Mayhem as a Teaching Moment

  

As the audience chants “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the opponents square off across from one another, as light floods the arena; first red, then blue. The audience is silent. Then, a signal flashes yellow: once, twice. When the light turns green, the fighters fly toward the center, but stop before colliding.

Weapons buzz furiously as they stalk one another then, probing for vulnerabilities. Spotting an opening, one of the fighters attacks, and with its blade, digs a deep gouge into the side of the opponent. The crowd roars its approval. For the remainder of the three-minute match, sparks fly as, thrust after thrust, weapon hits weapon, and the fighters are flung into the air, and across the arena. 

This is BattleBots, my favorite television show. 

Every week, teams of engineers, hobbyists, and garage mechanics compete one-on-one in mechanized mayhem. The robots themselves come in many configurations. In no particular order, there are the full body spinners, coffee-table-sized contraptions, rimmed with razor-sharp blades, and whirling Dervish-like across the floor. One hit can rip off a wheel, or slice through the heavy steel armor of a competitor. 

There are the horizontal spinners—like Tombstone—that resembles its namesake, laid flat. On the front, whirling at two hundred miles per hour, is a hardened steel blade that weighs sixty pounds or so. When the end of that blade connects, the competing robot is sometimes demolished, or might skitter across the “battle box,” shedding parts, or tumble into the augur-like blades along the edge. 

Vertical spinners—such as Upper Cut—pummel their opponent with a similarly destructive blade. Each of the robots weighs about 250 pounds, and a blow from the fist-shaped end of Upper Cut’s blade can rip a competing bot to shreds, or send it flying. 

Then, there are the lifter bots, such as Duck, which charge their opponents with a low-lying wedge. Once in position underneath, their operator activates the lifting mechanism, which in a fraction of a second delivers enough force to hurl the other bot tens of feet into the air. Gravity—and the steel surface of the fighting floor--does the rest.

Various forms of scorpion-like stinger bots, such as Bite Force, puncture the tops of their opponents with fearsome spikes or drills. Some hold their opponent in a vice-like grip and blast it with two-thousand-degree flames, with the intention of cooking the sophisticated electronics inside. Companion harrier bots—still within the total weight limit—sometimes zip about the arena. It’s usually a distraction, but sometimes the mini-robots hover overhead, raining fire.

This is not just a hobbyist’s diversion, either. Teams compete from all over the U.S., and also from India, Brazil, Australia, and Europe. Their prize? The coveted “Giant Nut,” which is exactly that: a large nut of polished steel, on a pedestal. 

The giant nut might also describe the fanaticism and good humor of the competing teams, who appear in whimsical costumes: witch doctors, frogs, pirates, sharks, and wizards, to name a few.

Despite the whimsy, though, the engineering and science that goes into each bot is serious. With build costs as high as $50,000, most of the competitors have corporate sponsors, which provide financial support, as well as high-powered motors, batteries, computerized design services, and specialized components. 

However, sponsorship isn’t universal. In BattleBots’ fifth season, a farmer, David Eaton, brought Rusty, a hammer bot. It resembles a steam locomotive crossed with a stand-mixer, and, at a cost of four thousand dollars, was assembled from components Eaton found in his parents’ barn. Miraculously, Rusty won its match, vanquishing a bot that cost upwards of tens of thousands of dollars. 

To be sure, gladiatorial violence is the draw, and the breathless ringside commentary and post-fight analysis is informative and entertaining. But the enthusiasm and expertise of the human participants is equally engaging. This season, teams from MIT compete, as do teams from a community college, led by their snarling, over-the-top boastful teacher. Woman builders—Witchdoctor most prominent among them—participate on equal footing, as do people of all ages, races, and genders. 

In a time of racial animus and cultural division, the diversity of the show is refreshing, but doubly so thanks to the talents on display. Knowledgeable of science, physics, electronics, and mechanics, these are people not often recognized in a public way, let alone cheered. Here, they are celebrities, with trademark costumes, gestures, and slogans. Some are legendary for their driving prowess, their design skill, or their competitive spirit. As they wheel their robots to the fighting floor, or savor a victory, they bask in a level of adulation typically reserved for top athletes or movie stars. 

