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.
23 June 2007
16 June 2007
"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.
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.
12 June 2007
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.
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.
04 June 2007
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.
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.
23 May 2007
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.
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.
16 May 2007
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.
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.
11 May 2007
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.
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.
07 May 2007
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.
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.
04 May 2007
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.
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.
02 May 2007
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
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
30 April 2007
Love Essay
I made a deal with a friend not long ago that we would swap stories about what we thought love was. It seemed a simple enough thing to do, and I was confident that I could find a few minutes to pound out an essay that would cover my end of the deal. Like me, this friend shares a need to write things down. She prefers to use poetry as a medium, which I think makes it easier, but that’s just my opinion. She was quick in fulfilling her end of the bargain. Her writing was heart-wrenching and immediate, sometimes violent and strangely erotic. Woe unto us, though, who prefer to try and pigeonhole everything through prose; the whole “love” thing is too elusive. As I try to write my “love” essay, I find myself wishing I was better at poetry. But, mechanics be damned. I’ll try.
If I could write in this blog what love is so that every person who read it knew and understood exactly what I was saying, well, I wouldn't be sitting in a crappy apartment writing essays that almost nobody reads. I don’t have the talent to cover such an all encompassing subject. “I love my mom. I love that movie. I love shrimp fettuccine alfredo”. How in the world would I begin to explain it to someone who didn’t know what it meant? More importantly, I think, how could I explain it when I’m not sure what it is myself? Anecdotes always work well, so I’ll hide behind that, and I’ll just stick to the adult occurrence. My teen love stories will have to wait.
I was married when I fell in love, and it wasn’t with my wife. I have heard older people say they fell in love with their spouses only after marriage, and it worked out great for them. Things don’t work that conveniently for me. No, as usual, there is always a giant monkey wrench floating about, waiting patiently to enmesh itself in my workings when I need it the least.
On the most mundane of errands, I inadvertently, unexpectedly, and blissfully fell in love with a complete stranger in about three minutes. When I saw her, I was immediately struck (blinded) by how beautiful she was. To be fair, I have seen lots of beautiful women, but this one was different. Of course, she was standing right in front of me, which helped; it’s tough to fall in love with a magazine picture, although I have seen others do it. But anyway, this girl literally took my breath away. I felt as though I were in another dimension. It was as if I could see, really see, for the first time. I was in my neighborhood liquor store buying bourbon like I did all the time, and yet, I was worlds away, my transportation courtesy of the new clerk.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Lush walks into liquor store, sees half-way decent looking girl, and has love fantasies. In a cynical (realistic) way, you’d be right. But this is a love story, so go with it.
Our short conversation was all business, I think. We may have chatted briefly about the weather or the gift boxed Jack Daniel sets or the man in the moon. I don’t remember, and it didn’t matter. I knew, in one instant, that I would be able to listen to her talk about anything. Anything at all. For as long as she wanted. And while she spoke, it would be as if I were in a dream, and her voice would be both an hypnotic soundtrack and a river that I could float away on, forever.
Quite (too) abruptly, our short transaction was over, and I was back in my car. I had to go home. To where my wife was. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt so guilty in my life. I actually took the long way home so I could try to gather my thoughts, once so neatly kept, so organized, so…predictable. Hadn’t I stood up, in front of my family, and professed to God and everybody, that I loved my wife, and would cleave to her and no other? Oh, this was bad. Very bad. All I had done was go to the liquor store to buy a bottle of bourbon, and now I was in love with another woman. Wait, not in love, but I knew I could love this woman, much more than I ever did my wife. I knew, for the first time, what love really was: It was the desire to hang on every word, to get lost in the smile and to scream and fight no matter the cost to myself in order to keep the smile in place. It was the feeling of utter relaxation. It was a calm that inspired abandon I had never known, and wanted so badly, no matter what I had said to anybody before I met her. It all happened in about three minutes, and there isn’t a day that has gone by since that I haven’t thought of it.
Did I lust after her? You bet I did. But it was more than just the physical act that I wanted. I wanted to be as close to her as two people can be. I wanted to lose myself in her, and I knew it would an ecstatic, delirious experience, with my only hope being that maybe some of whatever magic she had would shine on me, if only for a moment. I imagined it would be like touching the face of God, and I don’t care if that’s blasphemy.
When I had finally gathered my wits, I went home. I didn’t mention to my wife that I had fallen in love at the liquor store.
Remember the floating monkey wrench? It came back. Through an odd series of events, my wife became good friends with the clerk of my dreams. And (I couldn’t make this up), they had the same name. She would visit on occasion, and there just isn’t enough bourbon in the world to make that scene comfortable. I remember sitting in my kitchen with those two women and realizing that I had never felt so secretive and yet so exposed in my life. I had to be very careful about any vocal inflections when speaking their names. When I spoke to my wife, her name sounded like I was spitting out a poppy seed, but when I spoke to the clerk, it sounded like a symphony. I had to be very careful to make sure that what was going on in my head didn’t make it out of my mouth.
I could go on and on, trying vainly to describe how I felt. Suffice to say that I have never felt so strongly for a woman.
There’s no happy ending to this story. I eventually discovered that my wife had been involved in more extramarital affairs than I wanted to hear about. The beautiful clerk is married, and we do speak from time to time.
In case you’re wondering, I did have the chance to tell her how I felt. In a desperate act of foolishness, I told her I would build her a house with my own hands and love her children and devote the rest of my life to making her as happy as she could be. Bless her heart, for she was very gentle in letting me know that she did not feel the same way, which leads me to wonder: Did I know from the beginning that I could not have her, and is it that fact which made her so appealing? Would things have been different had she felt the same for me, which is to say, would it have lasted? I’ll never know, and yet, I am still grateful to her for making me feel like she did. It felt like love for me, and it was good.
Epilogue:
I’ve been working on this essay for nearly five hours, and every time I re-read it, I realize how much more there is I could say to try and describe how I felt for the clerk. It will take everything I have to resist the temptation to revise it…again. I’m tired, and at this particular moment, my opinion (subject to change) is this: Love, for me, anyway, is beautiful but clumsy: Just when things are almost fixed, she drops the stupid wrench.
I have since tried to extend the same amount of fervor I felt for the clerk to subsequent women, and I am sure that I have loved them, although it was different, and, I might add, unsuccessful. I wanted so desperately to feel the same way the clerk made me feel; I tried to make it happen, and it didn’t. There’s a word to the wise.
