seeking the ground state
The other night's words were about feeling betrayed and sad. Other feelings are happening, too.
As is The Muse's fashion, once her brain realized I wasn't bluffing, she immediately found another place and signed a lease. Almost funny, it's so like her -- once she knows something is going to, or might happen, or once a decision is made to do something, she has to do it. Immediately. I guess she's consistent. Like I said, it's all happened so fast. I've thought that it's quite possible, given her behavior, that she was dabbling in some bullshit idealized fantasy thing -- whatever -- which didn't become reality for her, maybe, until I said in essence "you need to go." (I meant, "we need to be apart to get through this.") Sucks pretty bad, but she needs to figure out some shit, and she can't figure it out living with me, regardless of what she may be thinking. Perhaps the meds evened out her moods, but made her nuts in other ways. I don't know, but I don't want to be the one to bear the burden of responsibility for dealing with it. For the first time in my life, in this kind of situation, I'm worrying about me, and taking care of myself, instead of second-guessing everything I say, and feel, and thinking "oh I want this to work so badly, and what if telling her this was the final straw ......." -- you know the shit -- not doing it. Not going there. If she wants to be with me, then fine, but she needs to know what she wants. And I can't wait around for her to figure it out, and just won't risk getting dragged through the shit so she can grow. Pardon my French, but fuck that. I've had too much of it in my life. I know it isn't my shit, and I've learned that people dealing with this crap are the only ones who can do anything about it. Sad, but they have to change, and only they can do that. Plus, I've tried, lots of times, in past r-ships and in this one, and I'm just tired of it. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt. Hate to sound jaded, but it seems the likelihood of this level of change taking place in a reasonable period of time is pretty slim, and the potential for those who stick it out to be subjected to serious extended pain is too, too high. Too high for me.
Feels kind of like I'm processing the whole situation at high speed, or something. Maybe it's adrenalin, or maybe my past experiences have given me just that -- experience. Maybe my age. Maybe I've faced what feels to me to be so much of this already in my life that I don't have much patience left for it. Maybe I've finally grown up. I mean, it wasn't like this when my marriage went to hell -- that was total insanity. And when I broke up with C., I was a mess for almost a year. So, something's different. I'm different.
Or maybe, maybe, I'm actually learning how to do it better.
Anyway, there's another part of me that worries. It's just so different. Past r-ship crises have always -- always -- pretty much decimated me emotionally, and sent me into a tailspin that spit out red and black trails of doubt and anger. I've always managed to hold it together, basically -- like, I've been functionally decimated -- can go to work, get up, eat, sleep. But it's always been horribly painful, emotionally and physically for me.
This is no different, and, in fact, may be worse. I really truly love this woman. I know that what it's not is that this was some kind of lesser love. I risked a lot for this r-ship -- my former job, r-ships with colleagues, to some extent my rep. It was all worth it. But I don't feel like I'm dying, and I don't wish I were dead. I have felt that in the past, as the result of this type of heartbreak. Nothing I would ever act on -- I'm so non-suicidal -- just that feeling like, well, if I don't wake up tomorrow, ok. I've felt that, but I don't this time. My heart is broken, but it's like I'm at a point in my life where I refuse to die.
Or I know better, know myself, know I won't let my broken heart kill me. Won't let it break me, either. Won't let it break my soul.
But, it's so different, I kind of worry. Have I lost the ability to feel the pain deeply? Prior to this past weekend, a friend advised me to "get away -- get out of the house -- do something fun and totally carefree -- you deserve a break." Well-intentioned, of course. But, I know me. One, I'm not one, never have been, to work out my pain that way. I knew going into this weekend that it would be hard, and that I would be there. That I would not try to run from it. That I would face it. I need to face it. I need to look life straight in the eye. I need life to see my face, too. That's who I am.
Perhaps it's the sense of somewhat knowing what to anticipate. The forgetfulness and totally distracted spaciness. The acceptance of the fact that, when I'm upset, it takes me six tries to get out of the driveway -- get in the car, forget the keys, get the keys, forgot the wallet, get the wallet, put the keys down, forget them again, forget the CD I want to hear while I drive, fast, needing to sing, scream. It's just me. Me and U2. With or without you. And Husker Du. You left me, you left me, you left me, standing in the rain.
So, hard to tell how I'll feel much in the future, which I readily admit. Still in shock, I think. But not in denial, I'm pretty sure, I hope, not this time. And maybe I'm past the days of black loss-induced anger, past the deeply cutting doubts. I've gotten this far, after all, and I'm ok. I've recovered from everything that's ever happened to me. I have family who I can talk to, and friends, both of whom I trust, and believe in, and am comfortable being open with, with my emotions, my thoughts, my fears. I know I can turn to them, and I know it's not an embarrassing thing, that, in fact, they ache to help as much as I ache to heal.
Maybe that's it. Maybe I just ache to heal. Love isn't lost. I believe that. True love, real love -- it's never lost. It goes somewhere. I don't regret any love I've ever given to anyone in my life. Good begets good. And the fucking universe needs it. If I haven't been able to hold onto it at times, so be it -- call it my cosmic contribution.
And, life's weird. Maybe it will work out. At least we weren't married. But, either way, I know I'll come out of it ok. Just seems to be what I do.
Wanted to tell you personally.
Peace.
3.03.2003
3.01.2003
the nest has been blown out of the tree
A day. The Muse's father, stepmother, brother and his gf came over to help her move her remaining items from our home. I think I'm still in shock. Spent the day driving and crying, listening to Husker Du, U2 and Jane Siberry. Had to spend a bunch of cash to get a new bed and livingroom furniture. Purchases that can be, should be, fun, like rewards for working hard, acquiring tasteful things to enhance one's living environment. But there is no excitement, and only sadness, with these. Already they feel not as much new as just replacements. Whatever. It's just stuff, has no meaning.
Gotta wait a month for the couch and love seat. At least the bed will be here tomorrow.
I didn't get to say goodbye to the cat, the friendly little furball. Fuck. It's only 8:30; feels like four in the morning.
Like my friend lo, music speaks to me...
From Bob Mould and the boys:
well, you get up every morning
and you see, it's all the same
all the floors and all the walls
and all the rest remains
nothing changes fast enough
the hurry, worry days
it makes you want to give it up
and drift into a haze
revelations seem to be another way
to make the days go faster anyways
we're all exchanging pleasantries
no matter how we feel
and no one knows the difference
'cause it all seems so unreal
you'd better grad ahold of something
simple but it's true
if you don't stop to smell the roses now
they might end up on you
expectations only mean you really think you know
what's coming next, and you don't
yearbooks with their autographs
from friends you might have had
these are your important years
you'd better make them last
falling in and out of love just like...
these are your important years, your life
once you've seen the light, you finally
realize it might end up all right
it might end up all right now
"These Important Years," Warehouse: Songs and Stories (1987)
when was the last time it was warm?
maybe october
had i known then what i know now
same old story
i could've tracked our last summer night together
was it a good one?
i remember seeing carlos santana with you and my son
a warm night, in a constant rain, we three
holding each other to stay warm
swaying to the music
was that it?
or something else
was it sad? another wasted evening
watching reruns on network tv
re-laughing at things funny once
were you thinking of leaving then?
as you laughed, lying across my lap
were your thoughts already in another place?
seeing your life in the light of autumn dusk
your shadow falling separate from mine
even then?
you should have told me
i deserved to know
instead had to find out, had to confront you
with my most vulnerable face
you didn't deny a thing, that much is true
but i had to learn it on my own
i'm the grounded one after all
so tired of it, of the facing, of the digging
of taking the initiative, of enlisting honesty,
of calling on the truth, calling it out, it is there,
it is everywhere, just waiting to be recognized
so tired of seeing it
why do i always have to be the one to see it?
to call it?
shawn colvin sang, "it's gonna be another long one tonight/jst me and my well-intentioned spite"
spite against myself.
of course, it would not have "helped" if i had known,
known that it was our last christmas, just one year after i gave you my ring,
known that it was our last thanksgiving with your mother,
our last christmas with my family,
our last appearance at a birthday party for a niece or a nephew
or my son, my guilt limited to how i keep bringing these people into his life
seeking a replacement for his mother, who lacks the maternal wiring
shit, i did that whole thing backwards
had the child, and then lived my life
when i was your age, i thought i'd have children
but not until i was forty, not until now
but now, i am done having children
i am, have become, a good father, a strong father
the one constant in my child's life
the one he can trust, can rely on
for love, nurturing, help, honesty
there is angry lightning flashing outside
looking through the doors we looked through together
in love, together, sitting outside, looking at the wetlands,
watching the lightning dance across the sky
another person, once in my son's life, gaining his trust,
and now gone
i never would have guessed in a million fucking years
that you really had no idea what commitment was
you did, of course, i believe you
but goddamn it, lover, darling -- i've heard it before
it's all true, yeah, until it changes
the truth does not change
this i know
this i can't deny
this i won't resist
so, the real question i have is this:
what the fuck is wrong with me?
what is it that prevents my lovers from keeping their ends of the commitment?
why do they not tell me what they feel?
why do they get angry with me when i tell them what i feel?
why do they leave, oh god, why do they leave me every time?
pathetic. i know.
A day. The Muse's father, stepmother, brother and his gf came over to help her move her remaining items from our home. I think I'm still in shock. Spent the day driving and crying, listening to Husker Du, U2 and Jane Siberry. Had to spend a bunch of cash to get a new bed and livingroom furniture. Purchases that can be, should be, fun, like rewards for working hard, acquiring tasteful things to enhance one's living environment. But there is no excitement, and only sadness, with these. Already they feel not as much new as just replacements. Whatever. It's just stuff, has no meaning.
Gotta wait a month for the couch and love seat. At least the bed will be here tomorrow.
I didn't get to say goodbye to the cat, the friendly little furball. Fuck. It's only 8:30; feels like four in the morning.
Like my friend lo, music speaks to me...
From Bob Mould and the boys:
well, you get up every morning
and you see, it's all the same
all the floors and all the walls
and all the rest remains
nothing changes fast enough
the hurry, worry days
it makes you want to give it up
and drift into a haze
revelations seem to be another way
to make the days go faster anyways
we're all exchanging pleasantries
no matter how we feel
and no one knows the difference
'cause it all seems so unreal
you'd better grad ahold of something
simple but it's true
if you don't stop to smell the roses now
they might end up on you
expectations only mean you really think you know
what's coming next, and you don't
yearbooks with their autographs
from friends you might have had
these are your important years
you'd better make them last
falling in and out of love just like...
these are your important years, your life
once you've seen the light, you finally
realize it might end up all right
it might end up all right now
"These Important Years," Warehouse: Songs and Stories (1987)
when was the last time it was warm?
maybe october
had i known then what i know now
same old story
i could've tracked our last summer night together
was it a good one?
i remember seeing carlos santana with you and my son
a warm night, in a constant rain, we three
holding each other to stay warm
swaying to the music
was that it?
or something else
was it sad? another wasted evening
watching reruns on network tv
re-laughing at things funny once
were you thinking of leaving then?
as you laughed, lying across my lap
were your thoughts already in another place?
seeing your life in the light of autumn dusk
your shadow falling separate from mine
even then?
you should have told me
i deserved to know
instead had to find out, had to confront you
with my most vulnerable face
you didn't deny a thing, that much is true
but i had to learn it on my own
i'm the grounded one after all
so tired of it, of the facing, of the digging
of taking the initiative, of enlisting honesty,
of calling on the truth, calling it out, it is there,
it is everywhere, just waiting to be recognized
so tired of seeing it
why do i always have to be the one to see it?
to call it?
shawn colvin sang, "it's gonna be another long one tonight/jst me and my well-intentioned spite"
spite against myself.
of course, it would not have "helped" if i had known,
known that it was our last christmas, just one year after i gave you my ring,
known that it was our last thanksgiving with your mother,
our last christmas with my family,
our last appearance at a birthday party for a niece or a nephew
or my son, my guilt limited to how i keep bringing these people into his life
seeking a replacement for his mother, who lacks the maternal wiring
shit, i did that whole thing backwards
had the child, and then lived my life
when i was your age, i thought i'd have children
but not until i was forty, not until now
but now, i am done having children
i am, have become, a good father, a strong father
the one constant in my child's life
the one he can trust, can rely on
for love, nurturing, help, honesty
there is angry lightning flashing outside
looking through the doors we looked through together
in love, together, sitting outside, looking at the wetlands,
watching the lightning dance across the sky
another person, once in my son's life, gaining his trust,
and now gone
i never would have guessed in a million fucking years
that you really had no idea what commitment was
you did, of course, i believe you
but goddamn it, lover, darling -- i've heard it before
it's all true, yeah, until it changes
the truth does not change
this i know
this i can't deny
this i won't resist
so, the real question i have is this:
what the fuck is wrong with me?
what is it that prevents my lovers from keeping their ends of the commitment?
why do they not tell me what they feel?
why do they get angry with me when i tell them what i feel?
why do they leave, oh god, why do they leave me every time?
pathetic. i know.
2.28.2003
bloggoogler
Blogger bought by Google, but, of course, you've already heard.
Separate
Merriam-Webster says:
Main Entry: 1. sep·a·rate
Pronunciation: 'se-p(&-)"rAt
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): -rat·ed; -rat·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin separatus, past participle of separare, from se- apart + parare to prepare, procure -- more at SECEDE, PARE
Date: 15th century
transitive senses
1 a : to set or keep apart : DISCONNECT, SEVER b : to make a distinction between : DISCRIMINATE, DISTINGUISH <separate religion from magic> c : SORT <separate mail> d : to disperse in space or time : SCATTERseparated homesteads>
2 archaic : to set aside for a special purpose : CHOOSE, DEDICATE
3 : to part by a legal separation : a : to sever conjugal ties with b : to sever contractual relations with : DISCHARGE
4 : to block off : SEGREGATE
5 a : to isolate from a mixture : EXTRACT <separate cream from milk> b : to divide into constituent parts
6 : to dislocate (as a shoulder) especially in sports
intransitive senses
1 : to become divided or detached
2 a : to sever an association : WITHDRAW b : to cease to live together as a married couple
3 : to go in different directions
4 : to become isolated from a mixture
synonyms SEPARATE, PART, DIVIDE, SEVER, SUNDER, DIVORCE mean to become or cause to become disunited or disjointed. SEPARATE may imply any of several causes such as dispersion, removal of one from others, or presence of an intervening thing <separated her personal life from her career>. PART implies the separating of things or persons in close union or associationpart>. DIVIDE implies separating into pieces or sections by cutting or breaking divided the nation>. SEVER implies violence especially in the removal of a part or member severed limb>. SUNDER suggests violent rending or wrenching apart sundered by racial conflict>. DIVORCE implies separating two things that commonly interact and belong together divorce scientific research from moral responsibility>.
