Out of Touch

Hello to my few loyal readers. I'm currently in a place where internet access is difficult. As soon as I get this remedied, I'll have some stuff to post. I've actually written some stuff, but can't get it online just yet.

Peace, Drugs and Rock & Roll

Anybody who has read this blog on a somewhat regular basis knows that one of the things that really gets under my skin is institutions (be they religious or political) that feel morally obligated to tell others what to think and when to think it. I get so tired of people who think they know what’s best for the rest of us going out of their way to help save us from ourselves. I can’t think of more apt examples for words like audacity and arrogance. And oddly enough, my beef today is with words. Actually, just one word, a word that the FCC has decided we are not allowed to hear.

Is it what many consider a crude word, like the infamous “F” word that millions use on a daily basis, but aren’t allowed to hear broadcast publicly? No. Is it what the bleeding hearts consider a racial slur, like the “N” word, a word used flippantly by those who (often in the same breath) chastise others for using? No. Is it a blasphemous word, the use of which can be cause for arrest and even beheading in backwards countries ruled by zealots? No. In fact, it is a common word, a word so mundane and ordinary that it can be seen plastered on neon signs in just about every town in this country. The word we are no longer allowed to hear is “drugs”.

The popular Canadian band “Nickelback” has a song called “Rockstar” that was released just a month ago, and in that song, the newly dreaded “D” word is used not once, but five times. I think I was fortunate, because I inadvertently heard it before it was censored. I liked it the first time I heard it, and in spite of the “D” word usage, it didn’t make me want to sell everything I own and become a junkie, which is apparently what the FCC thinks will happen if people hear the words “drugs” or “drug dealer”. It’s as if hearing the word will cause people to deviate from their normal line of thinking and embrace the ideology of cultural icons, of musicians, of people they have never met. Let’s follow that line of logic for a minute.

Consider these lyrics, written by a musician so dangerous that the FBI felt the need to keep a file on him:
“Imagine no there’s no countries/it isn’t hard to do/nothing to kill or die for/and no religion too/Imagine all the people/living life in peace…” The man, of course, was John Lennon, and his subversive message was, quite simply, world peace. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure that song reached a lot more people than Nickelback’s latest, and I don’t seem to remember hearing that formerly hostile people realized the error of their ways after hearing that song. By the same token, I just don’t see hordes of previously law abiding citizens (yes, even the young ones) giving up on sobriety because of Nickelback and frantically phoning the local crackheads for some rock. The obvious point is, I really don’t think that hearing the lyrics to a song is going to change someone’s behavior, and it angers me that there is a federal agency with, no doubt, a multi-million dollar budget deciding what words must be bleeped out of the public’s consciousness. It’s absurd.

For the edification of the FCC, I say this: As long as people behave like, well, people, and feel the need for a reality beyond that provided by the standard five senses, they are going to use drugs. The Nickelbacks and the Ozzy Osbournes of the world did not start a drug epidemic and I don’t think they can make it any worse. And for Pete’s sake, everybody knows that forbidden fruit is the sweetest. Attempting to demonize drugs only makes them more desirable. By attempting to hide the lyrics of the song, you are ensuring that more attention is going to be paid by a public who, as it happens, actually enjoys listening and deciding for themselves what they like and what they don’t.

I’d like to prattle on some more on this topic, because it’s such a good one, but I just heard Bobby Darin’s “Mack The Knife”, and I feel the need to do some schmoozing with the floozies that will line up at my door after I kill a few men. I don’t want to, but I just can’t help myself. The music has moved me.

Deewee

In 1997, I was convicted of an “OUIL”, which means “operating under the influence of liquor”. In short, I got a DUI, or “deewee” as the phonetic punsters like to say. It’s a funny, almost Seussian word for describing an event that is anything but funny. But you wouldn’t know it isn’t funny by seeing the sentences recently meted out to Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Ritchie, both convicted of multiple DUIs. Pundits and bloggers alike have no doubt already beaten this topic to death; to say that celebrities get a different kind of justice is to repeat what everyone already knows. However, I want to weigh in on this subject from what I hope is a different point of view, and I’m sure it’s one that is not going to be popular, but that’s OK. If Lindsay Lohan can spend one day in jail and perform 10 days of community service for a second DUI (cocaine possession is apparently not a crime in California), and Nicole Ritchie can serve 84 minutes in jail for a second offense, with no fines and no license suspensions, then I don’t have a problem with my unpopular views.

That rich people get a different brand of justice is an unfortunate reality and it pisses me off, and it should you too. But the bigger problem here is in the drunken driving law itself. We have laws in place because a society without them just wouldn’t work. There has to be accountability for transgressions. If you steal or kill or rape you should be punished. If you commit an act that harms another person, you are guilty. Read that again. If you commit an act that harms another person, you are guilty. We put people in jail for things they have done.

Remember George Orwell’s “1984”? You’ll recall that they had “Thought Police”, a force that found people guilty of thinking what the state considered wrong thoughts. In Orwell’s frightening (and not implausible) world, people were punished for merely thinking the wrong way. They were punished for things they might do. It’s ridiculous, right? Orwell was of course being satirical, but in a very prophetic way. He knew that it is a very small leap to go from crimes committed to crimes merely thought of. How could we possibly punish people for thinking or for crimes they might commit? Well, my friends, I’m no lawyer, but isn’t the drunk driving law set up to punish people for something they might do?

If you drink and drive you might hurt someone (and believe me when I say that there is absolutely no excuse for injuries and deaths caused by idiots who are drunk behind the wheel), you should be severely punished. If Lindsay Lohan had hurt or killed the woman she was obviously menacing, or if Nicole Ritchie had done the same to someone while she was driving on the wrong side of the freeway, we would be shocked and angry. But would we look the other way because they’re celebrities? Would their fame somehow mitigate their crime? They’re obviously stupid, but we can’t put people in jail for being dumb. How bad do you think our prison overcrowding system would be if every moron you know had to go to jail? But, by speculating on what they might have done, aren’t we behaving like Orwell’s thought police; aren’t we vilifying them for something that didn’t happen?

This argument is hair splitting, at best; drunk driving is a recipe for disaster, but not every drunk driver kills or hurts someone when they do it. I guess my main point is that if it were you or me who was caught behaving like these stupid spoiled whores (a nod to South Park) we would suffer consequences that quite often destroy us little people. You pay the state a fine and lose your license, but in many states you are additionally forced to do penance by attending alcoholics anonymous, a blatantly Christian organization, as if God can help you to not be so stupid. You are also punished by the insurance companies with higher rates for up to five years. If you want to change jobs, background checks can and do follow you and hinder you, perhaps indefinitely, with the fact that you’ve already paid your societal debt ignored. All this and more for being stupid and doing well…nothing. Again, I’m not a lawyer, but I thought that you could only be punished once for a crime that you actually committed.

If you or I or any regular person gets a DUI, we are looked upon as the dregs of society, a menace to all things good and wholesome, and we bear watching for the rest of our lives with the slavering state ready to pounce on us should we step out of line again. And, as everybody knows, if you get more than one DUI, you are punished for the new offense and the first one as well. It can ruin your life for years. Again, somehow, the constitution has been rewritten to make sure that we are punished twice for the same crime. But as we have witnessed the Lohans and the Ritchies can and do commit multiple drunken driving offenses, and the public watches eagerly because they are different than us, and the second or third offense might be the one that turns them around and boosts their career. I’m waiting for them to pull a Michael Vick and find Jesus, because I know He has nothing better to do than to make sure that celebrities are not held to the same standard as the little people.

As a final note, I want to say that I am not endorsing drunk driving. I am sorry for the people, good people who have lost a loved one because of another person’s stupidity. All I’m saying is that legislation that punishes for crimes that might happen is a dangerous thing. And in case it didn’t show, I’m angry that popularity is both a license for arrogant behavior and a viable defense for being an idiot.

Call Me Hawk

I love “Mad” magazine. I haven’t read it in years, but some of my fondest childhood memories are of slumber parties (where my parents weren’t) where I could sit with my buddies and read “Mad” and “Vampira” and “Famous Monsters of Filmland.” I could go on and on about “Mad”, and how much I loved some of the artists. Don Martin, Al Jaffee, Sergio Aragones and the “usual gang of idiots” never failed to amuse and yes, I’ll say it, educate me. In particular, I remember a short lived series by Al Jaffee called “Hawks and Doves”, and I’ll be damned if I can find any information on the series, but the basic premise was that officer Hawks was always in opposition to Private Dove(s); it was juxtaposed against the Vietnam War. As I remember, the strip did not take sides, and instead skewered both for their views, which ultimately lead the young reader to realize that neither side had the upper hand. The bottom line was that killing each other was a bad idea no matter how you sliced it, and for years, I clung to that philosophy. Today, however, I am going to deviate from that. I am going to be hawkish. Read a little more, and if you don’t agree with me, fine. I will gladly recant my position if a suitable argument can be provided to refute my stance, which is simply this: If we (and I mean everybody, not just America) do not stop the Taliban in Afghanistan, we will at best have blood on our hands, and at worst, become victims ourselves.