If I could write in this blog what love is so that every person who read it knew and understood exactly what I was saying, well, I wouldn't be sitting in a crappy apartment writing essays that almost nobody reads. I don’t have the talent to cover such an all encompassing subject. “I love my mom. I love that movie. I love shrimp fettuccine alfredo”. How in the world would I begin to explain it to someone who didn’t know what it meant? More importantly, I think, how could I explain it when I’m not sure what it is myself? Anecdotes always work well, so I’ll hide behind that, and I’ll just stick to the adult occurrence. My teen love stories will have to wait.
I was married when I fell in love, and it wasn’t with my wife. I have heard older people say they fell in love with their spouses only after marriage, and it worked out great for them. Things don’t work that conveniently for me. No, as usual, there is always a giant monkey wrench floating about, waiting patiently to enmesh itself in my workings when I need it the least.
On the most mundane of errands, I inadvertently, unexpectedly, and blissfully fell in love with a complete stranger in about three minutes. When I saw her, I was immediately struck (blinded) by how beautiful she was. To be fair, I have seen lots of beautiful women, but this one was different. Of course, she was standing right in front of me, which helped; it’s tough to fall in love with a magazine picture, although I have seen others do it. But anyway, this girl literally took my breath away. I felt as though I were in another dimension. It was as if I could see, really see, for the first time. I was in my neighborhood liquor store buying bourbon like I did all the time, and yet, I was worlds away, my transportation courtesy of the new clerk.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Lush walks into liquor store, sees half-way decent looking girl, and has love fantasies. In a cynical (realistic) way, you’d be right. But this is a love story, so go with it.
Our short conversation was all business, I think. We may have chatted briefly about the weather or the gift boxed Jack Daniel sets or the man in the moon. I don’t remember, and it didn’t matter. I knew, in one instant, that I would be able to listen to her talk about anything. Anything at all. For as long as she wanted. And while she spoke, it would be as if I were in a dream, and her voice would be both an hypnotic soundtrack and a river that I could float away on, forever.
Quite (too) abruptly, our short transaction was over, and I was back in my car. I had to go home. To where my wife was. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt so guilty in my life. I actually took the long way home so I could try to gather my thoughts, once so neatly kept, so organized, so…predictable. Hadn’t I stood up, in front of my family, and professed to God and everybody, that I loved my wife, and would cleave to her and no other? Oh, this was bad. Very bad. All I had done was go to the liquor store to buy a bottle of bourbon, and now I was in love with another woman. Wait, not in love, but I knew I could love this woman, much more than I ever did my wife. I knew, for the first time, what love really was: It was the desire to hang on every word, to get lost in the smile and to scream and fight no matter the cost to myself in order to keep the smile in place. It was the feeling of utter relaxation. It was a calm that inspired abandon I had never known, and wanted so badly, no matter what I had said to anybody before I met her. It all happened in about three minutes, and there isn’t a day that has gone by since that I haven’t thought of it.
Did I lust after her? You bet I did. But it was more than just the physical act that I wanted. I wanted to be as close to her as two people can be. I wanted to lose myself in her, and I knew it would an ecstatic, delirious experience, with my only hope being that maybe some of whatever magic she had would shine on me, if only for a moment. I imagined it would be like touching the face of God, and I don’t care if that’s blasphemy.
When I had finally gathered my wits, I went home. I didn’t mention to my wife that I had fallen in love at the liquor store.
Remember the floating monkey wrench? It came back. Through an odd series of events, my wife became good friends with the clerk of my dreams. And (I couldn’t make this up), they had the same name. She would visit on occasion, and there just isn’t enough bourbon in the world to make that scene comfortable. I remember sitting in my kitchen with those two women and realizing that I had never felt so secretive and yet so exposed in my life. I had to be very careful about any vocal inflections when speaking their names. When I spoke to my wife, her name sounded like I was spitting out a poppy seed, but when I spoke to the clerk, it sounded like a symphony. I had to be very careful to make sure that what was going on in my head didn’t make it out of my mouth.
I could go on and on, trying vainly to describe how I felt. Suffice to say that I have never felt so strongly for a woman.
There’s no happy ending to this story. I eventually discovered that my wife had been involved in more extramarital affairs than I wanted to hear about. The beautiful clerk is married, and we do speak from time to time.
In case you’re wondering, I did have the chance to tell her how I felt. In a desperate act of foolishness, I told her I would build her a house with my own hands and love her children and devote the rest of my life to making her as happy as she could be. Bless her heart, for she was very gentle in letting me know that she did not feel the same way, which leads me to wonder: Did I know from the beginning that I could not have her, and is it that fact which made her so appealing? Would things have been different had she felt the same for me, which is to say, would it have lasted? I’ll never know, and yet, I am still grateful to her for making me feel like she did. It felt like love for me, and it was good.
Epilogue:
I’ve been working on this essay for nearly five hours, and every time I re-read it, I realize how much more there is I could say to try and describe how I felt for the clerk. It will take everything I have to resist the temptation to revise it…again. I’m tired, and at this particular moment, my opinion (subject to change) is this: Love, for me, anyway, is beautiful but clumsy: Just when things are almost fixed, she drops the stupid wrench.
I have since tried to extend the same amount of fervor I felt for the clerk to subsequent women, and I am sure that I have loved them, although it was different, and, I might add, unsuccessful. I wanted so desperately to feel the same way the clerk made me feel; I tried to make it happen, and it didn’t. There’s a word to the wise.
26 April 2007
Doctor, Heal Thy Arrogance
I have a great deal of respect for doctors. I don't respect them because they're better than me; they are people too, subject to the same human foibles as all of us struggling to live the life that is our blessing (or curse). They have been to school to learn how to try and heal what ails us, or at least, make our illnesses easier to deal with. We pay them (handsomely) to benefit from their knowledge. We, as patients, are ignorant when it comes to the complexities of what it is that makes a body stay alive, or how to fix it when it's broken. We are not, however, stupid, and do not deserve to be treated as such. Nothing makes me angrier than paying a person to disrespect me. I have a couple of anecdotes to share that illustrate my point.
A few years ago, I was living in Holland, Michigan, which is, by any stretch, a very conservative area. The nicotine patch was a brand new treatment to help smokers stop smoking, and it was available only by prescription. Now, despite my extended nicotine addiction, I have had no health issues; I didn't even have a regular doctor, because I never needed one, and I still don't. I had insurance, so money wasn't an issue. (The story gets a little weird here, but I swear it's true) One day while bent over drying my ankles after a shower, I was attacked by what I call a "ninja" sneeze. I never felt it coming, and it nearly crippled me. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my neck, and I was unable to move my head to the left at all. I couldn't even drive safely. I tried to tough it out for a couple days, thinking it would go away, but it didn't. A friend suggested a physical therapist, so I went to one. He said he thought he could help me, but that I needed to see a physician first (he recommended one), which brings me back to the doctor. I thought as long as I was there for my neck, I would ask about the patch.