Main Entry: 2. sep·a·rate
Pronunciation: 'se-p(&-)r&t
Function: adjective
Date: 15th century
1 a : set or kept apart : DETACHED b archaic : SOLITARY, SECLUDED c : IMMATERIAL, DISEMBODIED
2 a : not shared with another : INDIVIDUAL <separate rooms> b often capitalized : estranged from a parent body <separate churches>
3 a : existing by itself : AUTONOMOUS b : dissimilar in nature or identity
synonym see DISTINCT
- sep·a·rate·ly /-p(&-)r&t-lE, 'se-p&rt-lE/ adverb
- sep·a·rate·ness /-n&s/ noun
How do you interpret it? When you say "separate," does it come out naturally as a verb, or as an adjective?
sorted, scattered
lives separate (v), lives separate (adj)
separate (v) lives, but love
how it exists separately, separate (v) from
life, my own, ours, what's yours is/was/shall be/shall never be
mine, ours
isolated from a mixture
driving to work, your scent in my blood
a flock of geese flies to somewhere
if they're smart, they'll keep flying
never touch down, never stop
bridges, bridges to cross
the other side, we must
go, but hate it, knowing/not knowing
what we want to be, what we think we see
on the other side
transitive senses
the other side
how can the other side not be connected to this one?
there is a bridge, there was a bridge
it has not fallen
like my heart
it has not fallen apart
it has not separated
does life separate?
don't be like me, a stupid goose
never touch down, stupid geese
keep flying
fly over the bridge
and beneath you i will cross
beneath you, my love,
the wood of my bridges, of my cross
Blogger bought by Google, but, of course, you've already heard.
Separate
Merriam-Webster says:
Main Entry: 1. sep·a·rate
Pronunciation: 'se-p(&-)"rAt
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): -rat·ed; -rat·ing
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin separatus, past participle of separare, from se- apart + parare to prepare, procure -- more at SECEDE, PARE
Date: 15th century
transitive senses
1 a : to set or keep apart : DISCONNECT, SEVER b : to make a distinction between : DISCRIMINATE, DISTINGUISH <separate religion from magic> c : SORT <separate mail> d : to disperse in space or time : SCATTER
2 archaic : to set aside for a special purpose : CHOOSE, DEDICATE
3 : to part by a legal separation : a : to sever conjugal ties with b : to sever contractual relations with : DISCHARGE
4 : to block off : SEGREGATE
5 a : to isolate from a mixture : EXTRACT <separate cream from milk> b : to divide into constituent parts
6 : to dislocate (as a shoulder) especially in sports
intransitive senses
1 : to become divided or detached
2 a : to sever an association : WITHDRAW b : to cease to live together as a married couple
3 : to go in different directions
4 : to become isolated from a mixture
synonyms SEPARATE, PART, DIVIDE, SEVER, SUNDER, DIVORCE mean to become or cause to become disunited or disjointed. SEPARATE may imply any of several causes such as dispersion, removal of one from others, or presence of an intervening thing <separated her personal life from her career>. PART implies the separating of things or persons in close union or association
Main Entry: 2. sep·a·rate
Pronunciation: 'se-p(&-)r&t
Function: adjective
Date: 15th century
1 a : set or kept apart : DETACHED b archaic : SOLITARY, SECLUDED c : IMMATERIAL, DISEMBODIED
2 a : not shared with another : INDIVIDUAL <separate rooms> b often capitalized : estranged from a parent body <separate churches>
3 a : existing by itself : AUTONOMOUS b : dissimilar in nature or identity
synonym see DISTINCT
- sep·a·rate·ly /-p(&-)r&t-lE, 'se-p&rt-lE/ adverb
- sep·a·rate·ness /-n&s/ noun
How do you interpret it? When you say "separate," does it come out naturally as a verb, or as an adjective?
sorted, scattered
lives separate (v), lives separate (adj)
separate (v) lives, but love
how it exists separately, separate (v) from
life, my own, ours, what's yours is/was/shall be/shall never be
mine, ours
isolated from a mixture
driving to work, your scent in my blood
a flock of geese flies to somewhere
if they're smart, they'll keep flying
never touch down, never stop
bridges, bridges to cross
the other side, we must
go, but hate it, knowing/not knowing
what we want to be, what we think we see
on the other side
transitive senses
the other side
how can the other side not be connected to this one?
there is a bridge, there was a bridge
it has not fallen
like my heart
it has not fallen apart
it has not separated
does life separate?
don't be like me, a stupid goose
never touch down, stupid geese
keep flying
fly over the bridge
and beneath you i will cross
beneath you, my love,
the wood of my bridges, of my cross
2.06.2003
Endless Tape Loop
I'm not sure what anyone else is thinking, nor if I have any true sense of what's going on, what's happened, what's happening now, what will happen soon. I do know that people are uncertain, unsure and nagged by a steady low current of chronic anxiety. It's like a steady undercurrent, a buzz, and not the kind any of us with any sense seek.
How it looks to me: The only sensible spin, for me, is this -- The Administration has gotten philosophical. A scary thought, given the general consensus that if you give the Government anything, it'll find a way to mess it up in royal fashion. Philosophy is no exception, and this is a case of taking the long view, as they say. The long view, at present, seems to me to take this form: The Middle East is a political mine field, no pun intended, and has been for thousands of years. The Administration believes, or would like to believe, or has of late embraced the belief that there is no hope for any real peaceful resolution to the so-called Mid-East conflict, no hope for any semblance of political stability, no hope of anything ever approaching comprehensive democracy. This being said, it remains a major source of good old black gold, oil, that is, economic fuel. So, while one side of the Adminstration's mouth pays lip service to such quaint notions as environmentally friendly fuel cells, the other side of the mouth is screwed up into an expression of determination, and that determination is to take over the area, topple the evil dictator(s) and run the show. The sense that this humble citizen gets is that -- regardless of the protests of the hundreds of thousands of citizens of America and other nations against the aggressive policies currently in play -- The Administration has made a decision. That decision appears to be that America is going to the Middle East with a goal of taking control, which it believes will be best for everyone in the long run. Best for America, of course -- American economic interests, to be exact -- because it will clear the way for the US to control a major source of oil, thereby stabilizing the economy, somewhat, and appeasing, somewhat, the populace, which is burdened by unemployment, failed school levies, crumbling city infrastructures, increasingly high costs of basic needs (housing, education, healthcare), in short, the continued demise of whatever may be left of that 1940's fantasy known as "The American Dream." Not to mention that microwave ovens and VCRs and, now, cell phones are *still* not interchangeable. But I digress.
Looks to me like a decision has been made to take control of "the problem" by force. To dip back into the days of manifest destiny.
That's what I see happening. That's what it feels like to me. You don't move tons of equipment and thousands of troops just to make a point.
My fiancee asked me the other day if I thought we were going to war, and I said yes. "Doesn't that piss you off?" she asked.
Yes, I said. Yes, it does. It really does. Equally, it saddens me.
But it does seem to be happening, regardless.
I hope I'm wrong.
I'm not sure what anyone else is thinking, nor if I have any true sense of what's going on, what's happened, what's happening now, what will happen soon. I do know that people are uncertain, unsure and nagged by a steady low current of chronic anxiety. It's like a steady undercurrent, a buzz, and not the kind any of us with any sense seek.
How it looks to me: The only sensible spin, for me, is this -- The Administration has gotten philosophical. A scary thought, given the general consensus that if you give the Government anything, it'll find a way to mess it up in royal fashion. Philosophy is no exception, and this is a case of taking the long view, as they say. The long view, at present, seems to me to take this form: The Middle East is a political mine field, no pun intended, and has been for thousands of years. The Administration believes, or would like to believe, or has of late embraced the belief that there is no hope for any real peaceful resolution to the so-called Mid-East conflict, no hope for any semblance of political stability, no hope of anything ever approaching comprehensive democracy. This being said, it remains a major source of good old black gold, oil, that is, economic fuel. So, while one side of the Adminstration's mouth pays lip service to such quaint notions as environmentally friendly fuel cells, the other side of the mouth is screwed up into an expression of determination, and that determination is to take over the area, topple the evil dictator(s) and run the show. The sense that this humble citizen gets is that -- regardless of the protests of the hundreds of thousands of citizens of America and other nations against the aggressive policies currently in play -- The Administration has made a decision. That decision appears to be that America is going to the Middle East with a goal of taking control, which it believes will be best for everyone in the long run. Best for America, of course -- American economic interests, to be exact -- because it will clear the way for the US to control a major source of oil, thereby stabilizing the economy, somewhat, and appeasing, somewhat, the populace, which is burdened by unemployment, failed school levies, crumbling city infrastructures, increasingly high costs of basic needs (housing, education, healthcare), in short, the continued demise of whatever may be left of that 1940's fantasy known as "The American Dream." Not to mention that microwave ovens and VCRs and, now, cell phones are *still* not interchangeable. But I digress.
Looks to me like a decision has been made to take control of "the problem" by force. To dip back into the days of manifest destiny.
- "Let's have a war / we need the space." - Fear
That's what I see happening. That's what it feels like to me. You don't move tons of equipment and thousands of troops just to make a point.
My fiancee asked me the other day if I thought we were going to war, and I said yes. "Doesn't that piss you off?" she asked.
Yes, I said. Yes, it does. It really does. Equally, it saddens me.
But it does seem to be happening, regardless.
I hope I'm wrong.
12.24.2002
11.19.2002
New Solution for War
Send WalMart and McDonald's to war-torn, volatile areas. Build major retail distribution centers, complete with warehouses and surrounded by company town-type Section 8 style housing. Provide sites with military protection. Staff stores entirely with locals, pay them standard American wages, and house them locally. See how long it takes for everyone to suddenly stop fighting and, instead, put on a few needless pounds, which they'd then work-off by bargain-hunting for senseless jewelry and tacky domestic decorative items.
Peace.
Send WalMart and McDonald's to war-torn, volatile areas. Build major retail distribution centers, complete with warehouses and surrounded by company town-type Section 8 style housing. Provide sites with military protection. Staff stores entirely with locals, pay them standard American wages, and house them locally. See how long it takes for everyone to suddenly stop fighting and, instead, put on a few needless pounds, which they'd then work-off by bargain-hunting for senseless jewelry and tacky domestic decorative items.
Peace.
10.03.2002
9.11.2002
A Prayer for Peace
I know you'll never forget where you were or what you were doing, when it happened, when things changed. For all of us.
Today, we remember the victims and their families, the survivors and the witnesses. Though we are all, today, witnesses, to some extent.
This is a prayer for peace.
At 8:46 am this morning, with the national anthem playing on my car stereo, I left a NYC subway token at the May 4th Memorial at Kent State University. I wonder what others are doing, what other small, quiet, personal acts of remembrance are taking place, around the country and around the world.
If you're reading this, and you have a minute, please post to the message board. We're interested in hearing how you've remembered that day.
God bless our nation, our principles and our way of life. May we never stop trying to do it in a better way, a way that is better for all nations, and all people.
I know you'll never forget where you were or what you were doing, when it happened, when things changed. For all of us.
Today, we remember the victims and their families, the survivors and the witnesses. Though we are all, today, witnesses, to some extent.
This is a prayer for peace.
At 8:46 am this morning, with the national anthem playing on my car stereo, I left a NYC subway token at the May 4th Memorial at Kent State University. I wonder what others are doing, what other small, quiet, personal acts of remembrance are taking place, around the country and around the world.
If you're reading this, and you have a minute, please post to the message board. We're interested in hearing how you've remembered that day.
God bless our nation, our principles and our way of life. May we never stop trying to do it in a better way, a way that is better for all nations, and all people.
6.25.2002
Morning Misadventures
It is always the smallest things that remind us of how early we are in our own path to enlightenment.
This morning's attempt to leave the house for the workday: The door closed behind me and the "click" instantly was translated into "My keys!!!!!" So, Your Humble Chronicler spent a good hour and a half attempting to defeat the simple catch. The initiaI 95% of my time was distributed among:
The moral: Really explore the problem before you even attempt what may seem like a simple or obvious solution.
Where I failed: Had I studied the way the door and the latch were set, I might have had better luck from the start.
Where I succeeded: Tenacity -- never quite gave up, fully.
There ya go.
It is always the smallest things that remind us of how early we are in our own path to enlightenment.
This morning's attempt to leave the house for the workday: The door closed behind me and the "click" instantly was translated into "My keys!!!!!" So, Your Humble Chronicler spent a good hour and a half attempting to defeat the simple catch. The initiaI 95% of my time was distributed among:
- trying to trip the latch with plastic credit-card type things in my wallet -- which bent and crumbled;
- climbing up to peer into the garage attic space, to see if it was an open space that may have led to another crawl space that would allow me into the house (no);
- checking to see if any windows were let unlocked (none);
- cursing at the cat, who was inside and was, of course, totally useless;
- calling my landlord's nearby office to see if he could run over and let me in (out of office);
- calling landlord's wife at home for same reason (answering machine);
- calling fiancee in a desperate quest to see if she, perhaps, had hidden a spare house key anywhere outside (out of the office and no);
- reattempting the credit-card trick (failed);
- attempting to pick the lock with miscellaneous pieces of scrap metal and a small screwdriver (failed);
- attempting to slide the latch open with an empty plastic windshield wiper fluid bottle which I cut with a pair of pruning chears to suit the task (failed).
The moral: Really explore the problem before you even attempt what may seem like a simple or obvious solution.
Where I failed: Had I studied the way the door and the latch were set, I might have had better luck from the start.
Where I succeeded: Tenacity -- never quite gave up, fully.
There ya go.
6.04.2002
Interesting Sites
Interactive metaphor, from Entropy8 and zuper.
And some from Superbad.
The long-in-the-works Museum of Sex.
Interactive metaphor, from Entropy8 and zuper.
And some from Superbad.
The long-in-the-works Museum of Sex.
5.21.2002
5.10.2002
5.07.2002
4.05.2002
Believe it.....or Not!
Self-styled Sasquatch enthusiast Richard J. La Monica, Sr. says, "I think if you believe in something, you should fight for it!" For it's part, TBH -- ever enthusiastic supporters of the "To Each His/Her Own" dictum -- says, what the hell -- jump in -- distraction is good. (Here's an interview that even includes a mention of one of our favorite white trash lunch joints, which has been the setting for a couple previous posts in these very pages!)
Feeling inspired? If so, consider taking a junket to Newcomerstown, Ohio, this weekend.
You be the judge.