As of this writing, the Taliban say they will release two of twenty one South Korean captives in exchange for the release of 21 Taliban prisoners held in Afghanistan prisons. Doesn’t this seem fair, in a way? Kind of? Maybe? Well, no, it doesn’t. It doesn’t even resemble fair play. In fact, it is a perversion of what we would think fair play is. 23 South Korean Christian relief workers in Afghanistan were taken prisoner in late July. Two have already been shot in cold blood, murdered by the Taliban, and now, under the guise of diplomacy, they want to negotiate for the release of the remaining 21. Just today, the Taliban captors say they are engaged in talks to successfully secure the release of two sick Korean women, as if they are somehow suddenly compassionate captors. “God willing,” they say, the captives will be released, if, of course, the Taliban prisoners held in prison are released. The Taliban would have you believe that it’s not them, but Allah himself who is responsible.

I want to spread my hawkish wings and sharpen my hawkish beak and say that if anyone goes out of their way to negotiate with the Taliban, they are legitimizing terrorist tactics, and giving credence to the notion that kidnapping and murdering innocents is an acceptable means to an end. If this were the way the world worked, any country could kidnap a bunch of North Koreans, (or Iranians) and murder a few, and then negotiate the release of the rest to put a stop to their nuclear weapons program. Or maybe, they could kidnap some Dutch residents and show those pot smoking, prostitution-friendly deviants that their lifestyle won’t be tolerated. (That’s just an example, of course. It is my goal to visit Amsterdam just once before I die.) My obvious point is that America, and every other civilized culture doesn’t resort to that sort of barbaric, prehistoric behavior because we’ve realized that it is inhumane, and counterproductive to the growth of the species. The cretins of the Taliban, however, seem to be stuck in the cave, and can’t find their way out. In fact, I don’t think they want to, which is why I think we should wipe them off the face of the earth. And by the way, when I say “we,” I mean every thinking, empathetic person no matter what their country of origin.

The obvious argument here is that two wrongs don’t make a right, and if I’m advocating murder, I’m no better than them. The difference, though, is that they murder proactively, (and they won’t stop) whereas I am being reactive. They are in all respects a cancerous tumor, and as we would remove an infection from a body, we must remove the Taliban from the body of humanity before they infect and destroy it. The doves among us would cry for reeducation, and I’m not completely opposed to that, but they often fail to understand that this sort of religious fervor is instilled at a very young age. I remember learning things at a young age, and some of those things are ingrained so deeply that I’m not sure I could change my mind about them, and that’s the problem with reeducation. You and I know that it’s wrong to steal and lie and kill, but in order to understand the Taliban mentality, you must understand that the children are taught, just like you and I were, that killing is good if done in the name of God. Think about that for a minute. The lessons that most people learn (golden rule stuff) are a part of our collective being, and although it’s hard to believe, there is another school of thought that believes the opposite, that killing is good if done for the right reason, and it is just as ingrained in them as it is in us. I would spare the children (although I’d keep a close eye on them) and kill the men. I would do this because I know that if given the chance, they would do the same to me. Am I being paranoid? Maybe, but consider that if a militant Taliban zealot were to read this, I would be marked for death for speaking my mind.

Did you know that under Taliban law, it is a crime for women to laugh loud enough to be heard? That it is a crime to listen to music or watch movies or TV for anyone? That a person can be executed for possessing literature deemed “inappropriate”? Did you know that all people are forced to pray five times a day; failure to do so is cause for execution. There are those who would say it’s not our business to be the police of the world, but can you stand idly by in the enlightened 21st century and watch this sort of treatment inflicted on fellow human beings? People should not be punished for the crime of being born in Afghanistan. If we do nothing, we are just as guilty as the zealots of the Taliban. We are the world’s police and believe me, they want us to intervene.

Is the Taliban evil? Maybe not in the biblical sense, but in the realistic sense, it is. I am loathe to discredit alternative philosophies; indeed I welcome them as a means to improve, or at least, expand my own perspective. But the virtual enslavement of people and the kidnapping and killing of innocents is a way I cannot accept, and to see it in action in our time is anathema. It makes me sick and it should make you sick too. I’ve used this euphemism before, and I want to make it clear that I don’t use it in a cavalier fashion, so people please listen. Make no mistake: If thinking people do not crush the Taliban way of thinking, there will be no more thought.

More Blurbs

I’ve been rather slack about new postings lately, mostly due to mundane problems that aren’t of any interest to anyone who reads this. These mysterious setbacks, however, make a very convenient excuse for not writing. To help myself get back in the swing I’m posting another column of short blurbs. I hope you find these satisfactory.

On Barry Bonds: As most of you know, I really don’t care much for organized sports, except for hockey. I don’t see how being able to put a basketball through a hoop or smack a baseball 400 feet warrants a multimillion dollar paycheck. Frankly, I find it obscene that the some of the highest paid people in our society are actors and athletes. We hold them in high esteem, as if they have done something meaningful or important. In any case, the baseball world was all atwitter with Barry Bonds breaking Hank Aaron’s home run record the other day. For some people, the fact that he used performance enhancing steroids means nothing, and that’s a real shame. It’s cheating, plain and simple, and to recognize his “achievement” speaks volumes for those who consider such things important. Bonds, of course, denies using such drugs, but his former trainer sits in jail for refusing to say if he supplied drugs to the new home run king. Much has been made of this, but I think it bears repeating: Athletes in their mid thirties do not naturally, in the space of one year, almost double their batting abilities along with their physical size. Bonds can deny all he wants, but he’s a cheater, and he knows it. He’s just hoping you won’t care. And if you don’t, shame on you.

There Are Worse Things Than Acne: A while back I wrote an essay about having to deal with the agony of acne. It was an awful thing to have to deal with, especially as an awkward teenager trying to survive puberty. All things, however, need to be put into perspective, and I got a big dose of that this evening while watching The Learning Channel. The episode dealt with the plight of a young teenaged girl in East Africa by the name of Pastina Nkotki. Her personality was one of any teenaged girl in any country, and it was immediately apparent that although we, as people, are separated by our countries and cultures, we are all basically the same creatures. She seemed normal in every way except one: She had an enormous tumor growing beneath her face. To call it a monstrous deformity is putting it mildly. For a short video that shows Pastina, click here. I think what struck me the most as I watched this show was Pastina’s attitude. Despite her appearance, she seemed perfectly normal, and she was. Her relatives thought her bewitched, and hid her from sight lest they be outcasts in their village. They were literally dirt poor, and couldn’t afford modern medical treatment. During the show, Pastina was shown laughing and crying, talking and silently thinking, and behaving in every way except for her appearance like a normal child. It was literally heart wrenching, and I was ashamed as I watched her, ashamed for thinking that acne was a horrible cross to bear. There’s no happy ending here either, as Pastina died just three months after the surgery to remove the tumor. I couldn’t help but think that if I were in her shoes, I don’t think I’d be nearly as strong as she was.

Punishment Fits Crime: Many times, it seems, we put people in jail for crimes that really don’t warrant jail time. Jail overcrowding is a serious problem, and I really don’t see how putting non violent offenders in with those who really do belong locked up serves justice. Call me crazy, but in today’s world, where image seems to matter much more than substance, I think the best deterrent for non violent offenders is to hit them where it hurts most: In the ego. I would like to see the return of public humiliation (and I don’t care how un-PC that is) in our justice system. Bring back the stocks and rotten tomatoes! Cruel and unusual? I think a little embarrassment is a good thing, and thankfully, I’m not alone. Philip Kolinski from Michigan was convicted of bilking unsuspecting donors by asking for scrap metal that he said he was going to use to build a memorial to US veterans. He took the donations, but sold the metal, having no plans to build anything. His punishment? He had to scrub a monument to veterans with a toothbrush while wearing a T-shirt that read “I Stole From Veterans.” Now that, my friends, is how our justice system should work for non violent offenders. Not just generic, anonymous community service, but shame. It’s a powerful motivator. Here’s a picture and story of this dork serving his sentence.

With that, I’ll sign off. It’s a perplexing, sad and funny world all at once.