The doctor's waiting room had no literature save for bibles and other religious tracts. The walls had needlepoint bible quotes. As I sat in the waiting waiting room, I hoped that this guy would use traditional medicine instead of asking Jesus to take time out from his busy day to fix my neck and help me stop smoking. As I mentioned, Holland was a very conservative place; it was against the law to mow your lawn on Sunday. When I got in to see the doctor, I could tell right away that it was going to be a bad visit. I am not festooned with tattoos like a circus freak, but I have a few, and all of them are devils. At the time, I also had a ponytail over three feet long. The doctor looked at me as if I were Satan himself. He put on rubber gloves to feel my neck, presumably to keep any evil from seeping out of me and into his pores, corrupting his soul. As he spoke, he was curt, and, in my opinion, his tone positively dripped with disgust, as if talking to me was a loathsome chore, a test, even. I had experienced that sort of thing before with many people, particularly overtly religious ones. They were very quick to judge on appearance alone.
So I asked him about the patch, and I could have sworn he was miffed that I dared ask a health question unrelated to my current visit, like I was getting a "two for one" deal. He snapped at me, and said, "Quitting smoking is a very important decision. I need to know that you're serious about it, so why don't you come back in two weeks, and if you still want to quit, we'll talk about it". I said, "I am serious. That's why I asked you". He said, "Two weeks", as if daring me to make another appointment. Apparently, this guy thought that the Hippocratic Oath only applied if the patient fit his ideal of what a person should be. We both snorted at each other, and I left, never to return.
My next example of medical snootiness happened just the other day. To be fair, this guy was a vet, and my cat was the patient, but as you will read, it is another example of a doctor who is too big for his britches.
My cat developed a growth on the side of his head. I had no idea what it was; for all I knew it was cat head cancer. I took him to see a vet, convinced that this was going to be, at best, a "bad news" visit, and at worst, a one way trip for the cat. The vet (female) took one look at the cat and said it was a follicular cyst, very common and of no danger to the cat's health. In short, it was an ingrown hair. Since I am a poor struggling writer, I didn't have the money to have it removed, but said I would come back when I got it. I finally went back this week, and asked if the doctor remembered me from the visit a month prior. The receptionist said they had changed doctors, but that the new one would look at it and tell me how much it cost. The price was right, and I gave the OK. It only took about ten minutes, and I didn't hear any yowling, so I assume the cat was fairly comfortable during the removal. But just like the people doctor in Holland, we had an issue unrelated to the original visit.
The vet told me that my cat was way too skinny. "A bag of bones" was his phrase. I started to tell him that I have had the cat for 13 years, and he's ALWAYS looked like he does now (he was fully grown when I got him, so I have no idea how old he really is). The vet interrupted me with a tone that thinly disguised his belief that I was somehow derelict in my pet owning responsibilities. A gaggle of nurses (?) nodded in agreement, and chimed in that there was something very wrong with my cat. Again, I tried to explain that he has always looked the way he does now, and, interrupted again, I got the "He's been sick for years", with the distinct implication that I knowingly allowed the cat to suffer all this time. He quickly added that for another $150, he could do some blood work and see what kind of medicinal regimen the cat should be on, which, of course, would mean a monthly prescription (read: expense) for the rest of the cat's life. I put my cat in his carry case and left, promising to return, but I won't.
Don't get me wrong; I love my cat. But he is the same cat today that he was when my ex wife dragged him home one day so long ago, and he has never acted like a sick cat. Ever. He's lived a long time, and he won't live forever, no matter how much medicine (or money) I give. I don't think he's broken, so I'm not going to try and fix him.
The point of these two stories is this: We, as patients, are the customers. We are the kings. We are the ones shelling out the money, so why is it that we have to pay to be humiliated? I mean, c'mon! I can get that for free just about anywhere. It seems to me that listening when another person is speaking is the most basic consideration, so why do some doctors, in spite of their advanced degrees, not understand that? Why do they act like they're doing you a huge favor by speaking down to you with their hand in your pocket?
In all fairness, I do not think all doctors are buttheads. On the contrary, I have, due to a very painful motorcycle accident, dealt with a great many kind, considerate doctors, and would, as a whole, classify them as good. But those rude, snooty ones really get under my skin.
A few years ago, I was living in Holland, Michigan, which is, by any stretch, a very conservative area. The nicotine patch was a brand new treatment to help smokers stop smoking, and it was available only by prescription. Now, despite my extended nicotine addiction, I have had no health issues; I didn't even have a regular doctor, because I never needed one, and I still don't. I had insurance, so money wasn't an issue. (The story gets a little weird here, but I swear it's true) One day while bent over drying my ankles after a shower, I was attacked by what I call a "ninja" sneeze. I never felt it coming, and it nearly crippled me. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my neck, and I was unable to move my head to the left at all. I couldn't even drive safely. I tried to tough it out for a couple days, thinking it would go away, but it didn't. A friend suggested a physical therapist, so I went to one. He said he thought he could help me, but that I needed to see a physician first (he recommended one), which brings me back to the doctor. I thought as long as I was there for my neck, I would ask about the patch.
The doctor's waiting room had no literature save for bibles and other religious tracts. The walls had needlepoint bible quotes. As I sat in the waiting waiting room, I hoped that this guy would use traditional medicine instead of asking Jesus to take time out from his busy day to fix my neck and help me stop smoking. As I mentioned, Holland was a very conservative place; it was against the law to mow your lawn on Sunday. When I got in to see the doctor, I could tell right away that it was going to be a bad visit. I am not festooned with tattoos like a circus freak, but I have a few, and all of them are devils. At the time, I also had a ponytail over three feet long. The doctor looked at me as if I were Satan himself. He put on rubber gloves to feel my neck, presumably to keep any evil from seeping out of me and into his pores, corrupting his soul. As he spoke, he was curt, and, in my opinion, his tone positively dripped with disgust, as if talking to me was a loathsome chore, a test, even. I had experienced that sort of thing before with many people, particularly overtly religious ones. They were very quick to judge on appearance alone.
So I asked him about the patch, and I could have sworn he was miffed that I dared ask a health question unrelated to my current visit, like I was getting a "two for one" deal. He snapped at me, and said, "Quitting smoking is a very important decision. I need to know that you're serious about it, so why don't you come back in two weeks, and if you still want to quit, we'll talk about it". I said, "I am serious. That's why I asked you". He said, "Two weeks", as if daring me to make another appointment. Apparently, this guy thought that the Hippocratic Oath only applied if the patient fit his ideal of what a person should be. We both snorted at each other, and I left, never to return.
