soon. “Of course, there was still some food left for you.” “What’s that?” I asked. “You were an hour late, but we hadn’t eaten everything,” my mother-in-law reminded me. “We knew you’d somehow forgotten to change your clocks. We knew you’d be an hour late, so we saved some food for you when you finally arrived.” Katrin turned down a small street near where we would begin our hike. It was late, and parking spaces were hard to find. Eventually she squeezed us into one, and we opened the doors. The air was warm. I could see hikers scattered about the hillside. They already knew, I thought. We opened the trunk and grabbed our backpacks. My mother-in-law saw the hikers and sighed. “I just don’t understand how anyone can miss the time change nowadays.”

Loaded with jackets and lunches, we headed off into the hills. The sunny sky and fresh air seemed to brighten the others’ moods. But I felt sadder than ever. For the second time in one morning, an hour had expired.

Long ago I’d lost the lust for TV in all its commercial forms, a victim of burnout who, like a child given free reign in a candy shop, couldn’t even look at the stuff anymore without feeling a little queezy in the stomach. Though I’ve no documentation to prove it, I believe I’ve seen every drama, soap, sit-com, game show, cartoon, commercial and after-school special produced between the years 1976 and 1990*. Countless times. Why did I willingly ruin my eyes at such an early age for something so utterly purposeless? “Because it was there,” to paraphrase George Mallory, quoted before engaging in an equally purposeless - though far more physical - activity. The tube had run its full, corrosive course through this boob.

It was in college that the scales fell from my eyes. One day I was in my customary prone-on-the-couch position during that episode of the Golden Girls where Dorothy had a chance at a long-term, meaningful relationship until her mother’s big mouth spoiled it for her. Just as Blanche was rolling her eyes in exasperation at a ditzy comment from Rose, I realized I’d seen this before. No, not this, but THIS. IT. TELEVISION. Like some kind of lowbrow Nirvana, the realization that all TV is one, is the same, filled my spirit with a sense of hopelessness and despair I hadn’t felt since getting rejection letters from my first ten college choices. It became clear to me now: I had wasted my entire youth.

When I first saw YouTube a while back, I thought I’d found the solution to my post-television void. Here was a forum for private individuals to restore style and dignity to visual media. Creative, inspired folks around the world could do with basic technology what commercial television could never do with billion-dollar budgets: provide original art and entertainment.

At first, this seemed to be the case. Daily I found numerous clips offering music, comedy, drama and hybrids without having to search long at all. As with any democracy, however (though technology remains a privilege of the global minority), solid quality became diluted by the watery substance of mediocrity. Dull teenage boys filmed themselves beating each other up; bored teenage girls confessed fabricated sins; middle-age men dispensed their wisdom from a BarkOLounger; middle-age women talked about their cats; everyone uploaded the latest South Park (which I shamelessly consumed). Once again the energy invested in finding a diamond in the rough outweighed the reward.

But optimists continue to dig. And as I keep a healthy supply of them in my friend diet to offset my own unhealthy lifestyle, I am fortunate enough to be sent a real gem on occasion.

Thank you, optimists, for spreading the word. And thank you, weepingprophet, for creating it (or miming it in the powerful example below).

*with the exception of My Little Pony. Even couch potatoes have their standards.

Oatmeal, anyone?

This morning while setting the breakfast table, Katrin looked out the kitchen door and saw vomit spread about our balcony.

“Bleh!” she vociferated.

Inquisitive, I joined her at the window.

“Ewww!” I ululated.

This was not the view I wanted before poking my spoon into a bowl of mushy cornflakes speckled with bits of dehydrated fruit – or whatever they were. Katrin turned away quickly, suppressing a gag. But I remained fixed at the door, not so much disgusted as outraged. There lay a viscous puddle of someone’s post-digested dinner on our balcony. It looked as if much of the fluid excreta would have run over the edge in a gravity-driven ooze, but it gathered instead before a row of freshly planted flower boxes blocking its path – violas sprouting from a lumpy bog. The veins on my temples began to show. Who would do such a thing?

Meet the neighbors!

After studying the scene of the crime for several minutes, I determined that the source of the vomit could not have come from below the balcony, leaving me with only one conclusion: it came from above the balcony. I looked up to scrutinize the morning blue sky for any additional clues – hot air balloons with partiers aboard or giant birds with hangovers. Then a large, broad object entered my field of vision from the right: a balcony! This could be significant. I recalled how the young couple who had lived in the apartment above us the last three years had just moved out two weeks ago. They were quickly replaced by two young ladies who, we soon learned, desperately want to expose the entire block to their eclectic taste in techno and rap music. There goes the neighborhood, I thought at the time.