Self-styled Sasquatch enthusiast Richard J. La Monica, Sr. says, "I think if you believe in something, you should fight for it!" For it's part, TBH -- ever enthusiastic supporters of the "To Each His/Her Own" dictum -- says, what the hell -- jump in -- distraction is good. (Here's an interview that even includes a mention of one of our favorite white trash lunch joints, which has been the setting for a couple previous posts in these very pages!)
Feeling inspired? If so, consider taking a junket to Newcomerstown, Ohio, this weekend.
You be the judge.
4.02.2002
3.20.2002
Humility
Had the opportunity to see Archibishop Desmond M. Tutu give a somewhat impromptu lecture -- covered everything from why terrorism will never end until all people have access to safe and reliable housing, to effective medical care, to quality education. "Human beings were created to be free," said Tutu. Amazing human. Found it incredible to find myself in such close physical proximity to this true leader.
Had the opportunity to see Archibishop Desmond M. Tutu give a somewhat impromptu lecture -- covered everything from why terrorism will never end until all people have access to safe and reliable housing, to effective medical care, to quality education. "Human beings were created to be free," said Tutu. Amazing human. Found it incredible to find myself in such close physical proximity to this true leader.
3.15.2002
The Ides of March
Beware, beware, beware, the ides of March. The ides have it, they do.
So, like, beware.
Separately, it's that time of year again -- time for the ever-popular, terribly twisted Peeps page.
Hmm. Yes. Not for the squeamish.
Beware, beware, beware, the ides of March. The ides have it, they do.
So, like, beware.
Separately, it's that time of year again -- time for the ever-popular, terribly twisted Peeps page.
Hmm. Yes. Not for the squeamish.
3.14.2002
Today's White-Trash Quote, Overheard While Lunching
"You should avoid difficult and vexatious people. For they are a vexation to the spirit." (This said by a middle-aged manual labor-type to his partner? niece? cousin? -- hard to tell -- white-trash, remember??)
Yep -- really said it just that way. Two sentences, with the biblical phrasing. Fortunately, nothing was said about vivacious or voluptuous people, though. So, it's all good. Whew.
"You should avoid difficult and vexatious people. For they are a vexation to the spirit." (This said by a middle-aged manual labor-type to his partner? niece? cousin? -- hard to tell -- white-trash, remember??)
Yep -- really said it just that way. Two sentences, with the biblical phrasing. Fortunately, nothing was said about vivacious or voluptuous people, though. So, it's all good. Whew.
3.04.2002
3.01.2002
Once, long ago...
I was there, prolly in the late '70's, I guess. I'd taken a bus to NYC with a high school buddy. We made it to the roof. Seems even longer ago now. It is still all so very sad.
Here, in happier times.
I was there, prolly in the late '70's, I guess. I'd taken a bus to NYC with a high school buddy. We made it to the roof. Seems even longer ago now. It is still all so very sad.
Here, in happier times.
2.26.2002
Today's Good Deed
So, feeling a tad under the weather, I left the office for lunch. Hit my favorite low-cost white-trash country-style restaurant to grab a cup of chili. While there, an elderly couple came in and was seated at a table near me, with their granddaughter. Menus are distributed, and the decision-making process begins. Apparently, gramps is in the mood for breakfast, but grandma informs him that they only serve it until eleven a.m., unlike "the usual place we go to, where they serve it all day." I dunno...I just didn't appreciate her tone. Seemed like a sweet old guy. His eyes caught mine, and I silently mouthed to him "They still serve it." He grinned, surprised by my mischievous input. When the waitress returned to take their orders, he asked if they had biscuits and sausage gravy.
"We sure do," replied the waitress. "Is that what you'd like?"
Grandma was none the wiser to our secret duplicity. He smiled at me again as I left.
{*grin*}
So, feeling a tad under the weather, I left the office for lunch. Hit my favorite low-cost white-trash country-style restaurant to grab a cup of chili. While there, an elderly couple came in and was seated at a table near me, with their granddaughter. Menus are distributed, and the decision-making process begins. Apparently, gramps is in the mood for breakfast, but grandma informs him that they only serve it until eleven a.m., unlike "the usual place we go to, where they serve it all day." I dunno...I just didn't appreciate her tone. Seemed like a sweet old guy. His eyes caught mine, and I silently mouthed to him "They still serve it." He grinned, surprised by my mischievous input. When the waitress returned to take their orders, he asked if they had biscuits and sausage gravy.
"We sure do," replied the waitress. "Is that what you'd like?"
Grandma was none the wiser to our secret duplicity. He smiled at me again as I left.
{*grin*}
2.22.2002
Why blog?
Well, that's a question that pretty much comes up just about anytime a non-blogger learns that someone they know has a blog. "So, uh, why do you do this?" and "Don't take this the wrong way, but -- do you think people really read all of this stuff?..." For some thoughts on the former, read Adam Curry's take, "Blogging: Tune Out and Switch On." Other thoughts at Wired. (As far as the latter goes, I'll posit the following guess that most bloggers would say that while it would be nice if people read our blogs, we don't really care. Really. It's more like keeping a journal than anything else. A journal with hyperlinks.)
Yes, yes -- weblogs provide anyone who feels like looking with an endless hallway whose walls are lined with individual windows, technicolored panes of virtual glass through which a reader may cast a fleeting glimpse or a prolonged leer into the other-worlds of other bloggers. Sure, sure -- it's nice to see what the other humans are up to. But, it also allows the individual to keep one toe in the metaphorical stream of their own proverbial creative juices. One can go about one's usual business and, when struck by what feels like an original thought, can immediately capture that notion and send it out to the world, for posterity. Even if no one reads it -- after all, there's no guarantee that anyone ever will -- it gives one the feeling of having contributed something personal to the greater consciousness -- and one can do so with no more strain than ordinary multitasking, thanks to applications like blogger.
That's why we do it, anyway. How about you?? Leave a message and tell us why.
Well, that's a question that pretty much comes up just about anytime a non-blogger learns that someone they know has a blog. "So, uh, why do you do this?" and "Don't take this the wrong way, but -- do you think people really read all of this stuff?..." For some thoughts on the former, read Adam Curry's take, "Blogging: Tune Out and Switch On." Other thoughts at Wired. (As far as the latter goes, I'll posit the following guess that most bloggers would say that while it would be nice if people read our blogs, we don't really care. Really. It's more like keeping a journal than anything else. A journal with hyperlinks.)
Yes, yes -- weblogs provide anyone who feels like looking with an endless hallway whose walls are lined with individual windows, technicolored panes of virtual glass through which a reader may cast a fleeting glimpse or a prolonged leer into the other-worlds of other bloggers. Sure, sure -- it's nice to see what the other humans are up to. But, it also allows the individual to keep one toe in the metaphorical stream of their own proverbial creative juices. One can go about one's usual business and, when struck by what feels like an original thought, can immediately capture that notion and send it out to the world, for posterity. Even if no one reads it -- after all, there's no guarantee that anyone ever will -- it gives one the feeling of having contributed something personal to the greater consciousness -- and one can do so with no more strain than ordinary multitasking, thanks to applications like blogger.
That's why we do it, anyway. How about you?? Leave a message and tell us why.
Wow...
Well, Michelle Kwan still rocks -- no gold, as she wished, but truly one of the great figure skaters of all time. Sara Hughes truly did give a tremendous performance -- graceful, athletic, flawless -- much as Tara "I won and now I'm done" Lipinksi did four years ago at the Nagano games. We can only wonder how the results might have differed, in terms of how competitors Kwan, Sasha Cohen (USA, Cal.) and Irina Slutskaya (RUS) would have approached their performances, mentally, had the judges given Sarah a few 6.0's, right up front. Interesting that Tara didn't get any 6's either, though she did receive a slew of 5.9's.
Separately, we're pretty annoyed at the media's handling of the USA Womens Hockey Team's loss to Canada. Yes, they lost, but it was just one game -- granted, the Olympic competition -- but this hardly is reason for all the dissing. They're still a killer team. And so is Canada. Can't we celebrate both of them? Well, this guy can't -- read this -- seems someone always has to get fixated on some whining-angle. After you've finished reading, The Band encourages you to amuse yourselves by writing to the columnist and advising him to get down off his soapbobsleigh. In the best spirit of the games, of course.
One of The Band's standing dreams is to someday actually attend the games. Until then, though, we've been enjoying the Olympics courtesy of NBC. If you are too, then you've stumbled upon yet another passive means of watching way too much TV, and should check out Bernard McGrane's article, "The Zen TV Experiment" -- very interesting.
RTI -- Remember those?
[ Short for "real-time interruption" -- Ed.]
Separately, we're waiting RT for our seester to have her first baby. Niece? Or nephew??.......
Well, Michelle Kwan still rocks -- no gold, as she wished, but truly one of the great figure skaters of all time. Sara Hughes truly did give a tremendous performance -- graceful, athletic, flawless -- much as Tara "I won and now I'm done" Lipinksi did four years ago at the Nagano games. We can only wonder how the results might have differed, in terms of how competitors Kwan, Sasha Cohen (USA, Cal.) and Irina Slutskaya (RUS) would have approached their performances, mentally, had the judges given Sarah a few 6.0's, right up front. Interesting that Tara didn't get any 6's either, though she did receive a slew of 5.9's.
Separately, we're pretty annoyed at the media's handling of the USA Womens Hockey Team's loss to Canada. Yes, they lost, but it was just one game -- granted, the Olympic competition -- but this hardly is reason for all the dissing. They're still a killer team. And so is Canada. Can't we celebrate both of them? Well, this guy can't -- read this -- seems someone always has to get fixated on some whining-angle. After you've finished reading, The Band encourages you to amuse yourselves by writing to the columnist and advising him to get down off his soapbobsleigh. In the best spirit of the games, of course.
One of The Band's standing dreams is to someday actually attend the games. Until then, though, we've been enjoying the Olympics courtesy of NBC. If you are too, then you've stumbled upon yet another passive means of watching way too much TV, and should check out Bernard McGrane's article, "The Zen TV Experiment" -- very interesting.
RTI -- Remember those?
[ Short for "real-time interruption" -- Ed.]
Separately, we're waiting RT for our seester to have her first baby. Niece? Or nephew??.......
2.20.2002
2.14.2002
Your Humble Chronicler was outside looking at the heavens. A pretty clear night here, and with the temp at about 36F, and almost no wind, it was a good night for looking. I know nothing about constellations -- I look, and I end up seeing things like question marks and patterns. Always interesting, though. Anyway, it reminded me of a dream I had last night.
The Dream: I'm hanging out, over at some friend's place. I'm with Ms. Fiance Muse, and two of our closest friends. We're hanging out on a balcony back porch, way high up on what appears to be some kind of small mountain. Anyway, we're hanging on this porch, and I'm experiencing a little bit of vertigo, because we're so high up, and the porch balcony isn't that big, and it's just got a wooden railing, so I'm kind of sitting with my back against the wall of the apartment building, kind of "hugging on." I get up to go to the bathroom, and Ms. Muse follows me. She would like to go, but is afraid to say anything, for some reason, and I say something like, don't be silly -- if you're ready to go, you can just say something -- I'm ok staying, but we dont have to. So we go back out on the porch, sit down again, and I just have an uneasy feeling. Then, before you know it, the whole balcony starts to kind of detach from the wall, but we're still somehow supported by some structural beams beneath us. We're firghtened, but we hang on as the balcony kind of twists and pitches forward and to the right, and basically does a slowly accelerated crash to the ground. Everyone is kind of dumped on the ground, but we aren't hurt, just shaken by the fall. I land on my feet, I think. Our biggest concern is one of our friends, who in the dream is pregnant. We're worried that something might be wrong with the baby. Nothing is resolved, and I wake up not freaked out, but in a cold sweat.
The interpretation: Well, I tried a corny online thing, but it just didn't cut it. Here's what I'm thinking. The balcony setting possibly represents recent positive accomplishments -- a sense of being on top of things. The anxiety is perhaps a fear of losing what we've achieved, which has happened to me before. The fall represents the nature of the fear -- falling from a place of status. Being with good friends may be a reminder of the good people in my life, who will stick by me regardless of what's going on. Surviving the balcony's crash may represent a sense that everything will work out in the end, whatever happens. My sister's pregnant, and was due today, actually, so the pregnant friend may represent my sister.
That's the best I can come up with. Nothing earth-shattering here, but I so rarely remember anything I dream about, and -- when I do -- generally it completely evaporates from memory unless I immediately write it down, unlike this one.
The Dream: I'm hanging out, over at some friend's place. I'm with Ms. Fiance Muse, and two of our closest friends. We're hanging out on a balcony back porch, way high up on what appears to be some kind of small mountain. Anyway, we're hanging on this porch, and I'm experiencing a little bit of vertigo, because we're so high up, and the porch balcony isn't that big, and it's just got a wooden railing, so I'm kind of sitting with my back against the wall of the apartment building, kind of "hugging on." I get up to go to the bathroom, and Ms. Muse follows me. She would like to go, but is afraid to say anything, for some reason, and I say something like, don't be silly -- if you're ready to go, you can just say something -- I'm ok staying, but we dont have to. So we go back out on the porch, sit down again, and I just have an uneasy feeling. Then, before you know it, the whole balcony starts to kind of detach from the wall, but we're still somehow supported by some structural beams beneath us. We're firghtened, but we hang on as the balcony kind of twists and pitches forward and to the right, and basically does a slowly accelerated crash to the ground. Everyone is kind of dumped on the ground, but we aren't hurt, just shaken by the fall. I land on my feet, I think. Our biggest concern is one of our friends, who in the dream is pregnant. We're worried that something might be wrong with the baby. Nothing is resolved, and I wake up not freaked out, but in a cold sweat.
The interpretation: Well, I tried a corny online thing, but it just didn't cut it. Here's what I'm thinking. The balcony setting possibly represents recent positive accomplishments -- a sense of being on top of things. The anxiety is perhaps a fear of losing what we've achieved, which has happened to me before. The fall represents the nature of the fear -- falling from a place of status. Being with good friends may be a reminder of the good people in my life, who will stick by me regardless of what's going on. Surviving the balcony's crash may represent a sense that everything will work out in the end, whatever happens. My sister's pregnant, and was due today, actually, so the pregnant friend may represent my sister.
That's the best I can come up with. Nothing earth-shattering here, but I so rarely remember anything I dream about, and -- when I do -- generally it completely evaporates from memory unless I immediately write it down, unlike this one.
R.I.P. Punk
If not deceased, then certainly the state of punk's health is at least questionable, as evidenced by the behavior of one young wannabe, who was acting out at a local Burger King:
"Fuck you, Burger King -- I hate you! You only put two onion rings on my fucking Rodeo Cheeseburger, not three! You fucking suck! You suck at cooking, you shit -- I'll fucking kill you!"