My next example of medical snootiness happened just the other day. To be fair, this guy was a vet, and my cat was the patient, but as you will read, it is another example of a doctor who is too big for his britches.
My cat developed a growth on the side of his head. I had no idea what it was; for all I knew it was cat head cancer. I took him to see a vet, convinced that this was going to be, at best, a "bad news" visit, and at worst, a one way trip for the cat. The vet (female) took one look at the cat and said it was a follicular cyst, very common and of no danger to the cat's health. In short, it was an ingrown hair. Since I am a poor struggling writer, I didn't have the money to have it removed, but said I would come back when I got it. I finally went back this week, and asked if the doctor remembered me from the visit a month prior. The receptionist said they had changed doctors, but that the new one would look at it and tell me how much it cost. The price was right, and I gave the OK. It only took about ten minutes, and I didn't hear any yowling, so I assume the cat was fairly comfortable during the removal. But just like the people doctor in Holland, we had an issue unrelated to the original visit.
The vet told me that my cat was way too skinny. "A bag of bones" was his phrase. I started to tell him that I have had the cat for 13 years, and he's ALWAYS looked like he does now (he was fully grown when I got him, so I have no idea how old he really is). The vet interrupted me with a tone that thinly disguised his belief that I was somehow derelict in my pet owning responsibilities. A gaggle of nurses (?) nodded in agreement, and chimed in that there was something very wrong with my cat. Again, I tried to explain that he has always looked the way he does now, and, interrupted again, I got the "He's been sick for years", with the distinct implication that I knowingly allowed the cat to suffer all this time. He quickly added that for another $150, he could do some blood work and see what kind of medicinal regimen the cat should be on, which, of course, would mean a monthly prescription (read: expense) for the rest of the cat's life. I put my cat in his carry case and left, promising to return, but I won't.
Don't get me wrong; I love my cat. But he is the same cat today that he was when my ex wife dragged him home one day so long ago, and he has never acted like a sick cat. Ever. He's lived a long time, and he won't live forever, no matter how much medicine (or money) I give. I don't think he's broken, so I'm not going to try and fix him.
The point of these two stories is this: We, as patients, are the customers. We are the kings. We are the ones shelling out the money, so why is it that we have to pay to be humiliated? I mean, c'mon! I can get that for free just about anywhere. It seems to me that listening when another person is speaking is the most basic consideration, so why do some doctors, in spite of their advanced degrees, not understand that? Why do they act like they're doing you a huge favor by speaking down to you with their hand in your pocket?
In all fairness, I do not think all doctors are buttheads. On the contrary, I have, due to a very painful motorcycle accident, dealt with a great many kind, considerate doctors, and would, as a whole, classify them as good. But those rude, snooty ones really get under my skin.
20 April 2007
Sports Aside
I am not what you would call a sports fan. No baseball, no football (American or otherwise), no racing (if that's really a sport), no jai alai. Because I'm old, I will confess to watching a bit of golf now and then, as long as there are no Star Trek reruns on. However, I do have one sports weakness: hockey. It came about quite by accident. I had come home from working in a factory at 3am, and plopped in front of the TV, as it was very cold outside, and I had a nice warm bottle of bourbon handy. A quick perusal of the channels showed nothing of interest, which, for the most part, is to be expected from television. Realizing I needed to remove my boots, I stopped clicking (completely randomly, mind you) on a hockey game. It could have been anything, an infomercial, the Jesus channel, or maybe Telemundo!, but it happened to be hockey.
Anyway, there was nothing on, and I was in no hurry to surf anymore, so I slurped my bourbon and tried to remember if there was anything constructive I could do. My attention was caught by the TV; the crowd was roaring, and I looked up to see what the fuss was about. It was a hockey game, and I don't like sports, but I had an epiphany at that moment. I watched men on ice skates chase a frozen piece of rubber around, and was completely awestruck by the speed and agility with which they moved. But, the most surprising thing of all was the amount of control they had over what was going on. Anyone who has ever walked or driven on ice knows that it's a tricky thing, but these guys had it down. So I watched to see what would happen. A goal was scored (beautifully), and the crowd cheered, which is what you would expect in a sporting event. But just a couple minutes later, it got even better. (Remember, as this transpired, I hadn't watched a televised sporting event in probably 25 years).
I thought I would watch for a few more minutes to see what happened. Play continued for a little longer, and then, the commentators started chattering excitedly about something going on that wasn't on camera. The picture cut to a different view of the arena, and there stood (circled) two opposing team members, gloves off and ready to duke it out. On ice skates. They grabbed and tried to pummel each other, somewhat effectively, for about a minute. The crowd roared, and when the referees separated them, they both skated off, a bit bloody and obviously winded. And I was hooked.
Before I get accused of being a Neanderthal, let me say this: I am repulsed by the thought of anybody dying in a war. If all wars were fought with fists on ice skates, well, there wouldn't be any body bags, and Purple Hearts would be awarded based on the number of stitches incurred instead of missing limbs. I would be more than happy to debate war stats to hockey ones; the "hockey is too violent" argument just doesn't work.
I, of course, have a favorite team, and even though I've left the frozen north, I still root for them when I can. I love hockey. Go Red Wings!
Anyway, there was nothing on, and I was in no hurry to surf anymore, so I slurped my bourbon and tried to remember if there was anything constructive I could do. My attention was caught by the TV; the crowd was roaring, and I looked up to see what the fuss was about. It was a hockey game, and I don't like sports, but I had an epiphany at that moment. I watched men on ice skates chase a frozen piece of rubber around, and was completely awestruck by the speed and agility with which they moved. But, the most surprising thing of all was the amount of control they had over what was going on. Anyone who has ever walked or driven on ice knows that it's a tricky thing, but these guys had it down. So I watched to see what would happen. A goal was scored (beautifully), and the crowd cheered, which is what you would expect in a sporting event. But just a couple minutes later, it got even better. (Remember, as this transpired, I hadn't watched a televised sporting event in probably 25 years).
I thought I would watch for a few more minutes to see what happened. Play continued for a little longer, and then, the commentators started chattering excitedly about something going on that wasn't on camera. The picture cut to a different view of the arena, and there stood (circled) two opposing team members, gloves off and ready to duke it out. On ice skates. They grabbed and tried to pummel each other, somewhat effectively, for about a minute. The crowd roared, and when the referees separated them, they both skated off, a bit bloody and obviously winded. And I was hooked.
Before I get accused of being a Neanderthal, let me say this: I am repulsed by the thought of anybody dying in a war. If all wars were fought with fists on ice skates, well, there wouldn't be any body bags, and Purple Hearts would be awarded based on the number of stitches incurred instead of missing limbs. I would be more than happy to debate war stats to hockey ones; the "hockey is too violent" argument just doesn't work.