As I cleaned up fresh, foreign vomit from my balcony with soapy water and a scrub brush, my mind began concocting scenarios of what I would do next. I entertained them, embellished them, and with each noxious whiff carrying the tangy afternotes of schnitzel mixed with cheap red wine (are those … hints of asparagus I detect?), began formulating a plan. Oh yes, they’ve puked on the wrong neighbor this time.

The devil on my shoulder

It was too late for my first diabolical design: to return the matter to its rightful owner. Had I not already washed it over the edge – fertilizing the flowers on the three balconies below ours – I’d have been tempted to dump it on their door step. “This fell on our balcony last night. Thought you might want it back” the accompanying letter would read. I placed the idea in my mental file under “If I could just have that moment back!” for future reference, ’cause you never know when someone might puke on your balcony again.

During a less-than-appetizing breakfast, however, a strange sense came over me, something that only recently has affected me in moments when tensions run high. After these spells, I tend to calm down and think things through before acting. Concerned that I might have caught some degenerative condition, I explained the symptoms to Katrin. “No need to worry,” she assured me. “You have a case of rationality.” I tried to repeat its name; the word stumbled over my tongue: raaaa – shunnn – AL – ityyyy. “Yes, that’s right Chris! Very good,” she encouraged. Apparently I caught ‘rationality’ some time since I’ve been in Germany. I know I never had it in the U.S. My method of dealing with inconveniences, obstacles and setbacks has always been to ignore them, insult them or throw them at the nearest wall. According to Katrin, my wife and recently hired life coach, other approaches to dealing with problems also exist. She’s introduced me to such foreign words and phrases as ‘patience’, ‘getting the facts’ and ‘benefit of the doubt’. I haven’t found them in any German dictionary I own. Maybe they’re taken from Spanish.

My talk with Katrin made me temporarily forget my unbridaled rage, but while shaving in the bathroom, I had enough time to dwell, seethe, boil once more. I heard our neighbors’ footsteps above me. It’s already 11 a.m. and nobody has come down to apologize. The nerve! I fumed. My mind, the schoolyard troublemaker that it is, fanned the flames.

They’re probably up there yuckin’ it up at your expense. You don’t really think it was an accident, do you? Why, it looked to me like they were actually aiming for the biggest flower pot. They think their regular heroes, I’d say. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if you found a peanutty turd among your daffodils next weekend.

He’s right! As soon as I’m finished shaving, I’m storming upstairs and lettin’ ‘em have it. I was so wound up I needed half a styptic pencil to quell the bleeding. While still applying first aid to my face, the door buzzer sounded. I froze in the bathroom. Katrin moved to the front door and opened it. A soft, timid, female voice could be heard, “Uh, hi. I’m awfully sorry about your balcony. I did it … too much fun last night, you know. Anyway, here’s a nice potted plant in case I, uh, hit anything of yours.” Katrin graciously thanked her, and the door closed.

She came into the bathroom holding the plant. A wide grin was on her face. “Look what our neighbor gave us,” she beamed. “She felt really bad about the balcony.” “Well, good, she should,” I replied, already softening up again. Katrin looked at my blood-flecked chin. “What happened to you?” “Nothing,” I said. “Maybe my razor’s too sharp.”

March 11-17

Sunshine Week is a national initiative to open a dialogue about the importance of open government and freedom of information. Participants include print, broadcast and online news media, civic groups, libraries, non-profits, schools and others interested in the public’s right to know.

Sunshine Week is led by the American Society of Newspaper Editors and is funded by a grant from the John S. and James L. Knight Foundation of Miami.

Though spearheaded by journalists, Sunshine Week is about the public’s right to know what its government is doing, and why. Sunshine Week seeks to enlighten and empower people to play an active role in their government at all levels, and to give them access to information that makes their lives better and their communities stronger.

Sunshine Week is a non-partisan initiative whose supporters are conservative, liberal and everything in between.

“

It’s amazing how a change of scenery can poke a sharp pitchfork in the flabby ass of procrastination. Since I was first reincarnated as a lowly free lancer (I was a famous free lancer in my previous life), I have conducted my various occupations from a humble desk and chair in our apartment bedroom. Though sloppy, my workspace was outfitted with all the essentials for doing just whatever the hell it is I do: computer, printer, bookshelves, file cabinet, camera with telephoto lens mounted on tripod pointed at window of cute yoga instructor across the – yes, a fine setup indeed.