What I find most heartening, though, is the good sportsmanship of all concerned. If a bot is severely disabled, the opposing driver will pull back and wait, rarely inflicting more damage than necessary. In the post-match interview, winners are invariably humble, and respectful of their opponents’ skill. Defeated owners—who devote not only money and skill, but a huge amount of time to the enterprise—universally take the loss with grace and maturity. Generally, their expressed attitude is, “Well, it was a good match, and we learned a lot, so we’ll come back stronger next time.” 

Watching BattleBots, one is reassured that people still know that a loss is not a declaration of unworthiness from the universe, to be met with petulance, blame, and denial. Failure in any undertaking is, in fact, an opportunity to examine one’s actions, to learn, and to improve. I can name at least one person—until January 20, 2021, a resident of Washington D.C.--who, had he learned this simple lesson in childhood, would have saved the nation a great deal of fear, anguish, and damage. 

 

A Splendid Idea

I walk briskly uphill, getting my morning exercise and, from nowhere, I have absolutely the best idea for an essay. It often happens like this: when nothing else is on my mind, a premise bubbles up and I know I can bring it to life with all of the necessary logic, pathos, humor and irony. A piece of 1,758 words or so that sheds light, not on anything so lofty as the human condition, but at least on my condition.

But I don’t want to stop walking or slow my pace to record the idea, so I continue walking, silently repeating the idea over and over.

I crest the hill and cross to the shady side of the street, then travel about two blocks to the long stairway that leads down into the Morcom Rose Garden, a beautiful spot set in a natural amphitheater in the Oakland hills. Volunteers have been swarming the place for weeks, mowing down the tall weeds, churning up the soil around the rose beds, and, now that the drought is over, re-filling the lily pond at the bottom.

After walking half way down, I take the concrete path that circles around the bowl, then descend a few more steps to a sitting area. From a large stone pond, water cascades down the hillside in a series of pools and waterfalls. I follow the path downward, alongside the fountain.

The sound of laughter catches my attention, and I look to see a dark-haired young girl, wearing a frilly gown, posing for pictures in one of the rose beds as her family, wearing suits and dresses, looks on. I figure this must be her quinceanera. .

All she had to do was reach the age of fifteen and the whole family makes a big fuss about it. Maybe this celebration is to recognize that the hard part of her life is about to begin.  This may, in fact, be the happiest day of her life. If she’s like most teenagers, she’ll soon get her drivers license and crash the family car, and though she’s not badly injured, she always walks a limp after the accident. Feeling inadequate due to her physical disability, maybe she’ll marry some rough-edged kid not because she sees a lot of hidden promise in him, but because he shares her sense of having been cheated, plus, he rides a motorcycle. Twenty years from now, he’s be in prison, and she’s wishing she completed her AA degree, because at least now she’d be a paralegal instead of working at Wendy’s for minimum wage.

Of course, maybe none that will happen, but even so it’s good she’s celebrating now, because you never know. As I move further down the path, I think about celebrations, and the way we go through life almost in a haze, until these events we deem worthy of commemoration occur: birthdays, graduations, weddings; the things we consider worth remembering. But much is lost when we focus on the big events, and ignore the simple day-to-day things that, in fact, comprise most of our days.

I pass a bench, painted public park green, and on the backrest is a bronze plaque. “In Loving Memory of Bert Freeman, 1926 – 2008.” I didn’t know Bert Freeman, but people were apparently fond of him, and he must have really liked this park. Maybe late in life—despite his arthritis--Bert came down here early each morning with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, and sat on that bench reading, thinking about his day, remembering the places he went, and the friends he has, and, enjoying the rose-scented breeze, and the sound of the flowing water, and looking at the flowers, and watching the birds peck in the grass.

Bert’s already been gone for nine years, and in fewer than the 82 years that he was alive, everyone who knew him, along with all their memories, will be gone as well. Perhaps the bench will be gone too. I hope Bert Freeman enjoyed his life, but I’ve got to say that reading the newspaper can be depressing, because you can’t do anything about all the disasters that are reported. It’s probably better to ignore the news and just enjoy the park.