I, of course, have a favorite team, and even though I've left the frozen north, I still root for them when I can. I love hockey. Go Red Wings!
17 April 2007
Mea Culpa
In today's essay, I find myself in the unfortunate and embarrassing position of having to apologize to my (few) readers. I have done you a disservice. I am guilty of the very act that I took Josh Wolf to task for in an earlier essay, namely, that I posted and opined on a subject without presenting all of the facts. It is humbling and shameful when you realize that you are the pot that calls the kettle black. I have no excuse save laziness, and for that, I sincerely apologize.
In my previous post about the "Great Global Warming Swindle", I professed loudly and proudly that the documentary dispelled myths about man-made climate change, but after some more research, I have discovered that many of the scientists featured in the documentary have come forward to say that they were taken out of context, and, literally, duped into appearing in the film. In addition, there are charges of outright lying, lying by omission, and tampering with the data used in the film to ensure that it projects the results desired. You can read just a few of the refutations here, here, and here. In a nutshell, all of these links offer compelling evidence that the documentary filmmakers are guilty of the very thing they accuse the global warming movement of, and, perhaps worse.
I'm no scientist (which should be obvious), but it seems to me that the scientific method of analyzing raw data should produce the same results no matter who examines it. That is to say, scientists like to try and equate the method to "just the facts", much like, say, algebra. With all knowns and all variables in place, there can be only one correct answer. How is it, then, that different groups come up with different answers? And more importantly, whom are we, the non-scientists, to believe?
In any case, we should be able to believe those who claim to show all sides of the story and let us decide for ourselves which side to believe. Throughout history, it has been shown that scientists have often manipulated (or ignored) data to substantiate their theories, with raging debates to follow. This is a good thing, in a way, because it ultimately forces the truth to come out. In the case of writers (or bloggers), however, it is vital to present ALL facets of a story to stimulate and inform the reader.
Again, I was guilty of a knee-jerk reaction, and blurted about a topic I did not bother to research. I don't believe this is the same as purposely lying or leaving information out, but the end result is equally detrimental. If I had done my homework, I would never have touted the documentary the way I did. I still think it's interesting, and as I mentioned, it should be debated so we can eventually come to a consensus on how our presence affects our planet. But for me to believe that we humans have not had a negative impact on the ecology of this planet was a lazy, selfish mistake. In the future, few readers, I will do my best to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I shoot my mouth (keyboard) off. Please accept my apology.
In my previous post about the "Great Global Warming Swindle", I professed loudly and proudly that the documentary dispelled myths about man-made climate change, but after some more research, I have discovered that many of the scientists featured in the documentary have come forward to say that they were taken out of context, and, literally, duped into appearing in the film. In addition, there are charges of outright lying, lying by omission, and tampering with the data used in the film to ensure that it projects the results desired. You can read just a few of the refutations here, here, and here. In a nutshell, all of these links offer compelling evidence that the documentary filmmakers are guilty of the very thing they accuse the global warming movement of, and, perhaps worse.
I'm no scientist (which should be obvious), but it seems to me that the scientific method of analyzing raw data should produce the same results no matter who examines it. That is to say, scientists like to try and equate the method to "just the facts", much like, say, algebra. With all knowns and all variables in place, there can be only one correct answer. How is it, then, that different groups come up with different answers? And more importantly, whom are we, the non-scientists, to believe?
In any case, we should be able to believe those who claim to show all sides of the story and let us decide for ourselves which side to believe. Throughout history, it has been shown that scientists have often manipulated (or ignored) data to substantiate their theories, with raging debates to follow. This is a good thing, in a way, because it ultimately forces the truth to come out. In the case of writers (or bloggers), however, it is vital to present ALL facets of a story to stimulate and inform the reader.
Again, I was guilty of a knee-jerk reaction, and blurted about a topic I did not bother to research. I don't believe this is the same as purposely lying or leaving information out, but the end result is equally detrimental. If I had done my homework, I would never have touted the documentary the way I did. I still think it's interesting, and as I mentioned, it should be debated so we can eventually come to a consensus on how our presence affects our planet. But for me to believe that we humans have not had a negative impact on the ecology of this planet was a lazy, selfish mistake. In the future, few readers, I will do my best to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I shoot my mouth (keyboard) off. Please accept my apology.
11 April 2007
An Inconvenient Movement
Are you a thinking, rational person? Are you scared of the apocalyptic predictions of the earth's climate? Do you want to see one of the founders of Greenpeace and a host of respected scientists, many of whom are listed on the IPCC report on global warming (who have resigned in protest and asked that their names be removed from the report) utterly refute the "theory" of global warming?
Click the title of this essay to see a documentary that, for some strange reason, hasn't been broadcast repeatedly on every major network. Hmmm...I sense another political rant coming about this manufactured issue that has been propagated worldwide as truth. The global warming movement, championed by Al Gore is not a fact. It's a business, no, a cult, masquerading as science.
If you live on this planet, you owe it to yourself to watch this documentary. It's just over an hour long, but it will stick with you for a long time.
UPDATE: As of 16 April, the link for this video doesn't work. I (fortunately) downloaded it, and will try to paste it here with a working link.
Click the title of this essay to see a documentary that, for some strange reason, hasn't been broadcast repeatedly on every major network. Hmmm...I sense another political rant coming about this manufactured issue that has been propagated worldwide as truth. The global warming movement, championed by Al Gore is not a fact. It's a business, no, a cult, masquerading as science.
If you live on this planet, you owe it to yourself to watch this documentary. It's just over an hour long, but it will stick with you for a long time.
UPDATE: As of 16 April, the link for this video doesn't work. I (fortunately) downloaded it, and will try to paste it here with a working link.
09 April 2007
Josh Wolf, Journalist
Josh Wolf, jailed for refusing to turn over film footage shot at a violent demonstration in which he was a willing participant, feels he has been wronged by the government. Citing journalistic shield laws, he also believes he should not have to testify to possibly witnessing a number of criminal acts, and feels he should not have to turn over raw tapes that may or may not contain video evidence of the commission of said crimes. The U.S. Attorney General wants to see the tape to determine for itself if it contains any evidence of criminal behavior. Wolf says, "The Assistant U.S. Attorney said the government has the duty to see if anything suspicious occurred, and then determine if there's a crime. That's not a world I want to live in." Fair enough. Let's try that scenario a different way.