Murderous Movie Mayhem

You couldn't possibly know this, but I started this rant last night, and typed several pages before I realized I had gone way off topic. My beef today concerns the discrepancies between well established stories and themes that are a part of American pop culture and the positively shameless “re-working” by Hollywood to “improve” them. I can think of so many examples that it’s hard for me to concentrate, and I know I’m not the first person to lament the dumbing down of literature in film. Indeed, much of the pulp that flows out of Hollywood to be passed off as entertainment is truly insulting to thinking persons, and the outright audacity of movie makers’ plot changes when bringing classics to the screen is horrifying. Somebody has to keep sounding the alarm, though, lest we begin to believe that Hollywood knows what good entertainment is.

For context, let’s start with an old example. In 1975, Stephen King published “The Lawnmower Man” in Cavalier magazine, and it was later included in a collection of short stories called “Night Shift.” (If for some reason you haven’t read it, shame on you.) In 1992, the geniuses in Hollywood decided to make a movie with the same title, and even included King’s name in the title. Fans (like myself) who loved the story went to theaters expecting to see a fantasy/horror film with a bizarre plot and even some classic elements of Greek mythology. (King himself says his work is the McDonald’s of literature, but millions of satisfied customers can’t be wrong.) In any case, the movie had absolutely no similarities to the story at all. None. It was like going to see a film adaptation of Goldilocks with a brunette and no bears. King sued to have his name removed from the title, and in my opinion, he was being more than civil. If it were me, I think I would have used the murderous lawn mower on those who butchered my story.

In the present, the same problem still exists, and it’s getting worse. Tomorrow a film adaptation of the classic cartoon “Underdog” will hit theaters. I haven’t seen it, but I’ve seen the promotional ads, and I can tell you right now that the cartoon I loved as a child is nothing like the sappy, contrived shit that’s going to try to pass itself off as an homage to an American pop culture icon. You should be able to tell this is bugging me, as most of my loyal readers will notice that I rarely use profanity in this blog, but this movie is profane, and it deserves the worst treatment I can give it. Insult Underdog at your peril! And before anyone points their finger and accuses me of dismissing or deriding a movie I haven’t seen yet, let me say this: I loved the Underdog cartoon. I have seen the ads for the movie. There is no comparison. None.

The snippets we see in the promos portray Underdog as a snarky, wise cracking (live action) pooch whose utterances clearly imply that he is smarter than the bumbling humans that surround him. This attitude is completely out of character. Anyone who has seen the original Underdog knows that he is “humble and lovable.” Notice that humble is the first attribute used to describe him. With a penchant for speaking in rhymes, the cartoon Underdog was always polite, even when chastising villains. Wally Cox, who voiced the cartoon dog, must be spinning in his grave over the insipid dialogue, mundane delivery of those lines, and the overall distortion of the original character. I don’t have to see the movie to know that it’s going to suck; the promotional ads alone are all I need.

While I’m on the subject, how about I bash another movie coming out that, in my opinion, is going to seriously set back literary understanding for an unsuspecting generation of movie-goers? Any student of literature should cringe at the following announcement: Angelina Jolie is going to portray Grendeldame in an upcoming film adaptation of Beowulf. If you don’t know anything about Beowulf, again, shame on you. Wikipedia says Beowulf is “the single major surviving work of Anglo-Saxon heroic poetry…” in existence. It is the holy grail of written English literature. It is a printed work that is over one thousand years old; it is the only one of its kind. You could call it a classic, but it would be more apt to refer to it as THE classic.

I checked out the official movie site for the film, and found these quotes: After slaying Grendel (a monster), Beowulf “incurs the hellish wrath of the beast’s ruthlessly seductive mother.” Also, this quote: “Anthony Hopkins as the corrupt King Hrothgar.” The synopsis on the website was very short, but it was enough to provide me with some ammunition for my rant. Firstly, both Grendel and his mother, Grendeldame, are described CLEARLY in the story as being monsters. They do not speak. They do not seduce. They are monsters. They do kill and eat/drain blood from their victims, which is, in itself, a perfect way to portray them onscreen. Thanks to advancements in CGI, you would think Hollywood would relish the chance to bring a classic story to life without a guy in a rubber monster suit. But no, that’s not good enough. They have to give Grendeldame the power to appear as a human and to tempt and seduce the hapless men. How do I know this without seeing the movie? Call it magic, but I suspect that in order for Grendeldame to appear seductive, she’s going to have to appear as Angelina Jolie (whom, I admit, is very good at looking seductive). Again, the Grendeldame of the story does not seduce nor talk. She kills men, period.

Secondly, King Hrothgar is not corrupt. In fact, he is described as “protector” of the Danes, and if I may go one step further, he is based on a real person. He is not corrupt; in fact he is revered. He is thankful, although somewhat embarrassed that Beowulf has shown up to help him defeat the pall that Grendel has cast on his castle. In short, he is a mortal who is to be saved by the superhuman hero. (This should ring some symbolism bells.) Written when Christianity was is its infancy, Beowulf is a told by a Christian author to a pagan audience. We certainly wouldn’t want THAT to be told to the modern audience. I don’t know what kind of foolish “plot enhancements” the Hollywood whores will come up with, but you can be sure of this: They will be contrived, transparent, and wholly unnecessary elements that have nothing to do with the original story.

I will admit that it must be very difficult to bring the images of the written word to life on the big screen. The main problem, of course, is that readers see their own images and put their own faces on characters, and many times the movie images do not jive with what the reader has imagined. I will also admit that sometimes this works. For instance, in the novel “Jaws,” the character of Quint is described as being bald; Robert Shaw was not. However, his portrayal of Quint was mesmerizing. I can overlook that sort of thing. Indeed, in order to enjoy movies, it is necessary to suspend disbelief; no one would enjoy werewolf movies if they remained grounded in the fact that no such creature exists. I have no problem with monsters or supernatural occurrences in film. I do, however, have a problem with changing the core elements of characters or plots from literature or previous movies/TV and passing them off as faithful renditions of classics. I cannot figure out why so many movie makers feel it necessary to change what was a perfectly good story. Like a child in a store with shining baubles, they just can’t seem to keep their hands off, and they leave greasy fingerprints on what they’ve touched.

Vengeful Gods

Hello loyal readers. I think the last essay on religion angered somebody or something. My computer was struck down by a power surge the next day, and now I'm waiting to get it back. I'm writing this from the public library, but hope to have my own machine back early this week. I'm also being timed, so I have to go, but before I do, I wanted to say that I asked probably 8 random people where the library was here in this town, and it took that many to find one who knew. More on that later. TTFN!

Sunday Best

Yesterday was Sunday, the day of rest, and I did my biblical best to not do much of anything. I didn’t create a universe this past week, but I did enough to lie around without feeling guilty. I did do a good deed this week, though, which I will relate in a moment, but first, I want to highlight a couple of the more godly events I ran across this week, events and actions carried out by people much closer to God than I.

The story that runs here is a shining example of Christian religious tolerance. The pope, as you may know, is practically the right hand of God himself. I’ve never really understood how being elected to the position by cardinals (men) somehow elevates the “winner” to demigod status, allowing him to be able to speak for God (when the day before he couldn’t), but that’s another story for another time. In any case, the thrust of this story is that Pope Benedict XVI, by virtue of his exclusive hotline to heaven, was able to announce to the world that the Catholic Church is, in fact, the only true church in the world. One of the proofs of the claim is that they alone enjoy apostolic succession, which means they can “trace their bishops back to Christ’s original apostles.” This is quite a feat, given that even in the Bible, the supposed word of God himself, biblical genealogical succession is, even to the novice, fraught with discrepancies. As a simple illustration, read the genealogical succession of Jesus in both Matthew and Luke. Without getting on my biblical errancy soapbox, the simple point is that oral tradition cannot be accepted as fact by reasonable people. I don’t know how it was two thousand years ago, but when I worked in a factory, somebody at one end of the plant could cut their finger, and by the time the news reached the other end of the plant, the injury had evolved into an amputation at the shoulder. So, Pope Benedict’s proclamation needs to be taken for what it is: an attempt by a person of dubious authority speaking for God, presenting fiction as fact.

I don’t want to pick on the Catholics too much, but as this story shows, they’ve been fairly busy this week. Once they asserted that they are the “one true church,” they found themselves in the news again just days later, although probably not for the reason they would like. In Los Angeles, the largest payout ever as recompense for sexual molestation charges against priests was ordered this week: $660 million dollars. According to the Associated Press, that amount pushes the total amount paid by the church to its secretly violated adherents (mostly children) to over 2 billion dollars since 1950; apparently if you were molested before then, too bad. In any case, that’s a lot of money. I would go one step further and say that that’s a lot of money that could be used for better things than to pay off the victims of sexual predation by the agents of God’s one church, but what do I know?