Your Humble Chronicler, mind you, was already eyeing a nice chair with which to whack our noxious child on his noisy noggin in the event of an escalation of tensions. But he simply stormed out after concluding his tirade. Most customers were merely amused.
While that incident isn't likely to make into USA Today, these did -- tales of Olympic zaniness.
If not deceased, then certainly the state of punk's health is at least questionable, as evidenced by the behavior of one young wannabe, who was acting out at a local Burger King:
"Fuck you, Burger King -- I hate you! You only put two onion rings on my fucking Rodeo Cheeseburger, not three! You fucking suck! You suck at cooking, you shit -- I'll fucking kill you!"
Your Humble Chronicler, mind you, was already eyeing a nice chair with which to whack our noxious child on his noisy noggin in the event of an escalation of tensions. But he simply stormed out after concluding his tirade. Most customers were merely amused.
While that incident isn't likely to make into USA Today, these did -- tales of Olympic zaniness.
Happy V-Day
So, um, happy valentine's day. Ok? There -- I observe it, and I don't understand it. I have learned that -- in the ever-complex dance of love, if you're a guy in a relationship (or, if I recall, even not in a relationship -- like, anything counts........though in writing this I know that I am welcoming criticism for my male version of what a relationship is, but let's not get into that semantic worm can, shall we.......) then you best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers -- or you're just plain shit out of luck, dude. Trust me on this one. Oh, I can hear you now: "Oh, it's cool -- we talked about it, and decided that we wouldn't do anything big -- just have dinner or something."
Yah. Sure you did. Or, rather, sure -- you talked about it, and you both said some words, but -- trust me -- it was just sound on the other end there, pal. Sounded like agreement, sounded cool, sounded reasonable -- but keep your head -- it was just a pretty melody. Just sound.
In other words, you best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
Oh, you laugh. Oh, you say, "Nah, thanks for the advice man, but, really -- it's cool."
Silly fool. You best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
Yes, it's senseless, though maybe not totally meaningless. Yes it's a Hallmark holiday. Yes it's all about the sentiment ushers making a buck. Yes, you and your sweetie talked about it and agreed........yada, yada, yada.
You best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
If you still don't get it, help is available. For nine months, and $2,300, you can enroll in Véronique J. Corniola's l'Ecole Française de Séduction, France's first school of seduction. Founder Corniola comments that modern professional women have lost their femininity, which undermines the masculinity of the contemporary male. "Here in France it is what we call castration," she says. "What do you call it in English?...I imported my husband [from Italy]," she says. "He's a real man; it was impossible to find one in France." Coming soon to the California state network. (Corniola also offers a 3-month "speed seduction course" for $1,000 -- but one has to wonder if graduates of the longer standard course have lengthier, more nerve-shaking orgasms...)
In memoriam
Waylon Jennings
So, um, happy valentine's day. Ok? There -- I observe it, and I don't understand it. I have learned that -- in the ever-complex dance of love, if you're a guy in a relationship (or, if I recall, even not in a relationship -- like, anything counts........though in writing this I know that I am welcoming criticism for my male version of what a relationship is, but let's not get into that semantic worm can, shall we.......) then you best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers -- or you're just plain shit out of luck, dude. Trust me on this one. Oh, I can hear you now: "Oh, it's cool -- we talked about it, and decided that we wouldn't do anything big -- just have dinner or something."
Yah. Sure you did. Or, rather, sure -- you talked about it, and you both said some words, but -- trust me -- it was just sound on the other end there, pal. Sounded like agreement, sounded cool, sounded reasonable -- but keep your head -- it was just a pretty melody. Just sound.
In other words, you best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
Oh, you laugh. Oh, you say, "Nah, thanks for the advice man, but, really -- it's cool."
Silly fool. You best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
Yes, it's senseless, though maybe not totally meaningless. Yes it's a Hallmark holiday. Yes it's all about the sentiment ushers making a buck. Yes, you and your sweetie talked about it and agreed........yada, yada, yada.
You best buy your lover/spouse/honey/sweetie/gf/baby/friend/pookie flowers.
If you still don't get it, help is available. For nine months, and $2,300, you can enroll in Véronique J. Corniola's l'Ecole Française de Séduction, France's first school of seduction. Founder Corniola comments that modern professional women have lost their femininity, which undermines the masculinity of the contemporary male. "Here in France it is what we call castration," she says. "What do you call it in English?...I imported my husband [from Italy]," she says. "He's a real man; it was impossible to find one in France." Coming soon to the California state network. (Corniola also offers a 3-month "speed seduction course" for $1,000 -- but one has to wonder if graduates of the longer standard course have lengthier, more nerve-shaking orgasms...)
In memoriam
Waylon Jennings
2.13.2002
From the Department of Stalled Evolution
This kind of Draconian carp (well, I meant "crap," but I kinda like the sound of carp) does not make The Band proud of our fair state.
From correspondence with cdoa:
This: "what are we all really doing? i mean it. how are we allowing this shmuck to represent, rule, run, operate, drive, lead (?) this country? ...."
"We" would be the operative term, here, imo. I've had this debate with myself and with others -- have found that, with others, there tend to be three "camps" the ever-maddening group of people who (think they) have strong, passionate "beliefs" -- call it patriotism, call it jingo-ism, call it "my-country/religion/faith/opinion-right-or-wrong" -- I use the apostrophes around the word "belief" there because this type of blind acceptance doesn't reach the bar of what I would consider belief -- a sound opinion, based on some factual foundation. It's like the creationists believing that evolution shouldn't be taught because it conflicts with their meta-programming and, as the woman on the NPR "Religion and the Public Schools" profile said, "It's the Bible, and the Bible is God's word," followed by the nervous laughter of the speaker -- it's almost as if they know they're nuts. I swear. Change the term to "intelligent design" -- yeah, that'll make the rationalists/scientists happy......~sheesh~......Anyway, that's Camp #1, they're hopeless, imo -- the same group of people who object to posting "The Vagina Monologues" on a marquis........makes me want to drop everything and write "The Penis Prophecies" right now, just to see if anyone would object to that. Also the same group who felt that Clinton should have been impeached, based on his horn-dog issues. Whatever. Camp #2 consists of people who couldn't give a shit, one way or another, but who mask their apathy as easy-going -- the "it-doesn't-affect-my-life" crowd -- same people who haven't or are incapable of realizing that 9/11 wasn't just some tragedy in NYC, but has affected our whole nation. You, my dear, I would guess are a member of Camp #3 (maybe not, but you are decidedly *not* a member of camps 1 or 2) -- the true patriots, the real Americans who, imo, descended from the founding fathers -- us folks who truly do love our country, and who take it -- dare I say it? -- *personally* when our leaders and policies are an embarrassment to reason, fairness, justice. Strikes me as brutally ironic that those of us who really give a damn are the minority, living somewhat marginalized lives, alienated by the outdated and often draconic traditions of our culture. The so-called war on drugs. Equal rights for women, minorities, fathers, the handicapped, the mentally ill. We'll tolerate sick, evil, unproductive, polarized thinking in the form of survivalist groups, religious fanatics, right-wing fundamentalists, homophobes, bigots, anti-Semites -- all in the name of free speech. But we'll let our own unfortunate souls -- not to mention those less fortunate around the world -- to starve and freeze to death in broad daylight
It's the dark, dark downside of capitalism, I'm afraid. It works, though the traditional American dream died somewhere in the early '80's, I think. It works, but it has no place for the unfortunate, for those with limited opportunities, for anyone not cozy with lobbyists or big business. I've read lately that obesity is starting to (or already has -- I can't remember) overtaken tobacco as the leading cause of death in America. How stupid is that? Two things you can directly control -- both appetites, basically -- and we continue to let ourselves be victimized. You can be arrested for growing or possessing a couple plants, but you can buy cigarettes everywhere, and can likewise purchase and consume enough alcohol to kill yourself in one sitting. Like we pretty much *know* that cigs cause all kinds of health problems, up to and including eventual death, and that -- the further you move away from any natural, organic edible, the worse it is for you. But -- hey -- the game's on, so load up on salted snacks, processed meats and piss-water that some people like to call beer. Welcome to America.
There is some, not much at all, but some small consolation in knowing that utopias don't work, either. Nor do Communism, Socialism or anarchy, it seems.
I, for one, would rather have a salad.
This kind of Draconian carp (well, I meant "crap," but I kinda like the sound of carp) does not make The Band proud of our fair state.
From correspondence with cdoa:
This: "what are we all really doing? i mean it. how are we allowing this shmuck to represent, rule, run, operate, drive, lead (?) this country? ...."
"We" would be the operative term, here, imo. I've had this debate with myself and with others -- have found that, with others, there tend to be three "camps" the ever-maddening group of people who (think they) have strong, passionate "beliefs" -- call it patriotism, call it jingo-ism, call it "my-country/religion/faith/opinion-right-or-wrong" -- I use the apostrophes around the word "belief" there because this type of blind acceptance doesn't reach the bar of what I would consider belief -- a sound opinion, based on some factual foundation. It's like the creationists believing that evolution shouldn't be taught because it conflicts with their meta-programming and, as the woman on the NPR "Religion and the Public Schools" profile said, "It's the Bible, and the Bible is God's word," followed by the nervous laughter of the speaker -- it's almost as if they know they're nuts. I swear. Change the term to "intelligent design" -- yeah, that'll make the rationalists/scientists happy......~sheesh~......Anyway, that's Camp #1, they're hopeless, imo -- the same group of people who object to posting "The Vagina Monologues" on a marquis........makes me want to drop everything and write "The Penis Prophecies" right now, just to see if anyone would object to that. Also the same group who felt that Clinton should have been impeached, based on his horn-dog issues. Whatever. Camp #2 consists of people who couldn't give a shit, one way or another, but who mask their apathy as easy-going -- the "it-doesn't-affect-my-life" crowd -- same people who haven't or are incapable of realizing that 9/11 wasn't just some tragedy in NYC, but has affected our whole nation. You, my dear, I would guess are a member of Camp #3 (maybe not, but you are decidedly *not* a member of camps 1 or 2) -- the true patriots, the real Americans who, imo, descended from the founding fathers -- us folks who truly do love our country, and who take it -- dare I say it? -- *personally* when our leaders and policies are an embarrassment to reason, fairness, justice. Strikes me as brutally ironic that those of us who really give a damn are the minority, living somewhat marginalized lives, alienated by the outdated and often draconic traditions of our culture. The so-called war on drugs. Equal rights for women, minorities, fathers, the handicapped, the mentally ill. We'll tolerate sick, evil, unproductive, polarized thinking in the form of survivalist groups, religious fanatics, right-wing fundamentalists, homophobes, bigots, anti-Semites -- all in the name of free speech. But we'll let our own unfortunate souls -- not to mention those less fortunate around the world -- to starve and freeze to death in broad daylight
It's the dark, dark downside of capitalism, I'm afraid. It works, though the traditional American dream died somewhere in the early '80's, I think. It works, but it has no place for the unfortunate, for those with limited opportunities, for anyone not cozy with lobbyists or big business. I've read lately that obesity is starting to (or already has -- I can't remember) overtaken tobacco as the leading cause of death in America. How stupid is that? Two things you can directly control -- both appetites, basically -- and we continue to let ourselves be victimized. You can be arrested for growing or possessing a couple plants, but you can buy cigarettes everywhere, and can likewise purchase and consume enough alcohol to kill yourself in one sitting. Like we pretty much *know* that cigs cause all kinds of health problems, up to and including eventual death, and that -- the further you move away from any natural, organic edible, the worse it is for you. But -- hey -- the game's on, so load up on salted snacks, processed meats and piss-water that some people like to call beer. Welcome to America.
There is some, not much at all, but some small consolation in knowing that utopias don't work, either. Nor do Communism, Socialism or anarchy, it seems.
I, for one, would rather have a salad.
Thoughts on Olympia
Ahhh, youth, man. Elvis Stojko of Canada putting in his bid on the Olympic gold in men's figure skating as I write. And he's almost 30. Before him, American Todd Eldredge was on, and he is 30. Kind of nice to see the older athletes still kickin' it in.
When I first began watching the Olympics, I was a kid -- I can't even remember how old I was at the time. Another thing my dad gave me -- a love for the Olympics. The guy appreciated a thing done well, done right. The Olympics were one of them. Shoveling snow was another, but that's another story. (It's something odd that the writer notices, how once you use the word another, you seem to automatically follow with another phrase using another.)
So, I'm watching -- let's see -- these would be my eleventh Olympics -- though the farthest back that I can remember is Dorothy Hamill, in 1976. (The writer also here confesses that he has yet to determine the difference, if any, between furthest and farthest, though he knows that further and farther are clearly different, that further carries with it a connotation of more, greater, in addition to, while the latter condones primarily distance, a sense of space, though it too lends itself to metaphorical purpose.) And I remember Nadia Comaneci, the then 14-yr-old Romanian gymnast who landed the first perfect "10" on the parallel bars and won two gold medals in Montreal, Quebec, in the '76 Summer games. (Dorothy, a winter gamer, of course, was in Innsbruck, Austria -- had to look that up.) So, in the midst of these swirling remembrances, there's an ad for something -- I don't know what the product is -- but the theme is some young guy in a boutique trying on a really ugly sweater, some lumpy wool thing, looked hand-knitted, but badly, and of a pinkish hue speckled with darker, perhaps orange yarn, and all these dark European-style lovelies keep complimenting him on how nice the sweater looks on him, and he's real skeptical about it, because he knows it's as ugly as sin, he keeps grimacing in the mirror as the compliments flow at him like gentle kisses, and he eventually caves. He later wears the sweater out to a club, and there's a scene where his mates are at a table, hanging out, joking, ribbing each other, drinking (prolly not smoking on tv, but my brain took me back to the days when I'd meet groups of male comrades, and we'd have some pretty silly times, plain old simple drunken camraderie) -- they see their bud in his new sweater, and immediately burst into insulting laughter. Yeah......chicks'll never understand this kind of thing........
[ Go here, just because I like this blog. And this one. ]
Ahhh, youth, man. Elvis Stojko of Canada putting in his bid on the Olympic gold in men's figure skating as I write. And he's almost 30. Before him, American Todd Eldredge was on, and he is 30. Kind of nice to see the older athletes still kickin' it in.
When I first began watching the Olympics, I was a kid -- I can't even remember how old I was at the time. Another thing my dad gave me -- a love for the Olympics. The guy appreciated a thing done well, done right. The Olympics were one of them. Shoveling snow was another, but that's another story. (It's something odd that the writer notices, how once you use the word another, you seem to automatically follow with another phrase using another.)