A carpenter, however, is not always the sum of his tools, and all the amenities of a work environment in my bedroom could not instill in me a sufficient amount of discipline because, well, I was in my bedroom. You don’t grill steaks in the living room, you don’t go wee-wee in the kitchen and you don’t watch TV in the bathroom (or have I been gone from the US too long?). The bedroom – that sanctuary of peace and play – is simply not the place for productivity*.

In fact, all the rooms of the apartment seemed caballed against my best of intentions to meet the goals I’d set for myself each day. From the bedroom I noticed (not studied) the activities of the various tenants in the surrounding houses. Though they were boring just like me, I kept noticing (not studying) in the hope of one day seeing a three-alarm domestic dispute in its entirety, machete and all. In the bathroom mirror I followed the gradual development and spread of two gray spots in my beard. My dedication to this task was rewarded with witnessing the birth of a brand-new, gray whisker (named Scratchy). The living room was the newspaper room, where, under the pretense of keeping abreast of important issues, I spent considerable time analyzing articles in the local paper regularly tackling such topics as the motto for this year’s asparagus festival or running features on octogenarians who hang glide. The kitchen was an endless source of time-consuming yet necessary chores, each one a critical battle against the forces of chaos and filth. Our spacious balcony seduced me with a comfortable seat including gentle breezes and sunshine at no extra charge.

How was I supposed to compete against that? Day after day I fell short of my goals. Night after night the guilt made me toss and turn, and only the resolve to defeat tomorrow’s temptations brought me sleep. And then the cycle repeated. Such was my sorry lot in life until recently, when friends suffering a similar affliction asked me to join them in renting some office space. I agreed immediately. It has been three months now since the first morning I got out of bed and performed the timeless ritual of men who have places to go and things to do: shower, shave, breakfast, go - and I have not looked back. Perhaps I missed the bloody, domestic drama out my bedroom window, perhaps Scratchy now has siblings, perhaps newspapers are filled with the affair between a hang-gliding octogenarian and an asparagus farmer, perhaps a thick carpet of mold has covered the dirty dishes in the kitchen and perhaps a rare, beautiful butterfly landed on the edge of the balcony table one sunny afternoon. I wouldn’t know, and I don’t care. I now have a proper office. A remote location. Somewhere that can not be reached in flannel slippers and boxer shorts alone. I’ve got places to go and things to do.

And I’m doing them.

*unless it is productivity which is repeated – the so-called REproductivity.

They’re called “The World Famous Glenn Miller Orchestra Europe“, and Katrin’s Christmas present for me was two tickets to the show last night. A few years back she surprised me with a road trip to Bonn for James Brown. She always has the best gift ideas; I’m pitifully behind in this race.

We take our seats in the second row of the slaughter house-turned concert hall. “The World Famous Glenn Miller Orchestra Directed By Wil Salden” covers each music stand on stage in large art deco font. We’re sitting directly in front of the clarinet – that secret ingredient of the Glenn Miller sound. I wonder what this modern incarnation will sound like. Will it remind me of what my dad has always listened to? I caught the bug from him at an early age. I see from the program that the personnel are mostly Dutch and German. This gives me pause. Neither of those groups is exactly famous for their loose hips and freewheeling attitudes. How will they pull off swing? The hall is filled now almost entirely with people who look like they might have seen the Glenn Miller Orchestra before. The original, I mean.

We don’t have to wait long. The lights go down. In a single file the members, 16 in all, walk across the stage with instruments in hand, take their seats and ease into Moonlight Serenade before the applause begin to taper. We like them instantly, the crowd and I. Black dinner jackets and bow ties, a bouncy director, a tight sound and relaxed smiles are all the cues we need to settle back and enjoy ourselves: Little Brown Jug, The Woodpecker Song, Pennsylvania 6-5000, Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree, In the Mood. The opening notes of The White Cliffs of Dover make an elderly woman to my left smile a story from her past. The audience, each member, has been transported back to wherever it is these tunes live. For me they live in the evenings of my childhood, when my dad tuned into his radio shows. I turn to Katrin and give her a look I hope conveys both “thank you” and “this year I’ll start looking for your Christmas present before December 24^th“. She smiles back.

In between tunes, Wil Salden, the director, tells us what we’re hearing in a thick Dutch accent. His manner is well rehearsed, though the same can not be said for the band’s choreography. The trombone section’s attempts at waving their instruments in unison remind me of a kindergarten ballet recital, and the band members sing with a lackluster self-consciousness. But these are petty complaints. When they just blow their horns, there’s not a still pair of orthopedic shoes or compression stockings in the house. They are playing the music of my dad, and through the fog that separates his time from mine, I hear what I believe to be the Glenn Miller Orchestra.

Just like all those old people.