Let us turn now from the Catholics to Islam, the so-called “religion of peace.” This story helps to illustrate their benevolent nature. In today’s world arena, there isn’t a day that goes by without the words “Islam” or “Muslim” being mentioned in any given newscast. Muslim terrorists kill themselves and others by at least the hundreds every day. In the war on terror, America does have some allies in the troubled Middle East, including the best known one of Saudi Arabia. Nothing bad happens there, because they’re our friends, right? For the time being, I suppose they are, in that they’re not overtly involved in terrorist activities. However in this theocracy if you happen to be in violation of any of their numerous religious laws, you could find yourself in the unfortunate position of being punished by having your head chopped off in a public square and your body displayed in public as a deterrent. This is God’s law. The sentence is most often carried out next to a mosque, so I guess that makes it “holy” somehow. In fact, there is nothing secular about their system of justice; more often than not, offenders are tortured until confession, which provides the basis for imposition of the sentence. When we hear of the Salem witch trials we wonder how we could have been so obtuse as to sanction public execution based on forced confession, and yet it happens in Saudi Arabia as I write, and they are well on their way to exceeding their 2005 record execution rate of 191 persons in 2005. In Saudi Arabia right now, a nineteen year old Sri Lankan nanny awaits death by beheading because a baby in her care choked to death while she bottle fed him. She could be spared if the grieving family says the word, but they refuse to do so. Today, June 16, is the day the sentence is to be carried out.

There is a very interesting article here that relates the fundamentals of Islam. I urge you to read it, but if you don’t, here it is in a nutshell: God (Allah) is always right, and so is Muhammad. God can change his mind. Early verses in the Qur’an are superceded by later ones (abrogation), so Allah can say “love your enemies” and later say “kill all non-believers,” and the latter verse is the one that is held to be the “the truth”, no matter what was said previously. Make no mistake: Islam is not a religion of peace; some say it’s not even a religion at all. You do the research and decide for yourself.

The previous stories were the result of some very casual research done on the internet this week, and all have the common thread of being religious in nature. At the beginning of this essay, I said I did a good deed this week. I don’t know if it’s religious or not, but again, you decide. I had some company this weekend who was visiting from the northern regions, and was very keen to spend a few days at the beautiful beaches here in Florida. We did, and on Saturday we found ourselves in a small pavilion in Siesta Key rinsing the sand off as we prepared to leave after a day at the beach. Since we didn’t want to leave our belongings unattended we took turns showering and changing. On a picnic table across from us sat two women and a badly sun burnt child. With a thick Russian accent, the elder woman asked if I had a cellular phone she could use. I said “Of course,” and she made a call. She didn’t receive an answer, and as she handed the phone back to me, she said she was trying to contact the person who was supposed to pick them up; they had been waiting for over an hour in the hot (and I mean HOT) weather. The middle woman, who couldn’t have been much more than 18 or 20 looked about 8 months pregnant; she was obviously hot and uncomfortable, and the child, who was 8 or 9, had upon her countenance the wince of pain from too much sun. The woman said they had no money and no clue as to when their ride was coming. My visitor quickly produced a couple dollars and bought sodas for the thirsty stranded trio. Amongst ourselves, my visitor and I agreed that the right thing to do would be to offer the women a ride to their motel, which was a mere 4 miles away. They readily accepted, and we took them to their room. They had no money, and none was expected. They were obviously very happy to be off the scorching beach, and the last thing the elder woman said was “God bless you.”

This essay isn’t meant to teach any moral lessons. It is merely a series of stories that bring a fraction of the human experience to light. I hope it does somebody some good. I think you can do yourself a favor, though, if the next time you sit in your church or kneel in your mosque, you ask yourself these questions: Is the core message of my faith that of peace and goodwill, and do its institutions reflect that? If the two answers aren’t “yes” and “yes”, you have a problem.

TV Wasteland, Vol. II

I wrote an essay earlier this year with the same title, hence the “Vol. II” designation. Through a series of rather depressing events, I don’t even own a television now, but I do have access to one. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I still think watching television is a form of vampirism, lulling me into oblivion while it sucks my time away. Nothing at all like the internet, you know...

The Good: I find myself really enjoying the Food Network channel. There are so many interesting things there, although I must admit that I haven’t tried many of the recipes I’ve seen. OK, I haven’t tried any of them. But I mean to. I particularly enjoy “Good Eats” with Alton Brown. He makes everything look so simple, and when I finally get my hands on a DVR, I will be sure to record some of his shows to see if I can duplicate his results. But far and away, I think the best show on the Food Network is “Unwrapped” with Marc Summers. From pretzels to marshmallows, from hot dogs to butterscotch, watching how the foods so many of us love being prepared is, to me, endlessly entertaining. Having worked in a food processing plant for much of my adult life, much of the packing machinery is familiar, but I still find myself transfixed by the process of making cheese popcorn.

The Bad: As much as I like the Food Network, I cannot extend the same praise to an episode of “Weekend Getaway” hosted by Giada DeLaurentiis that I saw this evening. Now, I have nothing against Giada, and I do not mean to imply in any way that she is an inept hostess; in fact I have learned that she is an accomplished chef and caterer in her own right. The episode I watched tonight was filmed in New York City, and it was the food and prices that I found distasteful (ha!) and not her. The featured appetizer was known as “Taylor Bay Scallop Ceviche”, and whether or not it was intentional, the camera showed the menu as she ordered, and the price was $25. I live in Florida, and I know that scallops are not the cheapest seafood you can buy, but I was really taken aback when her order arrived consisting of four tiny bay scallops. Four. Call me a cretin, but four scallops for $25 is ridiculous. I know, I know, New York. I once went to a bar in NYC (The Oak Bar in the Plaza for you critics) with two companions. Two of us had a beer and the other had a bloody mary. The bill was $32. For $32 I could buy a case of beer, a half pound of shrimp, a fifth of vodka and a gallon of bloody mary mix and still have enough for a Hershey bar. On this trip Giada also had a pizza from Grimaldi’s, and we didn’t get to see the price tag, but I’m willing to bet it was more than $8. I guess my point is that I didn’t enjoy watching somebody spend outrageous amounts of money for tiny portions of food. If that makes me a cretin, so be it. Anybody who wants to foot my bill so I can try this wonderful cuisine and maybe change my mind is more than welcome to try.

The Ugly: Aside from Rosie O’Donnell, Nancy Grace has to be the most obnoxious person on television. I had heard of her, but never seen her until tonight, and I think I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing I hadn’t. In this evening’s episode, she was covering a “You Tube” video that showed a child no more than two or three allegedly under the influence of the drug ecstasy (MDMA). Don’t get me wrong, I think that if the video was authentic, and the child was drugged, the persons responsible for this type of behavior should be sterilized and forever banned from any contact with children, ever. The thing that bugged me, though, was Nancy’s shrill, repetitive squawking about how horrible it was. I think we got that in the first ten minutes of her raving while the video played on a loop, over and over and over. She had some panelists on as well, and one of them was a lawyer who said, or tried to say, that yes it was awful, but that, from a legal standpoint, it would be very difficult to press charges against any of the vehicle’s occupants because the child, although obviously under some sort of duress, was not being physically mistreated. Nobody was burning her with cigarettes or gouging her eyes. That the child had been given ecstasy was implied, but as far as the tape went, nobody knew for sure that that was what had happened. The trouble was, every time this guy tried to make his point, Nancy cut him off as though he were advocating the drugging and filming of children. His exasperation showed when he was repeatedly interrupted, but he never got the chance to finish answering the question Nancy herself had asked. It was as if she wanted to ask the question, but didn’t want to hear the answer unless it was a hand-wringing admonition of the vehicle’s occupants at least, or better yet, a call for a public execution. Maybe it’s just me, but if you are going to have a television show with a panel of guests to offer insight and opinion, wouldn’t it be prudent to listen to all of the opinions of all the panelists and then let the viewers decide? The one panelist who didn’t toe the opinion line seemed to be there solely as a whipping boy to give the illusion that if you don’t agree totally with Nancy, you do not deserve to be heard. It was a disgusting example of what passes for “unbiased” reporting on television.

And as an ironic note, a quickie research of both O’Donnell and Grace showed reports that both of them are vying for new shows: Grace to replace Rosie on “The View”, and Rosie to replace Bob Barker on “The Price is Right.” I’d rather watch Jerry Springer than either of these two harpies. I don’t think I need to repeat here that most television is indeed, a vast wasteland.

I’ve got more TV wasteland fodder, but I’m done for now. For those who are interested, the second part of “Me and Jack Webb” is almost finished. Watch for it on my "serious" blog (link to the right) soon!