So, I'm watching -- let's see -- these would be my eleventh Olympics -- though the farthest back that I can remember is Dorothy Hamill, in 1976. (The writer also here confesses that he has yet to determine the difference, if any, between furthest and farthest, though he knows that further and farther are clearly different, that further carries with it a connotation of more, greater, in addition to, while the latter condones primarily distance, a sense of space, though it too lends itself to metaphorical purpose.) And I remember Nadia Comaneci, the then 14-yr-old Romanian gymnast who landed the first perfect "10" on the parallel bars and won two gold medals in Montreal, Quebec, in the '76 Summer games. (Dorothy, a winter gamer, of course, was in Innsbruck, Austria -- had to look that up.) So, in the midst of these swirling remembrances, there's an ad for something -- I don't know what the product is -- but the theme is some young guy in a boutique trying on a really ugly sweater, some lumpy wool thing, looked hand-knitted, but badly, and of a pinkish hue speckled with darker, perhaps orange yarn, and all these dark European-style lovelies keep complimenting him on how nice the sweater looks on him, and he's real skeptical about it, because he knows it's as ugly as sin, he keeps grimacing in the mirror as the compliments flow at him like gentle kisses, and he eventually caves. He later wears the sweater out to a club, and there's a scene where his mates are at a table, hanging out, joking, ribbing each other, drinking (prolly not smoking on tv, but my brain took me back to the days when I'd meet groups of male comrades, and we'd have some pretty silly times, plain old simple drunken camraderie) -- they see their bud in his new sweater, and immediately burst into insulting laughter. Yeah......chicks'll never understand this kind of thing........
[ Go here, just because I like this blog. And this one. ]
2.07.2002
2.04.2002
Another Good Reason to Decriminalize Controlled Substances
Only NPR could get away with the following lead-in for an on-air story: "Americans consumed an estimated 26 million avocados on Super Bowl Sunday, mostly in the form of guacamole, according to The California Avocado Commission (CAC)." That's 13.2 million pounds of the rich, creamy, green fruit. More from the source:
Global Neural Evolution
Reminder to self: Discuss The Secret Life of the Brain as metaphor for the Earth's evolution of an external neural network (internet) as a means of building in connectivity of inhabitants of the planet.
Also -- it seems that Stalin (yes, the old evil dead bastard) has a hand to play in the whole Mid-Eastern mess, as the borders that he established after 1927 criss-cross the Fergana Valley as it winds through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan -- Stalin's goal was to fragment the region (central Asia) as much as possible, further complicating the possibility of establishing any semblance of logical geographic gov't to take place, according to author of Taliban and Jihad, Ahmed Rashid, who was interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air (with host Terry Gross). "Difficult, impractical, debilitating," he says of the borders. What a tangled web is history.
Another dumb online survey: Which drink are you?
Scary conspiracy stuff: From The Wilderness Publications
Interesting cynical thoughts blog: the angry librarian
Only NPR could get away with the following lead-in for an on-air story: "Americans consumed an estimated 26 million avocados on Super Bowl Sunday, mostly in the form of guacamole, according to The California Avocado Commission (CAC)." That's 13.2 million pounds of the rich, creamy, green fruit. More from the source:
- "The avocado tree is related to the laurel and is the fruit of the genus Persea....a bright green tree that grows from Mexico, south to Colombia and Peru, and north to Florida and California. The three strains of avocados that now exist...Mexican, West Indian and Guatemalan...were first catalogued in 1653 by a Spanish padre named Bernabe Cobo. These strains included hundreds of avocado varieties which come in sundry shapes...round, pyriform (pear-shaped), crooknecked (like a squash); skin colors...green, purple, maroon, and jet black; and skin textures...smooth to pebbly.
This fruit of the New World has been known by many names. In Chile, Peru, and Ecuador it is called Palta, the name given to it by the Incas. In West Africa, it is called custard apple. In Spain it is known as abogado; in France, avocat. The latter two names, both of which mean lawyer, and the English word avocado have probably all derived from attempts to speak phonetically the Aztec name ahuacatl."
Global Neural Evolution
Reminder to self: Discuss The Secret Life of the Brain as metaphor for the Earth's evolution of an external neural network (internet) as a means of building in connectivity of inhabitants of the planet.
Also -- it seems that Stalin (yes, the old evil dead bastard) has a hand to play in the whole Mid-Eastern mess, as the borders that he established after 1927 criss-cross the Fergana Valley as it winds through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan -- Stalin's goal was to fragment the region (central Asia) as much as possible, further complicating the possibility of establishing any semblance of logical geographic gov't to take place, according to author of Taliban and Jihad, Ahmed Rashid, who was interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air (with host Terry Gross). "Difficult, impractical, debilitating," he says of the borders. What a tangled web is history.
Another dumb online survey: Which drink are you?
Scary conspiracy stuff: From The Wilderness Publications
Interesting cynical thoughts blog: the angry librarian
1.29.2002
Boring
Dropped off the dry cleaning on my way in this morning, and sat at a light behind a light pick-up whose back window featured the following stickers:
Vote Bush / Cheney
NRA
All things are possible under God
Bring the Integrity Back to the Whitehouse
Oi vay. I s'pose PBS's 5-part series on The Secret Life of the Brain will get pre-empted by the state of the union address.
Like, is anyone else out there surprised that we haven't yet seen a new piece on how the former Clinton administration would have handled this whole terrorism situation? Or how Al Gore would have handled it, had he been elected?
Odd
The Band just learned that Your Humble Chronicler is worth "exactly $2,115,470.00." Yes, it really says "exactly," and, no -- we don't have any idea how they calculated that.
Update
Just sent Ev. the $35 annual fee for Blogger Pro. The Band figures it's worth it, even if it takes us awhile to make widescale improvements around here. Besides, this here Bitchin' Hats site is pushing two years -- same blog-channel, same blog-place -- and we'd hate to lose it. (How long have you been blogging??...)
Plus we're just darned fond of Blogger. And it'll match our t-shirt.
Dropped off the dry cleaning on my way in this morning, and sat at a light behind a light pick-up whose back window featured the following stickers:
Oi vay. I s'pose PBS's 5-part series on The Secret Life of the Brain will get pre-empted by the state of the union address.
Like, is anyone else out there surprised that we haven't yet seen a new piece on how the former Clinton administration would have handled this whole terrorism situation? Or how Al Gore would have handled it, had he been elected?
Odd
The Band just learned that Your Humble Chronicler is worth "exactly $2,115,470.00." Yes, it really says "exactly," and, no -- we don't have any idea how they calculated that.
Update
Just sent Ev. the $35 annual fee for Blogger Pro. The Band figures it's worth it, even if it takes us awhile to make widescale improvements around here. Besides, this here Bitchin' Hats site is pushing two years -- same blog-channel, same blog-place -- and we'd hate to lose it. (How long have you been blogging??...)
Plus we're just darned fond of Blogger. And it'll match our t-shirt.
1.25.2002
Isn't it Enronic?
Ooh. Accountants at Arthur Andersen doing creative accounting. What a concept.
Speaking of concepts -- sad to see the Catholic Church in the news in such a shitty light. Can't say that we're suprised. Now, lest all you faithful followers out there get yer p(R)anti(l)es in a wad, know that The Band is a product of twelve full years of Catholic schooling. Wasn't until Your Humble Chronicler began to study the roots of Catholicism and theology as an undergrad at Case Western Reserve University that we learned that we had, in the lingo of the Church, "fallen fully and wholly away from the Catholic and Apostolic faith." (Thinking back -- aside from some personal opinions that birth control simply makes sense and that homosexual relationships aren't "unnatural" -- we recall that the specific criterion for our personal fall from grace was our skepticism over such miracles as The Ascension and The Assumption; to be a Catholic, according to Church doctrine, you must accept wholly a belief in these and other miracles. We know it wasn't about premarital sex, because -- with the exception of many hours of lip-locking and some well-intentioned heavy petting, we lost our cherry way later than we like to admit -- likely a result, in part, of the aforementioned twelve years of programming. Not that we're bitter; in fact, we like to think that the years of deprivation of the Sweeter Fruits engendered a strong sensual imagination. Though we must confess that we still harbor a few hazy memories of some long-lost (then) young hotties who, if we knew then what we know now..... - Ed.) Anyway -- we share this because we believe that the only legitimate critics are those individuals with first-hand experience. So, we speak here as former Catholics, and not as is so often the case as non/never-been-Catholics who have a marked lack of understanding about the history and traditions of Catholicism.
That being said, we're fairly certain that the recent media attention to the latest example of a priest being evil will not help matters. However, the Church has a long-standing tradition and firmly established practice of not helping itself. To cite a few examples:
The Catholic faith teaches that priests are shepherds of the flock, and encourages the faithful to turn to the individual priests assigned to their parishes as spiritual guides and sources of wise advice. We've never understood how followers could, with any sense of confidence, could turn to their priests for marital or relationship advice, when one of the criteria for priesthood is celibacy, which pretty much takes these guys out of the experience loop, as far as the Mysterious Dance of Love Between Mortals goes. In other words, when you're planning a wilderness adventure, you don't turn to an inveterate city dweller for survival tips.
The Band recommends: Priests should be permitted to have personal relationships, including getting married and having families. Most other faiths have already come to terms with and accepted this as a good idea for their spiritual leaders. Rabbis have wives and families and kids -- and even businesses. In a world where so much unhappiness stems from misunderstandings over love or money, believers should be able to turn to leaders who can speak from experience. Furthermore, in light of the sexual dysfunction so rampant within the ranks of the Church, permitting priests to have normal intimate relationships could go a long way towards reducing the Draconian repression of nature.
For quite a number of years -- decades, even -- the Church has faced a personnel crisis. There aren't enough priests available to serve the willing faithful. Yet, as an organization, it continues to limit its prospects for recovery, let alone growth, by eliminating half of its applicant pool -- say it with us, folks -- women -- from the mix. When women are permitted to participate, it is in the roles of nuns and sisters -- roles which are subservient to priests. Perhaps not so much by design as by tradition, women who take the vow are permitted to participate in the ritual of The Mass, but they are restricted from being able to administer the seven holy Sacraments. This flies in the face of what Mary Magdalene was all about, let alone others who come to mind -- Edith Stein, Hildegarde of Bingen and Joan of Arc, not to mention Mother Theresa.
The Band recommends: Open the priesthood ranks to women.
With the exception pehaps of the Jesuit order (members of which are required to study for, like, 16 years before earning their license), the Church is rife with priests/leaders who themselves seem to either not understand theology or to be so frightened and intimidated by the complementary concepts of personal freedom and individual responsibility that they routinely mislead their parishioners/followers. Misinformation about Catholicism is rampant among practicing Catholics. It's no wonder that non-Catholics so often have warped views of Catholics -- at least they have a viable excuse for their misunderstanding. Couple of examples:
And study, damn it.
Ooh. Accountants at Arthur Andersen doing creative accounting. What a concept.
Speaking of concepts -- sad to see the Catholic Church in the news in such a shitty light. Can't say that we're suprised. Now, lest all you faithful followers out there get yer p(R)anti(l)es in a wad, know that The Band is a product of twelve full years of Catholic schooling. Wasn't until Your Humble Chronicler began to study the roots of Catholicism and theology as an undergrad at Case Western Reserve University that we learned that we had, in the lingo of the Church, "fallen fully and wholly away from the Catholic and Apostolic faith." (Thinking back -- aside from some personal opinions that birth control simply makes sense and that homosexual relationships aren't "unnatural" -- we recall that the specific criterion for our personal fall from grace was our skepticism over such miracles as The Ascension and The Assumption; to be a Catholic, according to Church doctrine, you must accept wholly a belief in these and other miracles. We know it wasn't about premarital sex, because -- with the exception of many hours of lip-locking and some well-intentioned heavy petting, we lost our cherry way later than we like to admit -- likely a result, in part, of the aforementioned twelve years of programming. Not that we're bitter; in fact, we like to think that the years of deprivation of the Sweeter Fruits engendered a strong sensual imagination. Though we must confess that we still harbor a few hazy memories of some long-lost (then) young hotties who, if we knew then what we know now..... - Ed.) Anyway -- we share this because we believe that the only legitimate critics are those individuals with first-hand experience. So, we speak here as former Catholics, and not as is so often the case as non/never-been-Catholics who have a marked lack of understanding about the history and traditions of Catholicism.
That being said, we're fairly certain that the recent media attention to the latest example of a priest being evil will not help matters. However, the Church has a long-standing tradition and firmly established practice of not helping itself. To cite a few examples:
The Band recommends: Priests should be permitted to have personal relationships, including getting married and having families. Most other faiths have already come to terms with and accepted this as a good idea for their spiritual leaders. Rabbis have wives and families and kids -- and even businesses. In a world where so much unhappiness stems from misunderstandings over love or money, believers should be able to turn to leaders who can speak from experience. Furthermore, in light of the sexual dysfunction so rampant within the ranks of the Church, permitting priests to have normal intimate relationships could go a long way towards reducing the Draconian repression of nature.
The Band recommends: Open the priesthood ranks to women.
- Traditional Catholics widely believe in what's technically called papal infallibility, which is a belief that the Pope is never wrong, because whatever Il Papa says is Divinely Inspired. Since the established Rules of Engagement between God(s) and (hu)Man(s) dictate that the gods are always right ("As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods,/They kill us for their sport" - King Lear), then, whatever the Pope says cannot be wrong. This is inaccurate. Church doctrine states that, as the leader of the Church, the official Head Shepherd, the Pope has an obligation to his flock to provide sound and humane guidance. When an issue is so complex (abortion, euthanasia, peace on Earth) that it can't be left to priests, pastors, bishops or cardinals to decide, and if within the Church itself there exist so many dissenting opinions that the Pope's involvement is required, then the protocol is that the final ruling will lie with the Pope. It is important here to note that the Catholic Church, in such matters, very closely follows a "rule of law" model. In other words, it takes the long view, and tries to stay true to its mission. For instance, the Church's stance on birth control flows from a belief that only God has the power to determine when a human soul comes into existence, and when that soul takes the long flight home. It truly believes that, if it were to give responsible birth control the green light, then it isn't inconceivable that, way down the line, it'll be held to that same standard on other issues: If we say it's ok for wo/men to decide when a new life is conceived, then we wrest that power from God, and, once we do that, it's all downhill from there. When the Pope makes such a decision, he will issue what is called a papal encyclical, which is basically an official communication from the Vatican in Rome, HQ of the Holy See. These encyclicals (of which there are many, and some of them are quite good -- John XXIII's Pacem in Terris comes to mind) take the form of a holy press release, kind of, but with more weight......more like a real serious corporate memo. Anyway -- papal infallibilty simply means, according to Church doctrine, that -- when the Pope issues an opinion -- it's probably a pretty good and thoughtful opinion. It means that he has consulted with experts and spiritual leaders, and has devoted a great deal of his time and energy to private, quiet, solemn contemplation of the issue, and, at the time that he releases his decision to the public, it is his best effort. In other words, he might not be 100% right, but he's fairly certain that his opinion won't be totally bogus.