Let's say I'm a self-styled journalist with no real training who belongs to a radical group that vehemently opposes, say, Josh Wolf's parents. I go to a demonstration outside his house with the intention of filming my masked fellow believers protesting, then violently attacking his house and family. Although I do not have film of the actual attack on his mother, who suffered a fractured skull, there is a possibility that there could be evidence, unbeknownst to me, somewhere on my raw tape that identifies a perpetrator, or that the police believe I personally know who the culprit is. I manage to leave the scene without being questioned by the police, and later, post edited clips of the demonstration on my web site. When asked by the police to turn over my tape, I refuse. Do you think Josh Wolf would be comfortable with my refusal to hand the tape over to the government to be screened for possible evidence of criminal behavior? Would he defend my right to keep my fellow demonstrators out of harm's way by claiming journalistic shielding? Would people set up web sites calling for donations to fund my defense and demand that I be held free of any liability because I'm a journalist? Would the Society of Professional Journalists award me the title of "Journalist of the Year"? If not, why not?
Josh Wolf calls himself an anarchist. Merriam-Webster defines an anarchist as "1 : a person who rebels against any authority, established order, or ruling power. 2 : a person who believes in, advocates, or promotes anarchism or anarchy; especially : one who uses violent means to overthrow the established order." In an interview from jail with Kevin Sites, Wolf says he feels "safe" in his incarceration. He says he is not housed with violent offenders, but he does say he is inconvenienced by not being able to access the internet. And he doesn't seem very happy with the food either. Isn't that a shame? Isn't that inconvenient? Isn't it a bit incongruous to espouse violence and then be thankful that you're not exposed to it? I don't think for one second that Josh Wolf would last very long among really ruthless and violent people, and make no mistake: There are a lot of them, and I suspect they would chew Josh Wolf up and spit him out. Literally. At the ripe age of 24, he would have you believe that he has a better grasp of the real world than most, and that anarchy would be preferable to our current system. I say throw him down with the hard core criminals, and let him see the consequences of a world with no rules. There's a reason we have prisons for people who don't like to follow the rules of civility.
In the above mentioned interview, Wolf seemed very enamored with the word "basically". Let's use that. Wolf is out of prison now, because, basically, he buckled, and he basically betrayed his convictions by turning over the tape the government wanted. Apparently, the mean old government, in its endeavor to try to protect all citizens from violence, and to hold those who do commit it accountable, basically broke Wolf's steely resolve by denying him access to a computer and giving him lunches he didn't like.
In the same interview, Sites repeatedly asked Wolf which side he was taking, either journalist or activist, and Wolf, basically, refused to answer the question. He talked a lot, but never answered the question. Many years ago, long before Wolf was born, I studied journalism, and I was taught that a good reporter will get the answers to the "5 w's and the h", which, of course, are "who, what, where, when, why and how". Wolf, the journalist, couldn't or wouldn't answer a simple question, one that any first year journalism student would know is vital to the story. (Sites, by the way, showed great patience by not saying "Answer the ******* question"!) Anyway, maybe now that he's out of jail, instead of milking his pseudo fame, he will, basically, go back to school to learn what a real journalist does: Cover ALL the aspects of the story and let the reader decide what is relevant.
For the record, this blog is my opinion; I, basically, do not claim to be a journalist.
Let's say I'm a self-styled journalist with no real training who belongs to a radical group that vehemently opposes, say, Josh Wolf's parents. I go to a demonstration outside his house with the intention of filming my masked fellow believers protesting, then violently attacking his house and family. Although I do not have film of the actual attack on his mother, who suffered a fractured skull, there is a possibility that there could be evidence, unbeknownst to me, somewhere on my raw tape that identifies a perpetrator, or that the police believe I personally know who the culprit is. I manage to leave the scene without being questioned by the police, and later, post edited clips of the demonstration on my web site. When asked by the police to turn over my tape, I refuse. Do you think Josh Wolf would be comfortable with my refusal to hand the tape over to the government to be screened for possible evidence of criminal behavior? Would he defend my right to keep my fellow demonstrators out of harm's way by claiming journalistic shielding? Would people set up web sites calling for donations to fund my defense and demand that I be held free of any liability because I'm a journalist? Would the Society of Professional Journalists award me the title of "Journalist of the Year"? If not, why not?
Josh Wolf calls himself an anarchist. Merriam-Webster defines an anarchist as "1 : a person who rebels against any authority, established order, or ruling power. 2 : a person who believes in, advocates, or promotes anarchism or anarchy; especially : one who uses violent means to overthrow the established order." In an interview from jail with Kevin Sites, Wolf says he feels "safe" in his incarceration. He says he is not housed with violent offenders, but he does say he is inconvenienced by not being able to access the internet. And he doesn't seem very happy with the food either. Isn't that a shame? Isn't that inconvenient? Isn't it a bit incongruous to espouse violence and then be thankful that you're not exposed to it? I don't think for one second that Josh Wolf would last very long among really ruthless and violent people, and make no mistake: There are a lot of them, and I suspect they would chew Josh Wolf up and spit him out. Literally. At the ripe age of 24, he would have you believe that he has a better grasp of the real world than most, and that anarchy would be preferable to our current system. I say throw him down with the hard core criminals, and let him see the consequences of a world with no rules. There's a reason we have prisons for people who don't like to follow the rules of civility.
In the above mentioned interview, Wolf seemed very enamored with the word "basically". Let's use that. Wolf is out of prison now, because, basically, he buckled, and he basically betrayed his convictions by turning over the tape the government wanted. Apparently, the mean old government, in its endeavor to try to protect all citizens from violence, and to hold those who do commit it accountable, basically broke Wolf's steely resolve by denying him access to a computer and giving him lunches he didn't like.
In the same interview, Sites repeatedly asked Wolf which side he was taking, either journalist or activist, and Wolf, basically, refused to answer the question. He talked a lot, but never answered the question. Many years ago, long before Wolf was born, I studied journalism, and I was taught that a good reporter will get the answers to the "5 w's and the h", which, of course, are "who, what, where, when, why and how". Wolf, the journalist, couldn't or wouldn't answer a simple question, one that any first year journalism student would know is vital to the story. (Sites, by the way, showed great patience by not saying "Answer the ******* question"!) Anyway, maybe now that he's out of jail, instead of milking his pseudo fame, he will, basically, go back to school to learn what a real journalist does: Cover ALL the aspects of the story and let the reader decide what is relevant.
For the record, this blog is my opinion; I, basically, do not claim to be a journalist.
03 April 2007
Political Rant Vol. II
In my previous political rant (23 Feb), I bemoaned the fact that Americans seem to elect presidents based more on their personal appeal than their stance on the issues. This, of course, is perfectly understandable. A person with a wooden personality is much less likely to sway the hearts and minds of the voting public than a skilled orator with a firm grasp on the principles of rhetoric. Often, it's not so much what they say but how they say it. It still boils down to style over substance, and that's something that, in my opinion, really needs to change. I don't hold out much hope for it, though.