A Trashy Tale

A long time ago, in the land of Gaul near the village of Ghrebh, there lived a creature called Tasa. The villagers didn’t particularly like Tasa, but Tasa did a job that nobody else wanted to do. Tasa took care of the garbage. Every evening, before the streetlamps were lit to keep the goblins away, the villagers took their garbage to the hill past the village gates and dumped it over the side. All manner of foul things rolled down the hill, and each night, Tasa would sort them. The things of the earth would be returned to the earth, but the things that the villagers had made were left for a while. Eventually, the things were covered up by new layers, and the villagers couldn’t see them anymore, and thought they were gone.

Tasa took great interest in all the things that were sorted. Here were some eggshells from this morning’s breakfast, and over there some clippings from a young girl’s haircut. Tasa’s claws touched everything in the dump, carefully placing each where it belonged. Sometimes Tasa would find things that didn’t belong in the dump, things that were there too early. Tasa knew this, and would place them where the villagers could see them. They would arrive to dump the day’s load down the hill, and they would see the things that Tasa left on top, and sometimes they would want to get them back.

Tasa’s place was not a safe place for the villagers. The things that the earth didn’t want, sharp things and poisonous things and evil things waited for villagers who regretted tossing something in the dump. Tasa readily took anything the villagers wanted to throw away, but once on the heap, they belonged to Tasa.

It happened one day that two village children met on the path to the dump, each carrying something for Tasa to sort.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” said the first child.
“Hello, Christopher,” said the second. “Carrying your family’s scraps to Tasa, are you?”
“I wish it were scraps,” said Christopher. “I wish more than anything it was scraps I have in my basket.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s Kadiska. Kadiska is in my basket,” and with that, Christopher started to cry. Kadiska the cat had been part of the family for as long as Christopher had been alive. “Last night he curled up near the fireplace like he always does, but this morning, he was still there. I tried to get him awake so we could play, but he laid still. Mum looked at him and touched him too, but he didn’t move. We watched him for a while, then she said I should take him to Tasa. I wanted to wait, but Mum said to put him in the basket and take him to Tasa this minute.” Tears splashed atop the basket he carried close to his chest as he walked toward the dump.

“I don’t have anything but scraps,” said Elizabeth as she walked with Christopher. She didn’t pay any attention to his crying.

The two children stopped at the top of the hill and looked over the dump that yawned below them. A breeze tousled their hair and ruffled their clothing. “Oh I hate it here!” said Elizabeth. “It stinks here! I don’t know why I should ever have to come to such a horrid place!”

“We have to come here,” said Christopher. He knelt down with his basket at the top of the hill overlooking the place of Tasa, and tried to find the will to empty it. He couldn’t just throw the dead cat onto the pile and walk away, nor could he let it roll down the hill. His mother had made a bright blue velvet bow for Kadiska’s basket, and he could not toss it away like so much chicken bones and dust. Wracked with sobs, he said to Elizabeth, “I cannot throw this basket, and I don’t want to open it. I will walk down the hill and set it at the edge of the pile. Tasa will be able to find it. Tasa will know what to do with it.”

“Don’t be silly!” said Elizabeth. “It’s not alive and it doesn’t mean anything anymore! I’ll show you how to get rid of trash,” and with that, she flung open her basket and dropped the contents into the dump. As an afterthought, she pulled from her dress pocket a tattered doll with a blue dress, and in one motion, dropped and kicked it into the dump with the other refuse. As she turned to leave, Christopher was carefully making his way down the steep hill toward the edge of the garbage pile. She called over her shoulder, “You’re going to slip and cut yourself down there, and you’ll be sick for the rest of your life! Serves you right!” Her voice carried across the dump as she walked away and did not look back.

When Christopher got to the bottom of the hill, he stood at the edge of the heap. It was a sea of garbage. He could hear things skittering, moving beneath it. He set his basket with Kadiska in it down. He hated to leave it here, because this was the place of things unwanted, and he still wanted Kadiska. He looked at the basket for a few minutes, then a breeze wafted past him, carrying the stench of the dump. He turned and started up the hill, tears burning his eyes and the smell burning his nose. He had a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. He sobbed as he climbed, and he promised himself he would never get that close to the dump again.

For a few days, Christopher’s mother did not make him go to the dump with the family trash, and for his part, he avoided the area completely. On the sixth day after Kadiska died, there was a great commotion at the dump, and all of the villagers clamored around to see what was happening. Christopher heard the excitement, and although he didn’t want to go near the dump, curiosity compelled him. As he approached it, he could see people standing at the top of the hill, looking down. It was very windy at the crest of the hill, and some of the people held their noses or had kerchiefs over their faces. Christopher got to the top of the hill and looked to see what all the fuss was about. He could see two men walking very carefully through the garbage. They were coming back to the edge. One man held the other’s hand to steady him; the second man had something over his shoulder. It was Elizabeth.

“What happened?” said Christopher to another child standing next to him.
“Elizabeth got in trouble because she threw something to Tasa that didn’t belong to her! She borrowed a doll and kept it, then threw it away! Her mother was going to punish her, but Elizabeth thought if she could get the doll back, she wouldn’t be in trouble anymore! She fell down in the garbage and now she’s going to die!” All the children talked excitedly of it, but Christopher wasn’t really listening. He didn’t want to, but he looked where he had placed Kadiska’s basket. It was gone. He felt the lump growing in his throat, not for Elizabeth, but for his cat. The wind blew again, and Christopher felt it carry something out of the dump to touch his leg. He looked down and saw it was the bow his mother had put on Kadiska’s basket. He put it in his pocket and walked away from the dump.

For weeks, Elizabeth lay with a fever. She was very sick. Even the village doctor did not know how to cure her, and he didn’t know how long it would last. The fever took all it could from her, and when it finally broke, Elizabeth was very thin and very weak. Her hands curled up like claws, never to be the same again, and she could not speak. Sounds came from her lips, but she could not make words, save for one: Tasa.

Years later, when Christopher was older and had a family of his own, he was dumping trash for Tasa when he heard a noise coming from the heap. He carefully crawled down the hill and there, at the edge of the stinking pile, was a crying kitten. Its fur was dirty, but its eyes were bright. It had gotten wedged beneath an old table. It was pinned and could not move. Christopher knelt down, and carefully, so as not to cut himself, pulled the kitten free. He stood up to leave, and the kitten looked up at him, still crying. He squatted back down, holding out his hands, and the kitten trotted right into them. He held it out to look at it; it was a mess. It meowed a tiny meow, and licked his thumb. For the third time in his life, he got a lump in his throat at the edge of the garbage pile. This lump was much easier to swallow, though, and it happened when, after carrying the kitten home and cleaning it up, he put the blue bow on it he had saved from Kadiska’s basket so long ago.

And what of Tasa? Tasa still sorts the trash for the villagers, arranging each thing to its place and keeping every unwanted thing tossed into the dump.

"Smokey Joe"

I wish I could sing. I wish I had a voice that made people stop what they’re doing, no matter what it is, and make them feel compelled to loudly announce to everyone within earshot “I love this song!” I’ve done that, and so have you, if you’re normal. Sometimes you’ve got an air guitar or an air organ or air drums or an air microphone, and sometimes, if the song really moves you, you can play all air instruments and sing simultaneously. Sometimes you burst out to a less than sympathetic reception. You don’t get to pick the times that the music moves you, but when it happens, there ain’t no shyin’ away from it.

I hate to sound like an old fart, but when I was a kid, the only music you got was on the AM radio. You could buy 45’s, and that was cool, but unless you had a ton of money, you couldn’t have all the good songs, because there was a new hit every week, and anybody who listened to the radio knew what they were. Some say the music scene in the mid-twentieth century was homogenous, but they don’t understand. I challenge them to name just one song in the past few years that had America and the world singing and dancing at the same time. Aretha Franklin did it. So did Dusty Springfield and Otis Redding and a host of other acts that made up the “pop” scene of the 60’s. Everybody knew what the British Invasion was because every radio station played them. For that brief era, much of the world danced to the same tunes.

It would be unfair to pick out one as a favorite. Just when you thought you’d heard the coolest song ever, another would come out and replace it. My favorites changed from day to day, and they still do, even though they’re still all the same old songs. So while I can’t say what my definitive favorite is, I still want to add my homage to the man I think has one of the greatest voices I’ve ever heard: William Robinson Sr., better known as “Smokey.”