- Another huge misconception -- again widely adhered to by a large percentage of the sheep who make it a regular practice to check in at the main barn every Sunday and on designated Holy Days -- is that the Church has rules and, if you don't follow them, then as a Catholic you suck, and as a human you're prolly gonna land yourself in Hell. This again is an inaccurate representation of the Church's views on a major concept. There is within the Catholic faith a basic Christian tenet that "Man is free until it is determined that he is bound." (This may come straight from the writings of Thomas Aquinas, but I'm not certain. Could be Heidegger. Maybe Kierkegaard. - Ed.) What this means, in a nutshell, is that humans are free to live their lives in whatever way they choose, as long as they do not cause harm or hurt to other humans. If you can't do this, says the Church, then we have some rules that you can follow and, if you adhere to them, you'll probably live a decent life. If, however, you're comfortable troubleshooting your own attempt at existence and you have a solid, humane and forgiving belief system which serves as your personal worldview and to which you adhere as a core philosophy which influences and instructs all of your life choices -- again, with the understanding that none of your choices will harm yourself or anyone else -- then you're perfectly free to do it your way, Mr. Sinatra. But, if you can't, we'll provide a handbook that will keep you out of trouble.
And study, damn it.
1.23.2002
A Flickering Blue Light
In light of the disarray over at Kmart, The Band here hazards a guess that Martha Stewart's dance card may be starting to fill up, perhaps with the likes of Target or Wal-Mart, who no doubt would love to sink their icy retail claws into her prodigious Connecticut spice garden. Or dip their huckster wicks into her bountiful cornucopia of accessorized domesticity. Or drink deeply from her lushly appointed cup of abundance, perhaps? Something like that. Suffice it to say that there's some salivation going on in the La-La Land of Product Licensing. (Here in Band-land, we must confess that we've never quite been able to connect the metaphorical "discount superstore" and "designer-label" dots. Still seems a bit of a stretch to us. And we could've sworn that Target had already reserved a seat on Martha's taffeta-draped seasonal bandwagon of comfort.)
At present, the Domestic Dominatrix and Diva -- here described by Barbara Lippert as "the Ralph Lauren of home entertaining" (this article also includes some amusing thoughts on the Martha Stewart-Katie Couric dynamic) -- has this to say: "We remain optimistic that Kmart, our long-time domestic mass-market merchandising retail partner, will ultimately emerge from this situation as a stronger, more competitive company in keeping with its proud heritage." (Go here for the official Martha paper.)
When you've had enough of that, check out some darker notions in home decor, reputedly inspired by Martha nonetheless.
It's a good thing.
In light of the disarray over at Kmart, The Band here hazards a guess that Martha Stewart's dance card may be starting to fill up, perhaps with the likes of Target or Wal-Mart, who no doubt would love to sink their icy retail claws into her prodigious Connecticut spice garden. Or dip their huckster wicks into her bountiful cornucopia of accessorized domesticity. Or drink deeply from her lushly appointed cup of abundance, perhaps? Something like that. Suffice it to say that there's some salivation going on in the La-La Land of Product Licensing. (Here in Band-land, we must confess that we've never quite been able to connect the metaphorical "discount superstore" and "designer-label" dots. Still seems a bit of a stretch to us. And we could've sworn that Target had already reserved a seat on Martha's taffeta-draped seasonal bandwagon of comfort.)
At present, the Domestic Dominatrix and Diva -- here described by Barbara Lippert as "the Ralph Lauren of home entertaining" (this article also includes some amusing thoughts on the Martha Stewart-Katie Couric dynamic) -- has this to say: "We remain optimistic that Kmart, our long-time domestic mass-market merchandising retail partner, will ultimately emerge from this situation as a stronger, more competitive company in keeping with its proud heritage." (Go here for the official Martha paper.)
When you've had enough of that, check out some darker notions in home decor, reputedly inspired by Martha nonetheless.
It's a good thing.
1.22.2002
Yet One More Reason
To despise the practices of the Taliban. Seems that oppressing people and blowing up religio-cultural icons just wasn't enough for the barbarians.
To despise the practices of the Taliban. Seems that oppressing people and blowing up religio-cultural icons just wasn't enough for the barbarians.
Better Outlook
So, the only sighting during the drive in this morning was what appeared to be a discarded bathmat, or something.
Metaprogramming Tends to be Subtle
Noticed that "Ramada Inn" is not far off from "Ramadan." Also that just there's just a one letter difference between fiance and finance.
So, the only sighting during the drive in this morning was what appeared to be a discarded bathmat, or something.
Metaprogramming Tends to be Subtle
Noticed that "Ramada Inn" is not far off from "Ramadan." Also that just there's just a one letter difference between fiance and finance.
1.17.2002
Peevishness in 2002
We report that our New Year's Resolution of many moons ago to not make New Year's Resolutions still stands.
Instead, The Band wishes to share its latest pet peeves:
Office politiks -- because they suck, in general and, more to the point, they illustrate daily -- if not minute by passing minute -- most and sometimes all of humanity's ugly insecurities. (BTW -- if you haven't lately, visit lola, who is a veritable fountain of introspection.)
People and groups who refer to new choices as additional burdens, instead of additional responsibilities.
TOP 40 RADIO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Non-news stories that are reported as if they are news (see: the weather on any given day)
Slow downloads
Winter
War
That no major phone company, to the best of our knowledge, has yet realized that if they would package a land line, long distance, a cell phone, CATV and DSL service together, for a reasonable price, like say $50/mo, everyone would buy it.
Outdated traditions, in all their forms.
People who get pets and then treat them as if they are stuffed animals, instead of living creatures.
When partners insist that when they begin to fade at day's end they simply can't turn in w/out you.
More as they occur to us.
We report that our New Year's Resolution of many moons ago to not make New Year's Resolutions still stands.
Instead, The Band wishes to share its latest pet peeves:
More as they occur to us.
1.15.2002
More from Kesey
Quoting John Madden: "There've been a lot more people hurt on astro-turf than grass."
Many like-spirited links to follow over at disinformation in this article on Entheobotany 2001.
Way too much roadkill on the way in this morning -- saw two racoons, a squirrel and a skunk. How hard is it to not run over creatures? I think, in my lifetime, I've hit one small bird -- and experienced two weeks of bad karmic results from it, including not getting a job I was interviewing for at the time. Be careful out there on the roads, people -- pay attention.
Quoting John Madden: "There've been a lot more people hurt on astro-turf than grass."
Many like-spirited links to follow over at disinformation in this article on Entheobotany 2001.
Way too much roadkill on the way in this morning -- saw two racoons, a squirrel and a skunk. How hard is it to not run over creatures? I think, in my lifetime, I've hit one small bird -- and experienced two weeks of bad karmic results from it, including not getting a job I was interviewing for at the time. Be careful out there on the roads, people -- pay attention.
1.14.2002
Does it come as any suprise...
...that perhaps the greatest threat to modern democracy takes the form of professional sports and junk food??
...that perhaps the greatest threat to modern democracy takes the form of professional sports and junk food??
1.10.2002
Realization
The following thought occurred to your Humble Chronicler this morning: Politics -- be they personal, professional or otherwise -- are borne out of an environment in which people with different opinions attempt to use facts or to bend and distort the truth in a competition to affect the acceptance of their preferred version of reality in order to establish, consolidate or broaden inflence or power. Your comments? -- use the message board.
And -- of course -- feel free to quote me.
Some Anthropomorphic Thoughts on the Fate of the Middle East
Given that "middle eastern peace" remains one of the top oxymorons of all time, is it perhaps possible that there's just no hope of peace ever in the region? History would seem to indicate this, as the region has existed in a perenial state of war as far back as I can remember. (Not to mention that it seems to be quite a breeding ground for particularly dangerous and twisted individuals.)
It's all very confusing, particularly (imo) in light of the fact that -- if you've delved at all into learning about other religions -- they all, or most of them at least, seem to boil down to the same thing. Chrisitianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism -- all seem to work, at root, under some similar basic assumptions -- a belief or sense that we (humans, earthlings, followers) are probably not alone "out here," a willingness to accept the concept/idea of a higher power or some form of energy that links us all together, and a general philosophy that, if you adhere to a way of life that embraces an acceptance of differences and respect and love for the planet and our fellow inhabitants thereof, you'll generally be ok.
I am routinely upbraided for oversimplifying, yes. But, really -- no world religions or faith of which I'm aware espouses killing people in anyone's name.
We'll argue that sometimes simplification is the answer.
So, for purposes of this discussion, suspend, if you will, your cynicism, atheism, agnosticism or any other such form of disbelief and assume that there may be a God, or many gods, and that the historical figure known as Jesus Christ was indeed the son of the God of the Jews and Catholics. If you were this God, and your son was executed, wouldn't you be infinitely, universally and cosmically heartbroken and pissed off? Even if it was your plan? And, as a heartbroken and outraged God, what would stop you from damning the region forever, as some kind of gateway leading directly into hell? Perhaps the storm that followed Christ's crucifixion according to New Testament accounts was intended as a warning to the "chosen ones"? Sort of along the lines of this: (God speaking) "Ok humans -- I created you in my own image, and fashioned a paradise where you could live. You betrayed me with your selfishness, and fucked it up. Prolly my fault, because I created you, after all (perhaps the orign of the notion of beta testing), so I sent my own son down there to save your sorry asses. So, that's done. Now get the fuck out of here. This land no longer belongs to you. It belongs to my memory."
Perhaps some apocraphyl biblical texts include this scenario -- I don't know -- I haven't seen them, if they do.
Do unto others. Thou shalt not kill. Love thy neighbor as thyself. How hard, really, is that to understand? Is this at all conceivable, or are these just the vacuous thoughts of a habitual oversimplifier? Am I grasping at blasphemous straws?
What are your thoughts??
The following thought occurred to your Humble Chronicler this morning: Politics -- be they personal, professional or otherwise -- are borne out of an environment in which people with different opinions attempt to use facts or to bend and distort the truth in a competition to affect the acceptance of their preferred version of reality in order to establish, consolidate or broaden inflence or power. Your comments? -- use the message board.
And -- of course -- feel free to quote me.
Some Anthropomorphic Thoughts on the Fate of the Middle East
Given that "middle eastern peace" remains one of the top oxymorons of all time, is it perhaps possible that there's just no hope of peace ever in the region? History would seem to indicate this, as the region has existed in a perenial state of war as far back as I can remember. (Not to mention that it seems to be quite a breeding ground for particularly dangerous and twisted individuals.)
It's all very confusing, particularly (imo) in light of the fact that -- if you've delved at all into learning about other religions -- they all, or most of them at least, seem to boil down to the same thing. Chrisitianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism -- all seem to work, at root, under some similar basic assumptions -- a belief or sense that we (humans, earthlings, followers) are probably not alone "out here," a willingness to accept the concept/idea of a higher power or some form of energy that links us all together, and a general philosophy that, if you adhere to a way of life that embraces an acceptance of differences and respect and love for the planet and our fellow inhabitants thereof, you'll generally be ok.
I am routinely upbraided for oversimplifying, yes. But, really -- no world religions or faith of which I'm aware espouses killing people in anyone's name.
We'll argue that sometimes simplification is the answer.
So, for purposes of this discussion, suspend, if you will, your cynicism, atheism, agnosticism or any other such form of disbelief and assume that there may be a God, or many gods, and that the historical figure known as Jesus Christ was indeed the son of the God of the Jews and Catholics. If you were this God, and your son was executed, wouldn't you be infinitely, universally and cosmically heartbroken and pissed off? Even if it was your plan? And, as a heartbroken and outraged God, what would stop you from damning the region forever, as some kind of gateway leading directly into hell? Perhaps the storm that followed Christ's crucifixion according to New Testament accounts was intended as a warning to the "chosen ones"? Sort of along the lines of this: (God speaking) "Ok humans -- I created you in my own image, and fashioned a paradise where you could live. You betrayed me with your selfishness, and fucked it up. Prolly my fault, because I created you, after all (perhaps the orign of the notion of beta testing), so I sent my own son down there to save your sorry asses. So, that's done. Now get the fuck out of here. This land no longer belongs to you. It belongs to my memory."
Perhaps some apocraphyl biblical texts include this scenario -- I don't know -- I haven't seen them, if they do.
Do unto others. Thou shalt not kill. Love thy neighbor as thyself. How hard, really, is that to understand? Is this at all conceivable, or are these just the vacuous thoughts of a habitual oversimplifier? Am I grasping at blasphemous straws?
What are your thoughts??
1.07.2002
1.04.2002
Cat 48
- The two digit catastrophe serial numbers are assigned by the Catastrophe Service Division of Property Claims Services (PCS) which is a dvision of ISO (Insurance Service Office) which serves the insurance industry and carriers.
PCS assigns to each catastrophe a serial number recognized throughout the industry. Use of this number permits insurers and reinsurers to track reserves and losses to a single discrete event. It is also important for triggering reinsurance coverages under many contracts. Before assigning a serial number, PCS investigates each disaster and determines whether the insurable damage will meet the catastrophe definition. That definition is $25 million in insured damage involving a large number of policyholders and insurers.
The only national cat codes assigned are from the PCS Division of ISO in New Jersey. They assign cat codes when an "incident" is of the magnitude that they consider to be a significant event.
The most recent were NYC, Cat 48, and TS "Gabrielle" Cat 49.
Many companies will assign a cat code to an event that occurs in an area, or even a sequence of events closely related. It is not uncommon for there to be cat codes for the same event, in the same state, to be of different numbers, letters or designations. All that is up to the respective companies."
11.28.2001
In memoriam (again)
I didn't miss this, but have been too bummed in general to post it. They are coming too fast and furious these days -- Kleps, Leary, Garcia, D.M. Turner, Janiger, Lilly, McKenna -- now these. Time is relentlessly ending yet another era, and there is less color in the world without them all.
The first bit below was written by Kesey's campadre and fellow Prankster, Ken Babbs. As for the second -- I wouldn't put it past either of them.......
I didn't miss this, but have been too bummed in general to post it. They are coming too fast and furious these days -- Kleps, Leary, Garcia, D.M. Turner, Janiger, Lilly, McKenna -- now these. Time is relentlessly ending yet another era, and there is less color in the world without them all.