Anyway, not far from the Bert Freeman bench is a wide paved walk, and every four or five feet a plaque is set into the concrete, honoring Oakland’s Mother of the Year; a tradition that began in the 1950s, and continues today. I had a wonderful mother, to be sure—as loving, supportive, and good-humored as one could ever wish for—and I wonder what a mother would have to do not only to be a better mother than all her peers, but to gain public recognition for it, too.

I suspect that money is involved. Not that the chosen mothers pay for the honor, but that every time there’s a fund-raiser, or a performance, or a dinner to be catered for some worthy charitable cause dealing with children, these extraordinary mothers practically fall over themselves to volunteer, then drag their polite, accomplished, well-rounded, and physically fit children along to the event. But they don’t ever boast about their children or their wonderful accomplishments, because that would be obnoxious.

Frankly, I can’t imagine any aspect of motherhood that would either draw, or be enhanced, by public attention. But maybe we’ve moved past idea that motherhood involves basic things such as nurturing, protecting, and guiding your children. Instead, maybe a good mother is someone who works in some vital and powerful capacity, and contributes to society, and in all respects sets a good example for her children in terms of economic, civic and cultural engagement, even if the children are reared more by their father, or by a nanny.

Well, I don’t suppose the criteria for this singular honor really matters, and in truth, if I actually cared to learn about it, I could take the time to do so, but the fact is, I prefer to blindly speculate about it. I find that much more entertaining, if not more enlightening.

As I consider the various means by which a mother of the year might be selected, and wonder whether the late Bert Freeman might have been depressed, and consider running back to tell this innocent fifteen-year-old girl that she should always her seat belt, and definitely stay away from boys on motorcycles, I cease repeating to myself the idea for the essay.

And it is gone.

            I leave the park, then continue down Jean Street, wondering whether Jean was perhaps the name of the family that owned this entire valley at one time and who, over the decades, were forced to sell it off piece by piece until all that was left was their name on a street sign.

Meanwhile, I wrack my brain, searching for some thread of memory that would help me retrieve that wonderful and timeless idea.

            I turn on Grand, and a few doors down I pass the hardware store I often visit, and I think about the particular smell that a good hardware store has: equal parts turpentine, galvanized steel, and wood shavings. How many glorious hours have I spent in hardware stores, searching for a tool to accomplish a particular task, or perusing the shelves of hinges, bolts, and pulleys, mentally engineering something of great utility that has not yet been invented.

            A couple of blocks later, I turn left on Linda Street. My sister is named Linda, and my first real girlfriend was named Linda, too, and whenever I walk on Linda Street, I think of them, and how lucky I have been to have them in my life. I follow Linda Street up hill, past the Egbert W. Beach Elementary School, and I have to wonder what kind of sadistic parents would name their child Egbert. In the very least, saddling her son with such a cartoonish moniker surely disqualified Mrs. Beach from consideration as mother of the year, no matter how many dinners she hosted.

But what about little Egbert? With a name like that, the lad almost had to be highly intelligent, and books probably offered a welcome respite from the merciless teasing he must have endured. Cruelty and adversity probably strengthened him, though, and I doubt he ever rode a motorcycle, or got depressed by his powerlessness against the events chronicled in the newspapers. He worked hard, and distinguished himself enough to have a school named after him.

Good for Egbert W. Beach! Now, on the playground of the school that bears his name, children dash around, screaming, and climbing on the safe and boring plastic apparatus that replaced the clanky, old-fashioned jungle gym, built of two-inch pipe polished by the hands of the young people climbing on it. Hearing the children play, it isn’t hard for me to recall being in elementary school myself, and I think about the things that were important to me then, but all I come up with is TV, and ice cream sandwiches. I loved them then, and still do. Occasionally together.  

I continue plumbing the depths of my memory, hoping to find some trace of the idea that was so promising. Nothing. I just know it was good, and I know it’s lost, so I quit thinking about it, and in a few minutes, I’m back at my little house.

It’s tucked behind a tall redwood fence, and is probably the smallest house in the neighborhood. There’s no yard to speak of, but there is a little deck, screened from the surrounding apartment buildings by tall bamboo. Sitting there, it doesn’t feel like you’re in a city at all.

I’ve often wondered whether koala bears could survive on that species of bamboo. I doubt it, but I’d love to be able to look out the window and catch a glimpse of the koala bear family, chewing on the leaves.