Smokey Robinson’s voice glides through my head like a pat of butter sliding across a warm skillet. Indeed, after he has sung a word, its velvety smoothness lingers, and it leaves me waiting for the next one. When I’m happy, Smokey’s voice cheers with me, and when I’m sad, the same voice consoles me. There is something about his voice that, for me, anyway, goes beyond mere auditory perception; it touches my soul. I daresay that if I were a woman and Smokey Robinson sung to me, I would melt on the spot and surrender. He writes songs with deceptively simple lyrics about love lost or desired, and he delivers them with that silky voice that could melt the iciest heart.

I’m not alone in thinking that Smokey’s lyrics are a thing of wonder. Bob Dylan called him “America’s greatest living poet,” and I couldn’t agree more. If you’ve ever tried to write poetry, you know how hard it can be to string words together that have the same number of syllables, rhyme, and make sense, all at the same time. So many songs end up sounding like they rhyme, but if you listen carefully, the meter is off. They’re cheating, squeezing extra syllables in, but not Smokey. And again, when he’s got the perfect idea in verse, he perfects it by singing, almost cooing like a dove, sounding for all the world like a divine messenger bearing tidings of great joy and comfort. Thank you, William “Smokey” Robinson.

Songs, of course, are ephemeral; they always end. One of the greatest achievements of humans was the invention of sound recording. The same song played at different times can evoke different feelings. The notes don’t change, but the mood of the listener does. It’s so hard to describe the magic of music. We know how it makes us feel, but how does it do that? Of course the music and the lyrics matter, but I sometimes think that it appeals to us on a much deeper level. Perhaps it’s merely the sounds of it that move us, like wind chimes. Sometimes you hear a song sung in a language you don’t understand but still enjoy. For all you know, the lyrics could be about churning butter, but the proper notes in the proper order can resonate around your brain and strike a chord in your being that can change your mood. That, my friends, is true magic.

EPILOGUE: There is much more to Smokey Robinson than is described above. I just happened to be listening to him when it struck me to make a feeble attempt at describing how his music moves me. A good article on him can be found here. And for the record, I like all the oldies. I like the Temptations, Herman’s Hermits, and all of the one-hit-wonders.

Pus 'N Boats

I took a motorcycle ride today, and it was good. It was good to get out of the house and spend the day riding up and down the coast. It was very hot; even the breeze that normally cools me off on the road was sweltering at times, but that was OK, because as long as I was moving, I wasn’t covered with a sheen of sweat. I didn’t even notice the ridiculous sunburn I got.

I took a ride to Fort Matanzas, just south of St. Augustine, the oldest European settlement in what is now America. It’s a state park here in Florida, complete with nature trails and picnic areas. The actual “fort” is on the other side of the river, though, and a ferry takes visitors there every hour. Since I was close to the time of the next ferry departure, and I had nothing else to do, and the ferry ride was free, I decided I would go and see a bit of history. I wasn’t the only visitor there, but as a (very) amateur history buff, I would like to have seen more people looking to learn what happened before we got here. In any case, I shared the boat ride with about 15 other people. Among my fellow passengers was a teenage girl with an absolutely horrible case of acne, and braces to boot. She was truly a pitiful figure, appearance-wise, and when I saw her I remembered that there are worse things than being broke.

She had a couple of friends with her, and they were being chaperoned by someone I assumed was somebody’s dad. The two friends were, as far as teenage girls go, cute, and I’m sure they’re popular in their circle. I noticed, though, that the two “normal” girls spent a lot more time talking to each other than they did talking to the girl with the skin ailment, who spent most of her time quietly taking in the sights and sounds of a gentle ferry ride across the azure Matanzas River.

I struck up a conversation with the acne girl; to not speak would have been awkward, since we were sitting directly across from each other. Our conversation was friendly but banal; neither of us said anything earth shaking or profound, and I certainly didn’t say anything about her condition. There was, however, something unspoken between us, something much larger going on than two strangers chatting idly, and it was simply this: It didn’t matter to me what she looked like, and she knew it. I didn’t console or condescend to her one bit, and I’m sure she was grateful for that. In fact, I know she was. How? Because I have walked in her shoes.

When I was in high school, I had what is known as cystic acne. Large and unsightly (to say the least) boils covered my cheeks and back, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My mother took me to dermatologists, but they were little more than medieval torture chambers, dispensing tetracycline and performing what they called “extraction”, a horrifying process I will leave to your imagination. It was agonizingly painful, both physically and psychologically. There were pretty young nurses working there, and the only reason I was there was because I looked like a monster. For a horny teenaged boy, it was hell on earth.

I had friends in high school, but I always wondered if I would have had more if I had been more normal looking. Some people were downright cruel, but I think the worst ones were those who utterly ignored me, or those who looked away with thinly disguised revulsion, as if I somehow chose and enjoyed my appearance.

I had no choice but to learn how to live with my condition. I carried on as best I could, and even had a few awkward dates, but not many. There was one girl in particular whom I really liked, but she was popular and extremely good looking, and I knew I had no chance with her. She was a cheerleader and she was in almost all of my teen fantasies, wearing her amply-filled sweater, a short skirt and her little cowboy boots with the tassels...Ooo, she was fine. Her name was Becky, and she was one of the very few popular kids who talked to me. She was genuinely nice, I think, and I fairly jumped with joy when she asked me to help her with a paper we had to write in an English class. For a blissful half hour, she talked to only me, and because I was a foolish, love struck teenager, I forgot I was ugly. It was great.

As we finished her paper, which she was very happy with, I took a chance and asked her if I could take her out to dinner. She touched my arm (heavenly) and declined, saying she had a boyfriend. I knew that, of course; girls like her always have boyfriends, and I also knew who he was, and further, that he would probably pummel me to death if he knew I had the audacity to hit on his girl. But she smiled when she turned me down, and as she gathered up her books and walked away, I congratulated myself for having the courage to at least try to be normal. Things weren’t as bad as I thought they were.

Still basking in the glow of Becky’s presence, I began to gather up my papers and books, and I heard a small sound, like a drop of water on paper. I looked down, and there, right in front of me, on a bright white page, was a fresh rusty colored splotch. In a nanosecond, I felt all of my insides drop to my feet. I gingerly touched my cheek, smile fading fast, and realized that all the time I had been sitting with Becky, smiling and laughing and having a rare, normal interlude, my pustule covered cheeks had been oozing a brownish cocktail of blood and pus. I had asked the best looking girl at school to dinner looking for all the world like a fresh Frankenstein. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I talked to the girl on the boat because I know how she feels. I know her pain, and I remember mine. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I will never forget it. I like to think that she will remember a stranger who didn’t treat her as anything other than normal.

Piss Poor

I’m just about to find out what it’s like to be piss poor. I have no money, very little food, very few cigarettes and I’m just about out of bourbon. I have no insurance (health or auto). I have paid the last of the bills that I can afford to pay. Things will start getting shut off very soon, which means I will no longer be able to post to this blog until I get some money, and as of now, there are more important bills than internet.

As I lamented in a previous entry, I cannot find a job. Even Ace Hardware didn’t call me back. It’s as though I’ve been blacklisted. I got a part time gig writing for a fledgling racing circuit keeping stats and writing race synopses, and I went to my first race ever this past weekend, but it got rained out, so no check from that. I went to South Carolina and back for nothing.

Even if I could afford gas, I can’t go anywhere because some asshole ran around the parking lot of my apartment building and let air out of all the tires. I’ll figure out a way to get the tires filled, but by Florida law, if your insurance lapses, your driver’s license is revoked and the police are notified. I cannot drive my car without breaking the law.

I will post again, probably in July. Until then, I simply don’t have the will to write anything. My mother used to quote Thumper’s Daddy and say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Nobody wants to hear me whine, so I’m going to shut up for a while. Thanks for reading, and hopefully, I’ll be back soon.

Blurbs

I like words. Words are our friends. I remember reading, or at least, leafing through a dictionary when I was very young (and bored), and it seems like every time I looked through one, I’d find a word that sounded interesting. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that “word” rhymes with “nerd”, but that’s beside the point. What I want to say in this installment is that as much as I like words, I don’t have very many of them lately, for reasons that are best left unsaid. And so, loyal readers, today’s entry is not an essay, but a collection of blurbs. And just so you know, the word “blurb” can be used as a transitive verb, although I have yet to see an example of that in a sentence.

Dictionary: I remember finding the word “fart” in a dictionary. I don’t remember if it was Webster’s or Funk & Wagnall’s, but the definition read: “an odiferous zephyr.” I thought that was just about the funniest thing I’d ever seen. I still think it’s funny.

God & Physics: Frank Tipler says he has definitive scientific proof that God exists. In a series of equations that I can’t begin to fathom, he “proves” an almighty algorithm. This seems like a big waste of time and effort to me, because I don’t believe that the creature can understand the mind of the creator. And if I were you, I would beware the person who says they do.