The first bit below was written by Kesey's campadre and fellow Prankster, Ken Babbs. As for the second -- I wouldn't put it past either of them.......
- Ken Kesey -- B: September 17, 1935 -- D: November 10, 2001
Kesey's belly was hurting and the docs did a scan and found a black spot on his liver. It was cancerous but encapsulated which meant there was no cancer anywhere else. They decided to cut it out and the surgery went okay. He had sixty percent of his liver left to carry the load but in one of those dirty tricks the body can play on you everything else went to hell and this morning at 3:45 AM his heart stopped beating.
A great good friend and great husband and father and grand dad, he will be sorely missed but if there is one thing he would want us to do it would be to carry on his life's work. Namely to treat others with kindness and if anyone does you dirt forgive that person right away. This goes beyond the art, the writing, the performances, even the bus. Right down to the bone.
-- Ken Babbs
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2001
"Now, all you people over there, get the news spread around that they're going to do a memorial service for me at the McDonald theater in downtown Eugene at noon tomorrow and if you can't get inside we are going to put speakers out on the sidewalks so everyone can hear all that hoopla bound be to spreading out of the theater like moths on the wing. It says here they are going to bury me in private. Babbs says there's been thousands of emails and he wants me to thank you all for writing. Meanwhile, I've still lots of forms to fill out and they're looking for a bigger halo but durned if I'm going to play that harp. I'm holding out for the thunder machine. See you around."
-- Kesey
(For more on the Kesey-Babbs partnership, go here. And Salon, it turns out, has a nice selection of fond Ken remembrances.- Ed.)
- Richard Evans Schultes (Jan 12, 1915 - April 10, 2001)
Richard Evans Schultes was a botanical explorer, ethnobotanist and conservationist, who carried out extensive field studies, particularly in the Amazon, specializing in natively used medicinal and toxic plants and on new sources of rubber. Boston-born and Harvard-educated, he was Jeffrey Professor of Biology and Director of the Botanical Museum of Harvard University (Emeritus). Schultes published over 400 technical papers and nine books on ethnobotany and was widely recognized as one of the most distinguished figures in the field. He received many awards for his work including the Cross of Boyaca (Colombia's highest honour), the annual Gold Medal of the World Wildlife Fund, the Tyler Prize for Environmental Achievement and the Linnean Gold Medal (the highest award in the field of botany).
- Richard Schultes, medicinal plant expert, dead at 86
Richard Evans Schultes, the Edward C. Jeffrey Professor of Biology Emeritus and renowned expert on medicinal uses of plants, died April 10 in Boston at age 86.
Schultes is considered by many the father of modern ethnobotany - the study of native people's uses of locally available plants. He was known for his wide travels through the Amazon collecting plants and talking with local people. In 1992, he received the gold medal from the Linnean Society of London, considered botany's top honor.
Schultes first came to Harvard as an undergraduate and stayed through his graduate years. He received an A.B. in 1937, an A.M. in 1938, and a Ph.D. in 1941.
Schultes' fieldwork, conducted mostly in the Colombian Amazon beginning in 1941, made him a leading voice in the field and one of the first, in the 1960s, to warn about destruction of the rainforests and the disappearance of their native people.
"I think one of the things his work did that previous work didn't was he brought in a scientific background. He tried to look at the [plants' active] compounds, at their biology and biochemistry," said Donald Pfister, the Asa Gray Professor of Systematic Botany and curator of the Farlow Library and Herbarium.
Before joining Harvard's professorial ranks, Schultes served in various positions at the Harvard Botanical Museum. He was a research associate from 1941 to 1953, curator of the Orchid Herbarium of Oakes Ames from 1953 to 1958, curator of economic botany from 1958 to 1985, executive director from 1967 to 1970, and director from 1970 to 1985.
He became a professor of biology at Harvard in 1970, the Paul C. Mangelsdorf Professor of Natural Sciences in 1973, the Edward C. Jeffrey Professor of Biology in 1980, and became the Edward C. Jeffrey Professor of Biology Emeritus in 1985.
Schultes' adventurous travels in pursuit of science spawned books and articles, including "One River" in 1996 by Wade Davis, a student of Schultes. Another student, Mark Plotkin, followed in Schultes' footsteps, writing a popular account of his own travels in "Tales of a Shaman's Apprentice," published in the early 1990s.
Schultes himself wrote 10 books and hundreds of scientific articles. In addition to being an authority on the medicinal uses of plants, he became a leading authority on rubber-producing plants during World War II, at the request of the U.S. government. He was a member of numerous scientific societies, the editor of botanical journals, and the recipient of many honors.
Pfister, who knew Schultes as a senior faculty member, said his demeanor was somewhat contrary to the "swashbuckling" image his scientific travels gave him. Pfister described Schultes as a "very charming and kind man" who was courteous to both senior and junior people. Having spent much of his career at Harvard and having completed both graduate and undergraduate degrees at Harvard, Pfister said Schultes felt very strongly that Harvard should be the best in everything.
"I saw him as a very senior and very mature member of the department," Pfister said. "He always wore a lab coat, he always wore a red tie and he was fiercely Harvard."
Schultes is survived by his wife, Dorothy Crawford McNeil, and their three children: Richard Evans Schultes II, Alexandra Ames Schultes Wilson, and Neil Parker Schultes.
A memorial service is scheduled for April 29 at King's Chapel in Boston.
We were There
Well, fans, I've been meaning to post this for over a month -- meaning to re-work it, meaning to polish it, meaning to embellish with some links -- meaning, meaning, meaning.
And yet not quite getting around to it.
I will try to get back to it for you. I intend to. But, for now, here it is, in raw form.
A Failure of Angels
11.21.01
We knew it was real before we arrived, of course. Somehow we knew. I say somehow because there are so many people who seem not to get it, whose behavior would indicate that they don’t really know that it happened, or don’t know that it happened on any real level. Perhaps they should go, go to New York City, go to lower Manhattan, and see for themselves. Maybe then they would understand, would feel something, anything. Would at least stop annoying the rest of us with their obliviousness.
They say they haven’t been “directly impacted.” How are 3,000, 4,000 — at one point it was upwards of 6,000, we thought — people killed in the span of 45 minutes without directly impacting everyone who’s left? The true nature of this event is that, among those who do know that this has happened, there is a very real sense that we were lucky. There is a sense among the living that we escaped. Somehow. We were all targeted. That much is clear. Those of us who are still alive simply escaped. For all of the same reasons that some of the victims were in the Towers, or the plaza, or one of the nearby buildings, also destroyed, were simply there — visiting on business or for pleasure, shopping, walking their dogs, taking a last-minute flight, heading out on some long-awaited adventure, or just enjoying what has widely been reported as an otherwise beautiful early fall morning in New York.
We’re still alive because we were lucky. We escaped.
10.23.01
I’m watching TV, first snippets of news, then some show about a judge and her dysfunctional family and her interactions with them, and their interactions with her. My annoyance with myself for not getting this journal entry posted sooner is tempered by a surprising realization that I no longer need to look at the keyboard to type. I wonder how long that’s been possible. I wonder if it’s some amazing tele-type-kinetic feature of my little Compaq Armada. I wonder if it’s a Microsoft trick. I wonder if it’s a rare effect of mixing a relatively cheap cabernet sauvignon with a Foster’s Lager, and, if so, I wonder if it can be duplicated in daylight. It would be pretty useful. I could, for instance, ditch this management mess, and become a court stenographer. Something interesting with my life, my career, my time, if there is such a thing, if any one of us has anything even remotely similar to time that we can call our own.
I digress, as is my tendency when needing to focus on the task at hand.
10.12.01
Your Humble Chronicler and Our Muse spent the weekend in the city. We landed in LaGuardia Friday afternoon, flying in from Cleveland Hopkins Airport. We heeded the FAA’s advice to allow ourselves two to three hours prior to scheduled departure time, to allow for intensified security checks. So, we got there at 8:30 am for our 10:55 flight, and more or less spent all of our time allowance waiting in the concourse, after our ID’s were checked against our tickets, and we went through the metal detectors, and they wanded our coats, the Muse’s purse, and had me tip my cap. Security was tight, I’d say, but relatively efficient; tight for America, that is, compared to the carefree atmosphere that typified air travel in America prior to that horrible event a month and a day ago. Probably still would get us laughed at by, say, Israeli airport security personnel, but I don’t know that for sure. At any rate, we weren’t stuck waiting in any line for more than fifteen minutes, which these days can sometimes qualify as the express line at Starbucks. There were only a few MPs in Cleveland that I noticed, but in New York we had the full monty – uniformed national guardsmen armed with submachine guns at every possible point of entry. It was intimidating as hell, but we did feel safe. As safe as one can feel, I guess, in any situation that requires armed military personnel for safety. America’s very weird right now, that is, if you’re an American. In other words, this is a weird situation for Americans. We had a smooth uneventful flight, which is another current oddity. There is no such thing as an uneventful flight right now.
We were in for a weekend of paying respects. My uncle passed away at 75 on September 18th, 2001. I wasn't able to find a reasonable ticket price to get to the funeral, which was that following Saturday. I’d just started a new job in August, and we’d moved to Ohio from Pennsylvania, so a lot was happening. Much going on, many visits, my son in a new school, trying to stay in touch with family and friends back in The Commonwealth, Our Muse looking for work here in OH – lots going on. Then they blew up the Towers. And everything already disrupted was disrupted further.
So, when a week later my youngest sister sent me an email to tell me that my uncle was in the hospital, followed shortly by another telling me that he’d died, I guess I just kind of went numb. I tried to get a flight into Manhattan for a reasonable rate, but it just didn’t pan out. I didn’t want to drive to New York, the Muse didn’t want me to go alone, and, frankly, at the time, I wasn’t crazy about the idea, either. I was trying to fill some positions in my department, and had some interviews scheduled for Friday, which would get me flying into New York Friday night at best, or Saturday morning at worst, and, either way, basically going to the funeral and turning around and flying back home. I couldn’t get my brain around it. Most of the rest of my family – my mom, five out of my six sisters, my brother -- were able to make it in, which made me feel guilty, but better because at least my aunt wasn’t alone. Plus she had a lot of friends, and so did my uncle. So, while everyone in my family drove in, except my brother, who somehow found a decent non-stop flight in from Columbus, Ohio, the Muse and I stayed in town, and wound up having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law and their two kids, in nearby Akron.
To be honest, I might have been able to find a flight if I’d started really looking as soon as I got the bad news about my uncle, but I couldn’t pull it off. The attacks have really thrown me off. I’ve been way distracted by the news, and have allowed myself to become a bit obsessed with keeping up to date on everything, as in up to the hour, almost. I’ve spent lots of time digging into the news, using search engines like Metacrawler to troll the internet for alternative media sources of information, things like the World Conflict Server, Jane’s Information Group, The Middle East Media and Research Institute. Glum stuff, mostly all of it. Even found an online Afghanistan newspaper -- "Welcome To Dharb-i-Mumin Web-Station (Pakistan's Largest Weekly Newspaper)" -- which was packed with chilling anti-Western diatribes, with the U.S. as the primary target of abuse. Pretty scary stuff, and I’m generally not oner to be affected by blatant propaganda, regardless of how inflammatory the language. After the American military response started, I found that I couldn’t access the site anymore. I wasn’t real surprised, but I had to wonder whether access had been restricted on our end, or theirs. Like, were the jihad wackos restricting American internet access to their news, or was the U.S. restricting access to overseas media? For all I knew, it could have been something as simple as the location of the server it was hosted on being blown out of existence by NATO forces. But the times were nothing if not suited to suspicious theories and speculation. And, somehow, information can act as a balm of sorts.
Since my uncle died, I’d been using the web to try to locate his obituary in some New York publication. I never found one, but I did run across an online memorial page put up by a club which my uncle had helped found. The club is called the "Sons of the Desert," and it’s a social club for fans of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, the old-time film comedy duo. Old-time as in these boys started out doing silent pictures, and ushered in the age of “talkies.” The website consisted of a single page, which simply showed a stage curtain in black and white, with the words “In Memoriam” displayed over my uncle’s name. Some text at the bottom of the page said that their next meeting was taking place on October 12th, and that “the evening will be dedicated to our dear friend,” my uncle. I got the idea that The Muse and I might go up for the weekend, attend the meeting, spend some time with my aunt, pay our respects and the like. I ran it by The Muse, and she thought it was a nice idea, so we spent a little time online and were able to track down a weekend package that included roundtrip flights for the two of us, plus a hotel from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon for a half decent price, so we booked it that evening. I’d check with my boss to make sure I could have the day, and we’d fly out of Cleveland on Friday morning, and get into New York early afternoon with more than enough time to get from the airport to our hotel near Times Square. Aside from our itinerary, it was a little exciting, despite the not unwarranted national mood of general anxiety. On September 11, 2001, over 5,000 people were killed, suddenly and without warning, in a series of coordinated terrorist attacks in Manhattan, Washington, D.C. and Pennsylvania. The terrorists used planes to do it, just simply high-jacked them with box cutters, terrorized the respective crews and passengers, and flew them into both of the World Trade Centers in New York City, the Pentagon, and field outside a small town about 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh. Fucking box cutters, they used, and they threatened the passengers, said they had bombs, and slashed the flight attendants, and told everyone they were going back to the airport, to remain calm and they’d be ok. This is what we have been told by the journalists and the authorities, and I believe them, what they tell us, though I don’t know if it’s because it’s credible, or if it’s because they’re very good at what they do. Or if I just really want to believe it, to believe anything that might lead us to think that someone out there is in control, is somehow in charge, has things under control. Aren't we in America? This shit can’t happen here. But it has.
They killed over 4,000 people that morning, in less than 45 minutes. In America.
So we decided to go to New York because my uncle died, to see my aunt. This in the midst of ongoing threats of more attacks, even as the FBI was warning US citizens that “further terrorist events should be anticipated.” We were on “high alert” during the time we travelled, and we still are. We were bombing the shit out of Afghanistan (and we still are), plowing a steady stream of missiles into the bomb-shot waste of a nation already decimated by thirty years of civil war, most recently with Russia (itself formerly America's sworn enemy No. 1) which, before withdrawing in defeat, had pretty much reduced the entire place to rubble. I think a lot of what we’re doing now is turning rocks into more sand. And we have militant radical groups everywhere calling us terrorists, and denouncing the American military response, calling this a jihad or holy war, accusing the US of using the whole thing as its latest excuse to wage an all-out attack against Muslims everywhere. It’s all pretty confusing. But, we were going to New York, the greatest city on earth, The Muse and I, and I’d be a liar if I denied that there was some appreciable level of spite involved. I think I’m pretty liberal, but lately I’ve had thoughts like, “no third-world underbelly whacko is gonna tell me when I can and can’t fly in my country.” Fear does weird things to your brain.