The house, with a population of zero koala bears, is just a few blocks from the hospital where I was born. Sometimes, in darker moments, I think that in my time on earth, I’ve traveled only this far. Other times, I realize that I am not giving proper notice to the multitude of events, people, loves, friendships, accomplishments, failures, heartbreaks, unexpected opportunities, misunderstandings, weird coincidences, revelations, missed connections, and fleeting moments of enlightenment that have shaped my life and brought me here.

But I suppose I’ll never remember that idea for the essay. It’s a pity. But it might not have been that great anyway.

Tips for Training Your Human

            Congratulations on getting your new human! You now have a faithful servant who will house, feed, and groom you, as well as provide for your medical care, and above all be a loving companion.

Having a human is a big responsibility, though, and it’s important to remember that, perhaps because of their enormous size, humans are slow and ungainly. Be patient with them, and understand that the smallest of us can outrun, out-distance, and out-maneuver any of them. 

Also, while these servile bipeds appear versatile and well-adapted to their environment, it would be a mistake to consider them self aware, or intelligent, as we understand the terms. Most of their actions are purely instinctive. Having evolved alongside canines for an estimated hundred thousand years, they are dependent upon us for their very survival, and there is little doubt that in the wild, domesticated humans would swiftly perish. Even in an urban setting, they typically fail to recognize the nutritional value of garbage, discarded fast food containers, or fresh road kill. Protecting them, and keeping them healthy and safe is your responsibility, so proper training is essential. Below are a few simple tips to get the most out of your human:

1)                   Communication:  Some argue that the elaborate sounds and gestures made by humans are crude efforts at communication, much like our more refined repertoire of barks, whines, whimpers, growls and moans. The more logical explanation for human sounds and movements is, however, that they are involuntary and signify nothing. Ignore them, unless they seem to be directed at you specifically, and accompanied by a treat.

2)                   Socialization:  Humans enjoy the company of other humans, so make an effort to socialize them as often as possible. In many neighborhoods, there are parks that allow both dogs and humans, and when you visit one of these, the human will generally remove the tether that they use to maintain proximity to you. At that point, run as far and as fast as you can, because humans typically enjoy a long game of hide and seek.

3)                   Repetition: Humans delight in showing off their tricks, and training them properly requires repetition. I cannot emphasize that enough. Repetition, repetition, repetition. For example, among their favorite tricks is to demonstrate how they can repeat the sound “sit.” The actual meaning of this sound is unknown, but the humans revel in repeating it over and over, with greater urgency each time, much as we might bark repeatedly to alert them to potential danger and remind them that we have alerted them because they are, after all, just dumb beasts. If you’re like most of us, after a dozen or so utterances, you’ll just rest on your haunches in boredom. That usually silences the human, who is often commended by his companions for his inventive vocalizations.

4)                   Walking: Humans love to walk, but often need to be reminded to do it, and the best time to remind them is when they’re mating, or are fast asleep. Whimper at the foot of their bed. If this fails to rouse them, paw the bedclothes, or lick their face to get the message across. Because their sense of direction is so under-developed, they will typically attach a tether to your collar, and grip the other end tightly. It is your responsibility to lead them and get them home safely. Once outside, enjoy the myriad smells of the outdoors, and zig-zag across the sidewalk so your human can get as much exercise as possible. Spend as much time as you like sniffing the bases of lampposts, road signs, and any sort of discarded item you might come across. If your human tugs at your collar, ignore it. For all their dull wittedness, once set upon a task—even one as simple as walking around the block at four in the morning—they can be annoyingly persistent. If you see a squirrel, chase it. The rapid pace will provide a much needed cardio-vascular workout for your human, but they are clumsy, so avoid leaping over fences or other obstacles, if possible.

5)                   Discipline: Occasionally, humans forget to open the door, or are unable to understand the simple whine or baleful look which so obviously conveys that you need to go outside. Discipline is called for. Peeing on the corner of a sofa, or on a table leg, is sometimes effective, but in some instances it is necessary to defecate in a prominent place within the home. Although the exact means of communication in this case is unknown, it is believed that this reaction on the part of humans is a primitive olfactory response, much as we might know that a neighbor dog has visited our area by smelling the base of the fence for five minutes or so. In any case, the typical response will be to make a loud noise, then open the door. For unknown reasons, the humans then clean up the mess.