Today's rant has to do with another aspect of politics, namely, the American political party system. Anyone with even a smattering of civics knowledge knows that our various parties each select and run the candidate they feel best represents them. Conservative Republicans generally represent business and traditional thinking, while Liberal Democrats tend to want to be a voice for "the little guy", and ensure that everyone gets a piece of the American dream. In an effort to ensure that all candidates have a chance, we also have the Green Party, the Libertarians, and even the communists. In theory, this all sounds very fair. As a young boy, I remember hearing from any number of sources that the beauty of America is that anyone born here has a shot at being president. Age and experience, however, have proven to me that this is not the case. America does not have a multi-party system, and it is not just the Republicans and the Democrats either. There is only one party: It is the party of money.
Just this week, many Democratic hopefuls either announced or were expected to announce the amount of money they have raised thus far (with 20 months to go until election) to fund their race to the White House. Those candidates who fail to raise enough capital are doomed to defeat, in that they will not be able to afford to get their message to the voters. Now, a case could certainly be made that their message isn't the one the bulk of voters want to hear. If, however, they happen to be independently wealthy, well, they might still have a shot, a la Ross Perot. The fact remains that if you do not have money, you cannot be the president.
It is a candidate's stance on the issues and their experience that should be on the minds of the voters. Innumerable cases of beltway corruption are sure to leave a bad taste in the mouths of voters, and it should. However, not being in tune with the inner workings of politics should send up a red flag for voters. Do we want a commander-in-chief who has never worn the uniform? As a veteran of an infantry battalion, I would not want someone who has never volunteered to place himself in harm's way for his country to decide to send others there. Likewise, I'm not sure I'd want a president that has served one term as a senator or governor to be at the helm of the most powerful government on the planet.
I don't care if Barack Obama is black. I do care, however, that he is a first-term senator with a voting record that hardly fills one page, and I am concerned that between himself and Hillary Clinton, they have already raised nearly 16 million dollars more than ALL presidential candidates combined at the same point in an election just four years ago. Neither Obama nor Clinton is a veteran.
I don't care if Mitt Romney is a Mormon, and that shouldn't be an issue, but trust me, it will be. I do care that he has limited political experience, having served only one term as the governor of Massachusetts. And again, he is not a veteran. He is, however, by any stretch, a rich man who donated 6.3 million dollars to his own gubernatorial campaign, at the time a state record.
I hope today's civics lesson is clear.
Today's rant has to do with another aspect of politics, namely, the American political party system. Anyone with even a smattering of civics knowledge knows that our various parties each select and run the candidate they feel best represents them. Conservative Republicans generally represent business and traditional thinking, while Liberal Democrats tend to want to be a voice for "the little guy", and ensure that everyone gets a piece of the American dream. In an effort to ensure that all candidates have a chance, we also have the Green Party, the Libertarians, and even the communists. In theory, this all sounds very fair. As a young boy, I remember hearing from any number of sources that the beauty of America is that anyone born here has a shot at being president. Age and experience, however, have proven to me that this is not the case. America does not have a multi-party system, and it is not just the Republicans and the Democrats either. There is only one party: It is the party of money.
Just this week, many Democratic hopefuls either announced or were expected to announce the amount of money they have raised thus far (with 20 months to go until election) to fund their race to the White House. Those candidates who fail to raise enough capital are doomed to defeat, in that they will not be able to afford to get their message to the voters. Now, a case could certainly be made that their message isn't the one the bulk of voters want to hear. If, however, they happen to be independently wealthy, well, they might still have a shot, a la Ross Perot. The fact remains that if you do not have money, you cannot be the president.
It is a candidate's stance on the issues and their experience that should be on the minds of the voters. Innumerable cases of beltway corruption are sure to leave a bad taste in the mouths of voters, and it should. However, not being in tune with the inner workings of politics should send up a red flag for voters. Do we want a commander-in-chief who has never worn the uniform? As a veteran of an infantry battalion, I would not want someone who has never volunteered to place himself in harm's way for his country to decide to send others there. Likewise, I'm not sure I'd want a president that has served one term as a senator or governor to be at the helm of the most powerful government on the planet.
I don't care if Barack Obama is black. I do care, however, that he is a first-term senator with a voting record that hardly fills one page, and I am concerned that between himself and Hillary Clinton, they have already raised nearly 16 million dollars more than ALL presidential candidates combined at the same point in an election just four years ago. Neither Obama nor Clinton is a veteran.
I don't care if Mitt Romney is a Mormon, and that shouldn't be an issue, but trust me, it will be. I do care that he has limited political experience, having served only one term as the governor of Massachusetts. And again, he is not a veteran. He is, however, by any stretch, a rich man who donated 6.3 million dollars to his own gubernatorial campaign, at the time a state record.
I hope today's civics lesson is clear.
27 March 2007
Nice Word...Don't Bite
I've been trying to write a short story that's really giving me a hard time. The problem stems from controversial subject matter. If a person writes a story that portrays (what society thinks is) criminal behavior in a favorable light, and a reader emulates that behavior with dire consequences, is the author liable for the outcome?
Since the dawn of time, the oral, and later, written word has been positively rife with tales of deceit and murder, yet we do not hold the authors responsible for the deceit and murder that continues to this day. Mafia stories glorify the "made" man. Tarzan killed black men for sport, and don't even get me started on the Bible. But, if I write a story about a truly good, moral thing that happened to occur while under the influence of certain illegal substances, will I be accused of promoting irresponsible behavior?
It's easy to say that writers should take a "critics be damned" attitude, and write what they feel is important. Last time I checked, though, the only writers who said that had already established themselves or died, only receiving recognition for their genius post mortem.
If I were to write a story about how cool it is to sniff spray paint fumes from a paper bag and hang around a day care center leering and barking at children, I'd be vilified. If I wrote that contracting AIDS through unprotected sex was a remote and unlikely possibility, any number of groups would accuse me of, at best, ignorance, and at worst, promoting genocide.
The human condition needs to be told, because we all learn from and inspire each other, whether we relate good deeds or bad. With that in mind, I think I'll finish the story I'm working on and hope for the best. I'm sure I flatter myself by worrying about it. What Jim Fixx did for jogging, I intend to do for reckless behavior.
Oh...wait.
Since the dawn of time, the oral, and later, written word has been positively rife with tales of deceit and murder, yet we do not hold the authors responsible for the deceit and murder that continues to this day. Mafia stories glorify the "made" man. Tarzan killed black men for sport, and don't even get me started on the Bible. But, if I write a story about a truly good, moral thing that happened to occur while under the influence of certain illegal substances, will I be accused of promoting irresponsible behavior?