Functionally Drunk: I found a website (here) that unabashedly caters to people of my ilk. There’s too much funny stuff there to list here, so I’ll just quote something I saw there that made me laugh out loud. “You know you’re drunk when you step on your own fingers.” Why is that funny? Because I’ve done it.

Just Good TV: I don’t watch much TV; I only get about 17 channels, and among those, 2 are Jesus channels, 2 are Spanish channels, and one is C-Span. But, now and then because I’m a nerd, I find myself watching America’s Funniest Videos. No matter how dorky you think it is, it’s the best reality show on TV. It’s not from AFV, but have a look at this clip and tell me it’s dumb.

Soothsayer: Check the archives of this blog for “Political Rant Vol. II,” and notice that I correctly predicted that Mitt Romney’s faith would be an issue, and then refer to the “God and Physics” blurb above. Al Sharpton knows God, and so does Ted Haggard and even Osama Bin Laden. That should give you pause.

My Team: My hockey team petered out tonight. I don’t pretend to be a sports writer, but if the Detroit Red Wings had played the first two periods of tonight’s game like they did the third, I would be a much happier person. Maybe next year.

Youthful Exuberance: I visited the Museum of Science & Industry in Chicago when I was much younger, and I still remember all of the cool stuff I saw. Of all the wonders there, the one that sticks with me the most was a slice of an entire human body about a quarter inch thick pressed between two pieces of Plexiglas. I know a little girl who visited there this month, and I hope she finds it as fascinating as I did.

I think I’m finished for tonight, and I’ve come up with my own sentence using “blurb” as a transitive verb. I blurbed you.

Bless the Children

I don’t have kids. I think I was probably 14 or 15 when I decided that raising children was something I did not want to do. I don’t hate kids, I just don’t want any. Because of this stance, I have been accused of being selfish for my decision, and have even had people insinuate that I am somehow committing a transgression against God himself for not going forth and multiplying. My decision to remain childless is my own business, but I say to you here and now: To have more than two children is to help destroy the human race.

There’s no doubt in my mind that overpopulation is the single largest problem facing every living person on this planet. Consider these (estimated) numbers: In 1802, the world population reached one billion persons. We know for sure that there were thriving civilizations at least 4000 years ago, so let’s work on the assumption that it took around 6000 years to produce one billion people alive on the earth at the same time. In 1928, the population reached 2 billion. What took 6000 years had been accomplished in just over 100 and it didn’t stop there. Just 70 years later, the world’s population tripled to 6 billion. That’s five billion children born in less than 200 years.

The fact is that unless every person on earth of reproductive age agrees to have no more than two children, which would keep the tally where it is now, we will continue to grow. Even if such a thing were possible (which it isn’t), there are still those who would cry “foul!” and assert that no one should be able to tell them how many children to have, and they’d be right. Selfish, perhaps, but right. The trouble is, though, that the planet we live on will support only a finite number of people no matter how great our strides in agriculture. The simple fact is that we are heading, no, rushing toward a catastrophe that will affect every single one of us.

In 1973, a movie was produced called “Soylent Green.” It is a bleak and terrifying glimpse into the future of a world overpopulated and starving, decimated by climate changes. (Sound familiar?) Natural foods are available only to the very few rich, while the general populace subsists on wafers manufactured by the Soylent Company. The twist is that the wafers are made from the dead (an inevitable consequence of being alive). The more people there are, the more dead there will be, and since living people have to eat, well…it is the only logical solution to feed an overpopulated world that has procreated itself to the point where it cannot feed its ever increasing numbers.

Nature has ways of culling the population in the form of disasters and diseases, and we humans do a pretty good job of killing each other off as well. Unfortunately, we are able to replenish ourselves at a much faster rate. Perhaps the most fundamental right of people is to reproduce, and there is no moral solution to overpopulation. I am sure, however, that an immoral one will come along. You may say that I am foolish and cynical, and I hope you’re right, but make no mistake: If we do not stem the current rate of reproduction, the world of “Soylent Green” is the horrific, inexorable destiny of our species.

Epilogue:
I started this essay after reading about a “drop box” for unwanted infants in Japan, and got off on the tangent of overpopulation. I’ve been wanting to write about it for some time, and I finally found my impetus. Read about the drop box here and ask yourself if this is a good idea. I’m not even going to touch the abortion issue save to say that planning is the key to solving this problem we all face, no matter what the Catholics say. And for those who think I’m being a shrill doomsday prophet, you need only look to the millions starving in the world right now and tell them I’m wrong. Better yet, feed them anti birth control literature and tell them it’s God’s will that they are born to starve.

Ghoulish Capitalism

Capitalism, by definition, is the practice of seeing an opportunity, taking advantage of it and then exploiting it for profit. It is the foundation of American economics and the cornerstone of families like the Rockefellers and the DuPonts; first or second generation immigrants, who come from humble beginnings to rise to the top of the American dream. We admire these people for their ability to see an empty space in the demand and come up with a supply. Kudos to them, I say, and I’m certainly not naïve enough to think that they built their businesses without stepping on any toes. However, I think that sometimes the capitalistic infrastructure permits weasels into the hen house.

Fred McChesney is one such weasel. From the Associated Press: “Within hours of the [Virginia Tech] rampage, the Phoenix man began buying dozens of domain names (CampusKillings.com, VirginiaTechMurders.com, SlaughterInVirginia.com) in the hopes of selling them later to the highest bidder.” Even URLs using victims’ names have been purchased by strangers for sale later (at a huge profit), possibly to family members wanting to create an online memorial for their lost loved ones. Can you imagine, as a parent of a murdered child, having to pay to use the name you gave that child in order to create an online homage?

McChesney (and others) claim that it is capitalism, pure and simple. They believe that they are pursuing a victimless endeavor by exploiting victims. McChesney says "What I'm doing is the equivalent of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, period.” Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’m just blinded by the sheer thoughtless audacity of this practice, but I don’t understand what the hell that means. It would seem, in an effort to be clever, he is justifying his actions by cloaking a non sequitur as a rational explanation.

I was talking about this with a friend today, who seemed baffled by my outrage. He likened these actions to a funeral director trying to sell caskets, but again, I didn’t see the parallel. There is a definite need for funeral directors, and fortunately for them, they are in a business that has an endless, guaranteed clientele. Perfect capitalism. But I failed to see how McChesney and his ilk even remotely compare to legitimate funereal businesses. At the very best, these URL sellers are ghouls, victimizing not only the dead, but the living as well.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m sure the Rockefellers and the DuPonts stepped on some toes to build their empires, but part and parcel of the “American Dream” is hard work. In retrospect, the openings they saw seem like gaping holes to us, but there is no doubt in my mind that they attained their goals (and fortunes) by recognizing opportunity and then working hard to make their dreams a reality. McChesney, however, can make no such claim. I can imagine him gleefully snapping up domain names as the tragedy unfolded, slavering over his keyboard with dollar signs in his eyes, utterly unfazed by the senseless carnage from which he hopes to profit. There is no empathy for the victims, only greed, easy money at the expense of another, with no effort whatsoever.

Loyal readers of this blog know that I do not discuss my personal religious beliefs, but in this case, I will make an exception. I hope there is an awful, agonizing, endless hell for people like Fred McChesney. Maybe, before he gets on the elevator going down, he can explain to St. Peter the whole “Titanic deck chairs” thing.

Read the AP story here.

New Blog

My anonymity is gone. I had to come out into the open and use my real name. While this blog will remain the fluffy thing that it is, I have a serious one now that is my showcase for things I've actually published other than in the blogosphere. You can find my new blog here, or with the link on the right side of the page. Thank you for your visits, and as always, please leave a comment if you like what you see.

Fortuna Mala

Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. I know it’s an old saying but it is true, isn’t it? Sometimes the day seems like it’s going to be normal, then there’s that one thing that happens that makes you wish you could just raise your hands and say “Stop! Stop right there!” And like a movie director, you want to put everything in its original place and take it from the top again, but you can’t. So you slog through the day knowing that the world you live in is going to bite you every chance it gets. How I hate those days.

I’m what you would call poor, but I don’t live under a bridge (yet). I know that many people have it so much worse than I do, but that doesn’t make it any better when one of the dark days rolls around. It would be foolish to think that life should be an endless parade of good things and warm feelings; if that were the case, how would we know what “good” was? No, you have to take the sour with the sweet. When I was a child, if I needed an aspirin, my mother would crush one between two spoons and then put some honey on it, and I have to admit that I kind of liked the taste. So doesn’t it seem logical that if your outlook on life is based on the premise that you know things won’t always go your way, you shouldn’t be too disappointed, right? Wrong.