6)                   Playing: Humans seem to never tire of throwing a ball, stick, or Frisbee, and bringing it back to them is a good way to keep them entertained. Your slobber is an important element of this activity, and humans are so fond of the stuff that on occasion they will wipe the saliva-soaked item on their clothing, making sounds of contentment as they do so.

These few simple tips, along with an attitude of tolerance and understanding of the innate limitations of humans, will help you enjoy their companionship for many years—a lifetime, perhaps—with virtually no maintenance.

Action Plan for a Perfect World

           A glance at the headlines confirms that the world is in terrible shape. There seems to be no end to suffering and discord.

            But think of the magnificent things that humankind could achieve if it united behind a single, unifying system of belief! Unfortunately, none is satisfying, whether it is physical diversions, materialism, politics, or religion. The good news is, I believe I have discovered a belief system that provides the path to worldwide harmony and fulfillment.

            How about Chris R. Westphal? Wouldn’t we all feel better if Chris R. Westphal was foremost in our thoughts, words, and deeds? I know that for my entire life, I have not done anything without first considering Chris R. Westphal --and I’m certainly a better person as a result.

            So, following are some simple “Action Steps” that I invite you to incorporate into your lives.  Practiced on a daily basis, they will bring you a greater appreciation of Chris R. Westphal and, in my humble view at least, that can only lead to a better world.

1) Know the face of Chris R. Westphal:

If you do not have a picture, drawing, or other depiction of Chris R. Westphal on your dashboard, in your wallet, or on your mantel, get one. By looking at it daily you will reinforce your commitment to bring Chris R. Westphal into every aspect of your life, regardless of actual need.

2) Talk to others about Chris R. Westphal:

Open, frank discussion of who Chris R. Westphal is, what he stands for, and how he has enriched your life is crucial. Find someone--spouse, sibling, family member, or stranger--and pose this question:  “What does Chris R. Westphal mean to you?” If they respond, “Nothing,” or “I don’t know,” enlighten them. Free discussion of Chris R. Westphal is a constitutionally protected right. Use it!

3) Look at the world as though you are Chris R. Westphal:

Imagine that you are Chris R. Westphal at all times, particularly intimate ones with attractive women. Consider how Chris R. Westphal would feel and behave in a given situation. If you’re about to take action of some sort, think first, “Does this action benefit me, or does Chris R. Westphal benefit as well?” Don’t be selfish. We’re all in this together!

4) Think about Chris R. Westphal deeply, and often:

How many times have you come to the end of a day and thought to yourself, “You know, I haven’t thought at all today about Chris R. Westphal.” Scary, isn’t it? Here’s a simple tip to increase thoughts of Chris R. Westphal: Using a felt-tipped marker, write Chris R. Westphal on the back of your hand. Then, every time you look at your hand, you’ll think, “Chris R. Westphal.” Note: If you bathe on a regular basis, use an indelible marker.

5)  Keep a Chris R. Westphal Journal:

Have you ever had a particularly startling insight about Chris R. Westphal, then promptly forgotten it? Don’t worry. It’s happened to all of us--we just don’t remember. To prevent this unsettling occurrence, get a notebook and carry it with you at all times. When you have a particularly compelling thought about Chris R. Westphal, write it down. At the end of each day, review your thoughts. Remember, neatness counts!

6) Learn how to spell the name Chris R. Westphal:

(Special attention: Journalists) It’s spelled C-h-r-i-s  R. W-e-s-t-p-h-a-l.  Write the name several times now. Pencil or pen, it doesn’t matter. Ten times should be enough. When you’re finished, close your eyes and practice spelling the name without looking.  A note on pronunciation: the ph is pronounced f.

            There are, of course, hundreds of more things you can do to honor and advance the name and interests of Chris R. Westphal. Unfortunately, space limitations and certain advertising restrictions forbid discussion of them now. But I believe that if you faithfully practice the six “Action Steps” above, we’ll be well on our way to a perfect world.

Sincerely,

Chris R. Westphal