It's easy to say that writers should take a "critics be damned" attitude, and write what they feel is important. Last time I checked, though, the only writers who said that had already established themselves or died, only receiving recognition for their genius post mortem.
If I were to write a story about how cool it is to sniff spray paint fumes from a paper bag and hang around a day care center leering and barking at children, I'd be vilified. If I wrote that contracting AIDS through unprotected sex was a remote and unlikely possibility, any number of groups would accuse me of, at best, ignorance, and at worst, promoting genocide.
The human condition needs to be told, because we all learn from and inspire each other, whether we relate good deeds or bad. With that in mind, I think I'll finish the story I'm working on and hope for the best. I'm sure I flatter myself by worrying about it. What Jim Fixx did for jogging, I intend to do for reckless behavior.
Oh...wait.
26 March 2007
Retirement Horror Vol. II
My last "retirement horror" post dealt with the dangers of not investing properly. Being old and broke is the stuff nightmares are made of. This essay isn't nearly as serious, but it is terrifying nonetheless. I cannot provide in this essay, as I did in the previous one about retirement, links to concrete sources to validate my argument. I can, however, provide eyewitness testimony to an event I witnessed last night that should scare the socks off anyone who spends time wondering how retirement might be.
I visited my parents this past weekend at their winter home near Tampa, Florida. They, like many others, winter in a retirement community; you cannot buy a home there unless you're at least 55. To be fair, it seemed like a very close-knit group of people living there. Since my folks don't smoke, I stood outside when smoking, and there was a nearly constant parade of retirees walking in the warm Florida weather, and without fail, every person that walked by smiled and/or waved and said "Hello", or "Good Morning". I learned from my folks to be gracious and gregarious, so I of course returned their greetings. I felt a little guilty though, because my parents had told me that there were a lot of "walkers" in the park, and I immediately pictured a horde of old people looking for all the world like zombies, lurching aimlessly about the neighborhood. I'm happy to say that the people I spoke to were all very nice, and were obviously enjoying themselves. You might ask, "Where's the horror in that"?
Since the members of this community are so social (presumably because they can afford to have little else to do), they invent all sorts of reasons to congregate with alarming frequency. Last night, they held a birthday party for everyone, complete with cake and ice cream and, as an added treat, they had a musical revue featuring several residents who called themselves "The Choralettes". Each had a red sparkly vest with a bow tie; they were dressed like an old fashioned barbershop quartet (sans moustaches), and they sang show tunes and Frank Sinatra and a Rogers & Hammerstein medley. Songs from their youth. Again, where's the horror in that? Were they, for the most part, horribly off-key? Yes. Did the mere 40 minute show seem like a grinding, inexorably tortuous lifetime? Of course, but they were old people, and I expected that. But as I watched this performance, I suddenly saw in my mind's eye a sight that made my skin crawl.
In an absurd (and wholly understandable, I think) moment, I saw my own retirement community, and it was very unpleasant. Instead of blue-haired geriatrics dressed like an organ grinder's monkey, I saw a crowd of aging hippies, complete with bald pates and scraggly ponytails, dressed in black pleather vests straining to complete "Stairway to Heaven". I saw 70 year old women, frail with age, stooped over to compensate for the weight of their breast implants. (The sight of a woman that age with boobs that still stand up like a 20 year old's really disturbed me). Instead of cake and ice cream, it was hash brownies and jell-o shots. The emcee told sort-of-dirty jokes that nobody found offensive, and instead of golf shirts and blouses, clothing consisted of tye-dyed jeans and plaid maxi skirts.
The actual scene I was watching was surreal; the imagined one was downright hellish.
I'm not sure if I'll live to retirement age, and my lapses into imagination tend to convince me that maybe it's best if I don't. I believe that if you plan for the worst, you'll never be disappointed, and I cling to that philosophy in the hope that I'm right. Retirement looms large, though, and I worry about it. A lot. But you know that.
I visited my parents this past weekend at their winter home near Tampa, Florida. They, like many others, winter in a retirement community; you cannot buy a home there unless you're at least 55. To be fair, it seemed like a very close-knit group of people living there. Since my folks don't smoke, I stood outside when smoking, and there was a nearly constant parade of retirees walking in the warm Florida weather, and without fail, every person that walked by smiled and/or waved and said "Hello", or "Good Morning". I learned from my folks to be gracious and gregarious, so I of course returned their greetings. I felt a little guilty though, because my parents had told me that there were a lot of "walkers" in the park, and I immediately pictured a horde of old people looking for all the world like zombies, lurching aimlessly about the neighborhood. I'm happy to say that the people I spoke to were all very nice, and were obviously enjoying themselves. You might ask, "Where's the horror in that"?
Since the members of this community are so social (presumably because they can afford to have little else to do), they invent all sorts of reasons to congregate with alarming frequency. Last night, they held a birthday party for everyone, complete with cake and ice cream and, as an added treat, they had a musical revue featuring several residents who called themselves "The Choralettes". Each had a red sparkly vest with a bow tie; they were dressed like an old fashioned barbershop quartet (sans moustaches), and they sang show tunes and Frank Sinatra and a Rogers & Hammerstein medley. Songs from their youth. Again, where's the horror in that? Were they, for the most part, horribly off-key? Yes. Did the mere 40 minute show seem like a grinding, inexorably tortuous lifetime? Of course, but they were old people, and I expected that. But as I watched this performance, I suddenly saw in my mind's eye a sight that made my skin crawl.
In an absurd (and wholly understandable, I think) moment, I saw my own retirement community, and it was very unpleasant. Instead of blue-haired geriatrics dressed like an organ grinder's monkey, I saw a crowd of aging hippies, complete with bald pates and scraggly ponytails, dressed in black pleather vests straining to complete "Stairway to Heaven". I saw 70 year old women, frail with age, stooped over to compensate for the weight of their breast implants. (The sight of a woman that age with boobs that still stand up like a 20 year old's really disturbed me). Instead of cake and ice cream, it was hash brownies and jell-o shots. The emcee told sort-of-dirty jokes that nobody found offensive, and instead of golf shirts and blouses, clothing consisted of tye-dyed jeans and plaid maxi skirts.
The actual scene I was watching was surreal; the imagined one was downright hellish.
I'm not sure if I'll live to retirement age, and my lapses into imagination tend to convince me that maybe it's best if I don't. I believe that if you plan for the worst, you'll never be disappointed, and I cling to that philosophy in the hope that I'm right. Retirement looms large, though, and I worry about it. A lot. But you know that.
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