The Roman goddess of luck was called Fortuna. On the days she smiles, she is indeed a goddess, but when she doesn’t, you should just stop what you’re doing and go back to bed. On those dark days, doesn’t it seem like you’re not the only one who’s being tormented? Doesn’t everyone around you act like they have a pitchfork poking them? Even the kindliest looking people reveal themselves to be monsters. I saw a grandfatherly old man today in the grocery store parking lot place his bags in his car and then push his empty cart away, waiting long enough to watch it bang into another car. Then he got in his and left. In that same grocery trip, I saw a young couple with a full basket in the express lane, directly beneath a sign that said, in big letters, “10 Items Or Less”. Since I’m poor, and needed to buy only a few things, I stood in line behind them. When it was finally my turn, I nodded at the couple and said to the clerk, “What a couple of expressholes.” She laughed, and said she had told them this was the express lane, but they said “There’re two of us”, so apparently, they figured they were entitled to 20 items. But this essay isn’t about my bad day; it’s about all of ours.

The aforementioned Fortuna eventually came to be depicted on a wheel that was partly submerged under water, and we humans must ride her device throughout our lives. Like the adage it spawned, if your head is above water, you’re doing all right. But since wheels turn, sooner or later you’re going to be gasping for breath and hoping the wheel is in high gear. For some people, it’s stuck in a skid, burying itself deeper and deeper, making a…rut.

I don’t have any insightful advice about how to deal with the bad days. As I’ve noted, a return to bed is a good idea. So is bourbon, but be careful because that can make a bad day much, much worse. If you don’t have to leave the house or touch anything hot or fix something critical (like the toilet), you should be fairly safe, but keep in mind that the wheel is always spinning. If you forget that, Fortuna will make sure that it only takes a half turn to remind you.

Notes: Find more information on Fortuna here and here.

Phunny Phish Phobia

I like to fish. I like it a lot. Before I moved to Florida, I fished in Michigan, and it was lots of fun. I wasn’t a rabid fisherman, but on occasional summer days, one of my buddies and I could pack all of our fishing gear AND a case of beer into a canoe and paddle around one of the lakes that dotted the area around Fenton, Michigan. We would find small streams and wade into them, looking for mussels to use as free bait. Once on the lake, we would spend the afternoon swilling beer and catching bluegills, sunburns and buzzes. It was great, and on a good day, we would bring home a mess of fish to clean and fry, and I’m here to say that there is nothing like a big pile of fried bluegills with macaroni and cheese.

Since I moved to Florida, however, I have realized that there is much more to fishing than a canoe, a twelve pack and a Zebco 202 rod/reel combo. In the small lakes up north, I could count on bluegills, crappies, or maybe a catfish now and then. I even pulled up a huge snapping turtle once. But down here, in the brackish water of the Halifax River, when your line tugs, you don’t know what’s on the other end. The fish here have teeth. Big teeth. They have sharp fins and stinging appendages, and they are much larger than bluegills. Gone are the days of pulling a fish into the canoe and removing the hook from a palm-sized bluegill, formerly considered by me and my buddy as a “monster”. I now need special tools to remove hooks because I like having all of my fingers. Just last week I hooked onto something REALLY BIG, and by the time I fought it to the dock I was standing on, I could see that it was a stingray that was four feet across. (That’s big) My line snapped as it came out of the water, which is good, because I was wondering how I was going to get my hook out of it without ending up like Steve Irwin. Really. I’m not scared of the fish here, but I do have a healthy respect for them. And that reminds me of a funny story I wanted to relate about fishing and phobias.

One of my buddies here, Tony, has a boat, and he’s taken me out several times to fish. It’s a small boat, a 14 footer, too small to go into the open ocean, but perfect for the intracoastal waterway that covers most of the east coast of Florida (and the entire eastern seaboard). Mosquito Lagoon is where we go, but as long as we don’t get too near the islands, we aren’t bothered by bugs. Anyway, not too long ago, he called and invited me to go fishing, and I of course agreed. Another of his friends (let’s call him “Bob”) was going with us, so we three got some bait and launched the boat for some fishing fun. It takes about 40 minutes by boat to get to our favorite spot, and during the ride, I got to chat with Bob, whom I had never met. He was a younger guy with a pleasant disposition, and we passed the time of the ride making small talk, watching porpoises, and hoping that the fishing was going to be good that day. (Porpoises spoil the fishing. If they’re around, the fish aren’t.) When we finally got to our spot, things got funny in a hurry.

We were using live shrimp for bait, and after we anchored, it was time to prepare the lines with devilishly tempting morsels that would hopefully help to fill our live well and later, our bellies. I baited my hook, and Tony baited his. Bob didn’t do anything, but he was watching Tony bait his hook with the oddest look on his face. He looked like he was in a trance. Tony threw two lines in, and then he baited Bob’s hook. Because I’m an idiot sometimes, I said to Bob, “What, are you scared to touch the shrimp”? He was a little sheepish, but he did answer, “Yes. Yes I am”. I said, “Really”? “Yeah”, he said. “Really”.

The incongruity of this situation was almost too much for me to bear. I didn’t want to laugh and make Bob feel bad. He must have sensed that I was wondering why he was fishing when he wouldn’t bait his own hook, because he explained his reasoning. He said he had been “finned” by a catfish as a young boy, and has since had a fear of touching live aquatic creatures. He was very good natured about it, and I got the feeling that a day of fishing might just help him get over his aversion.

It’s been my experience that the fish in the Halifax River are notorious bait-stealers. Tony and I have gone through 6 dozen shrimp in less than 3 hours. I think every fish I actually land costs me about 9 shrimp. The same thing held true that day, and much to my surprise, Bob actually said at one point that he would attempt to bait his own hook. Tony and I offered silent encouragement as he prepared to stick his hand into the bait bucket and pick out a shrimp. I think he had been thinking about it so as to not seem so squeamish. Now, in case you don’t know, live shrimp don’t like to be picked up, and they are very quick. You have to plunge your hand in the bucket and grab, or else they’ll just avoid it. Bob got his nerve up and slowly, gingerly stuck his hand in the bucket.

He pulled his hand out of that bucket so fast you would have thought he’d been electrocuted. He also let out an involuntary squeal that caused Tony and I to lose our composure and burst out laughing. We weren’t being mean, but it was just too funny to suppress. Bob laughed at himself too, which was good. He was scared, but at least he tried. We were still chuckling about it when Tony got a fish on. From the way his pole was bent, Bob and I could see that it was a fairly good sized fish, but not a monster. After just a couple minutes, Tony landed a sheepshead that was about a foot long. Sheepsheads are interesting looking fish. They’re striped like a zebra, and they have teeth that look exactly like human teeth. It’s almost as if they have little dentures. Anyway, as Tony landed the fish in the boat, it was flipping about, obviously unhappy about being hooked. I wasn’t watching the fish, though. I was watching Bob, who didn’t have the look of abject terror, but when the fish flipped near him, I thought he was going to jump out of the boat. There was no doubt that he was really afraid of fish. He was laughing, but I could tell it was the nervous tittering of someone about to freak out.

We all had a good laugh about Bob’s fish phobia, and we did pretty well that day, as far as fish caught. Sometimes we get skunked fishing, but with Bob there, it wasn’t dull at all. We drank beer and baited Bob’s hook and took his fish off when he caught one. In a way, I had to admire Bob for at least trying to face his fear. He loves to fish; he just won’t touch them. He’s like a tightrope walker who is afraid of heights. I gotta give him credit for that.

New Look

To the readers of this blog, I am happy to present my new look. Maybe I’m getting old, but I found the old format difficult to read. That green font thing just wasn’t cutting it for me. I like big black letters against a white background, and that’s how I’m going to write from now on.

It took a little doing, but I managed to get my links back after reformatting. I had a little trouble with my counter, but I think I’ve got it to where it should be. And speaking of that, I noticed that I get hits from all over the globe, which is really surprising, and not all together unpleasant. For those of you who do visit frequently, I would like to ask that you leave a comment, either positive or negative, or leave a note on my messenger thingy. I’ve changed the word identification feature for commenting, so you don’t have to type any gobbledygook in to voice your opinion.

So you know, as I revamped this page, I passed up the opportunity to use advertising to promote my blog. This may or may not be a mistake. Call me naïve, ignorant or even stupid, but I like to think that people read my ramblings because they like them, and not because I have ads on my blog. I mean, really, how often do you visit a blog and decide that it’s a really good idea to click on the “Get Rich Telecommuting!” ad instead of reading the content?

In the next few days, look for posts about:

1. Funny phobias
2. Apartment living
3. Porn then and now