We picked up our bag, called for a shuttle and then sat down to wait. Not a bad wait, but long enough to be greeted by the face of New York mayor Rudy Giuliani (now Rudy Giuliani, KBE), having a news conference (when did they stop calling it a press conference??) to announce that an NBC News staffer – a woman named Erin, or Aaron, I think, an assistant to Tom Brokaw, had been exposed to and had contracted the anthrax virus from a piece of mail that had been sent to the studio. ......guess so -- didn't hear until this morning, while waiting in LaGuardia Airport for a flight back in to Cleveland......spent the weekend in Manhattan, saying goodbyes and being a good nephew and citizen........had dinner with my aunt -- was good to see her, and spend some time with her....they really loved him.......was good to hear their stories, and how they felt about him........(he also was for years *the* Santa Claus for the Daily News, when they were still in business)........they meet in this wonderful place called the Players Club (in the Gramercy Park section -- used to be Edwin Booth's house (brother of John Wilkes Booth)).........very historic -- packed with memorabilia from Booth's acting career, and paintings and portraits of other famous members, like Mark Twain, John Barrymore, Eugene O’Neill, Helen Hayes, Jane Pauley, Jack Lemmon, Walter Cronkite and James Earl Jones – none of whom were present this particular evening – but very interesting, nonetheless.
......Saturday, spent the day just walking the city, riding the subways......our hotel was in the same block -- right around the corner, actually -- from the Ed Sullivan Theater, where Dave Letterman does his show, so we were about four blocks from downtown........had lunch in Chinatown, and then went down to the site......I think you have to.....I can't imaginec how anyone could go to Manhattan today and not go........just the thought of it......all of those souls.....I think they are still calling to us....I can't even attempt to explain it, so I won't even try.....when we flew in, we could see it below us........like a grey hole in the middle of this amazing metropolis........it's part of you as soon as you get there -- the whole city smells slightly of wet ash from burnt paper.....how could we not be breathing in some atomic residue of the victims?......it's ok......I wanted to feel like I could take some of them away from it....suffice it to say that it is, truly, the saddest thing I have ever seen........the pictures, and the notes........the sight of it all is poignant and terribly heartbreaking.....it really, really makes you angry, but you're crying within about two minutes or so of paying your respects.....and no one messes with you, no one gives you looks.....everyone leaves you alone, because they know.....for once, everyone knows the same thing..........we left flowers, shook hands with as many law and other official types as I could reach.......it is a different city today..........how could anyone do this........we were glad to have been able to be witnesses, though........kind of makes you feel closer to the heart of our nation.....more a part of the American family, maybe.....but this is truly so heartbreaking........I plan to return when they reopen the site, or a memorial....as the case may be......I will never forget the starkness of it all.........elderly new yorkers stopping as they pass openings in the blocks, where you used to be able to look up at the towers......they're prolly on their daily walk to the newstand, or fruit grocer, something they've done for the past 50 years.....this was, still is, their neighborhood.......Deniro lives here....Lou Reed......the Tribeca area........they stop, and look, and just shake their heads, and drop their faces and continue walking........what amazing people......I felt like I loved them all -- even the wild-eyed freaks, cursing invisible people who they think offended them..........stopped in for a much needed beer, and on a whim called an old high school buddy of mine, who I haven't seen for at least 15 years, knowing he lived in the area, and he stopped into this 50-year-old corner bar, and we had a few pints.....was very good to see him.....he lives three blocks from the site, and works nearby.....saw the whole thing from his office.......has a wife, a 9-mo-old son......all are fine, thank god.......said when you see shots of the site on the Fox news, they're shooting from the office next door to his...........
.....home now......son, asleep.....lover, asleep.......cat's a little nuts.........stay safe.....keep in touch..........peace.......rune
Well, fans, I've been meaning to post this for over a month -- meaning to re-work it, meaning to polish it, meaning to embellish with some links -- meaning, meaning, meaning.
And yet not quite getting around to it.
I will try to get back to it for you. I intend to. But, for now, here it is, in raw form.
A Failure of Angels
11.21.01
We knew it was real before we arrived, of course. Somehow we knew. I say somehow because there are so many people who seem not to get it, whose behavior would indicate that they don’t really know that it happened, or don’t know that it happened on any real level. Perhaps they should go, go to New York City, go to lower Manhattan, and see for themselves. Maybe then they would understand, would feel something, anything. Would at least stop annoying the rest of us with their obliviousness.
They say they haven’t been “directly impacted.” How are 3,000, 4,000 — at one point it was upwards of 6,000, we thought — people killed in the span of 45 minutes without directly impacting everyone who’s left? The true nature of this event is that, among those who do know that this has happened, there is a very real sense that we were lucky. There is a sense among the living that we escaped. Somehow. We were all targeted. That much is clear. Those of us who are still alive simply escaped. For all of the same reasons that some of the victims were in the Towers, or the plaza, or one of the nearby buildings, also destroyed, were simply there — visiting on business or for pleasure, shopping, walking their dogs, taking a last-minute flight, heading out on some long-awaited adventure, or just enjoying what has widely been reported as an otherwise beautiful early fall morning in New York.
We’re still alive because we were lucky. We escaped.
10.23.01
I’m watching TV, first snippets of news, then some show about a judge and her dysfunctional family and her interactions with them, and their interactions with her. My annoyance with myself for not getting this journal entry posted sooner is tempered by a surprising realization that I no longer need to look at the keyboard to type. I wonder how long that’s been possible. I wonder if it’s some amazing tele-type-kinetic feature of my little Compaq Armada. I wonder if it’s a Microsoft trick. I wonder if it’s a rare effect of mixing a relatively cheap cabernet sauvignon with a Foster’s Lager, and, if so, I wonder if it can be duplicated in daylight. It would be pretty useful. I could, for instance, ditch this management mess, and become a court stenographer. Something interesting with my life, my career, my time, if there is such a thing, if any one of us has anything even remotely similar to time that we can call our own.
I digress, as is my tendency when needing to focus on the task at hand.
10.12.01
Your Humble Chronicler and Our Muse spent the weekend in the city. We landed in LaGuardia Friday afternoon, flying in from Cleveland Hopkins Airport. We heeded the FAA’s advice to allow ourselves two to three hours prior to scheduled departure time, to allow for intensified security checks. So, we got there at 8:30 am for our 10:55 flight, and more or less spent all of our time allowance waiting in the concourse, after our ID’s were checked against our tickets, and we went through the metal detectors, and they wanded our coats, the Muse’s purse, and had me tip my cap. Security was tight, I’d say, but relatively efficient; tight for America, that is, compared to the carefree atmosphere that typified air travel in America prior to that horrible event a month and a day ago. Probably still would get us laughed at by, say, Israeli airport security personnel, but I don’t know that for sure. At any rate, we weren’t stuck waiting in any line for more than fifteen minutes, which these days can sometimes qualify as the express line at Starbucks. There were only a few MPs in Cleveland that I noticed, but in New York we had the full monty – uniformed national guardsmen armed with submachine guns at every possible point of entry. It was intimidating as hell, but we did feel safe. As safe as one can feel, I guess, in any situation that requires armed military personnel for safety. America’s very weird right now, that is, if you’re an American. In other words, this is a weird situation for Americans. We had a smooth uneventful flight, which is another current oddity. There is no such thing as an uneventful flight right now.
We were in for a weekend of paying respects. My uncle passed away at 75 on September 18th, 2001. I wasn't able to find a reasonable ticket price to get to the funeral, which was that following Saturday. I’d just started a new job in August, and we’d moved to Ohio from Pennsylvania, so a lot was happening. Much going on, many visits, my son in a new school, trying to stay in touch with family and friends back in The Commonwealth, Our Muse looking for work here in OH – lots going on. Then they blew up the Towers. And everything already disrupted was disrupted further.
So, when a week later my youngest sister sent me an email to tell me that my uncle was in the hospital, followed shortly by another telling me that he’d died, I guess I just kind of went numb. I tried to get a flight into Manhattan for a reasonable rate, but it just didn’t pan out. I didn’t want to drive to New York, the Muse didn’t want me to go alone, and, frankly, at the time, I wasn’t crazy about the idea, either. I was trying to fill some positions in my department, and had some interviews scheduled for Friday, which would get me flying into New York Friday night at best, or Saturday morning at worst, and, either way, basically going to the funeral and turning around and flying back home. I couldn’t get my brain around it. Most of the rest of my family – my mom, five out of my six sisters, my brother -- were able to make it in, which made me feel guilty, but better because at least my aunt wasn’t alone. Plus she had a lot of friends, and so did my uncle. So, while everyone in my family drove in, except my brother, who somehow found a decent non-stop flight in from Columbus, Ohio, the Muse and I stayed in town, and wound up having dinner with my sister and brother-in-law and their two kids, in nearby Akron.
To be honest, I might have been able to find a flight if I’d started really looking as soon as I got the bad news about my uncle, but I couldn’t pull it off. The attacks have really thrown me off. I’ve been way distracted by the news, and have allowed myself to become a bit obsessed with keeping up to date on everything, as in up to the hour, almost. I’ve spent lots of time digging into the news, using search engines like Metacrawler to troll the internet for alternative media sources of information, things like the World Conflict Server, Jane’s Information Group, The Middle East Media and Research Institute. Glum stuff, mostly all of it. Even found an online Afghanistan newspaper -- "Welcome To Dharb-i-Mumin Web-Station (Pakistan's Largest Weekly Newspaper)" -- which was packed with chilling anti-Western diatribes, with the U.S. as the primary target of abuse. Pretty scary stuff, and I’m generally not oner to be affected by blatant propaganda, regardless of how inflammatory the language. After the American military response started, I found that I couldn’t access the site anymore. I wasn’t real surprised, but I had to wonder whether access had been restricted on our end, or theirs. Like, were the jihad wackos restricting American internet access to their news, or was the U.S. restricting access to overseas media? For all I knew, it could have been something as simple as the location of the server it was hosted on being blown out of existence by NATO forces. But the times were nothing if not suited to suspicious theories and speculation. And, somehow, information can act as a balm of sorts.
Since my uncle died, I’d been using the web to try to locate his obituary in some New York publication. I never found one, but I did run across an online memorial page put up by a club which my uncle had helped found. The club is called the "Sons of the Desert," and it’s a social club for fans of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, the old-time film comedy duo. Old-time as in these boys started out doing silent pictures, and ushered in the age of “talkies.” The website consisted of a single page, which simply showed a stage curtain in black and white, with the words “In Memoriam” displayed over my uncle’s name. Some text at the bottom of the page said that their next meeting was taking place on October 12th, and that “the evening will be dedicated to our dear friend,” my uncle. I got the idea that The Muse and I might go up for the weekend, attend the meeting, spend some time with my aunt, pay our respects and the like. I ran it by The Muse, and she thought it was a nice idea, so we spent a little time online and were able to track down a weekend package that included roundtrip flights for the two of us, plus a hotel from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon for a half decent price, so we booked it that evening. I’d check with my boss to make sure I could have the day, and we’d fly out of Cleveland on Friday morning, and get into New York early afternoon with more than enough time to get from the airport to our hotel near Times Square. Aside from our itinerary, it was a little exciting, despite the not unwarranted national mood of general anxiety. On September 11, 2001, over 5,000 people were killed, suddenly and without warning, in a series of coordinated terrorist attacks in Manhattan, Washington, D.C. and Pennsylvania. The terrorists used planes to do it, just simply high-jacked them with box cutters, terrorized the respective crews and passengers, and flew them into both of the World Trade Centers in New York City, the Pentagon, and field outside a small town about 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh. Fucking box cutters, they used, and they threatened the passengers, said they had bombs, and slashed the flight attendants, and told everyone they were going back to the airport, to remain calm and they’d be ok. This is what we have been told by the journalists and the authorities, and I believe them, what they tell us, though I don’t know if it’s because it’s credible, or if it’s because they’re very good at what they do. Or if I just really want to believe it, to believe anything that might lead us to think that someone out there is in control, is somehow in charge, has things under control. Aren't we in America? This shit can’t happen here. But it has.
They killed over 4,000 people that morning, in less than 45 minutes. In America.
- As of 12/27/01, the official count has been reduced to under 3,000. - Ed.
- As of 1/3/02, the victim count is 2,936, according to CNN. - Ed.
So we decided to go to New York because my uncle died, to see my aunt. This in the midst of ongoing threats of more attacks, even as the FBI was warning US citizens that “further terrorist events should be anticipated.” We were on “high alert” during the time we travelled, and we still are. We were bombing the shit out of Afghanistan (and we still are), plowing a steady stream of missiles into the bomb-shot waste of a nation already decimated by thirty years of civil war, most recently with Russia (itself formerly America's sworn enemy No. 1) which, before withdrawing in defeat, had pretty much reduced the entire place to rubble. I think a lot of what we’re doing now is turning rocks into more sand. And we have militant radical groups everywhere calling us terrorists, and denouncing the American military response, calling this a jihad or holy war, accusing the US of using the whole thing as its latest excuse to wage an all-out attack against Muslims everywhere. It’s all pretty confusing. But, we were going to New York, the greatest city on earth, The Muse and I, and I’d be a liar if I denied that there was some appreciable level of spite involved. I think I’m pretty liberal, but lately I’ve had thoughts like, “no third-world underbelly whacko is gonna tell me when I can and can’t fly in my country.” Fear does weird things to your brain.
We picked up our bag, called for a shuttle and then sat down to wait. Not a bad wait, but long enough to be greeted by the face of New York mayor Rudy Giuliani (now Rudy Giuliani, KBE), having a news conference (when did they stop calling it a press conference??) to announce that an NBC News staffer – a woman named Erin, or Aaron, I think, an assistant to Tom Brokaw, had been exposed to and had contracted the anthrax virus from a piece of mail that had been sent to the studio. ......guess so -- didn't hear until this morning, while waiting in LaGuardia Airport for a flight back in to Cleveland......spent the weekend in Manhattan, saying goodbyes and being a good nephew and citizen........had dinner with my aunt -- was good to see her, and spend some time with her....they really loved him.......was good to hear their stories, and how they felt about him........(he also was for years *the* Santa Claus for the Daily News, when they were still in business)........they meet in this wonderful place called the Players Club (in the Gramercy Park section -- used to be Edwin Booth's house (brother of John Wilkes Booth)).........very historic -- packed with memorabilia from Booth's acting career, and paintings and portraits of other famous members, like Mark Twain, John Barrymore, Eugene O’Neill, Helen Hayes, Jane Pauley, Jack Lemmon, Walter Cronkite and James Earl Jones – none of whom were present this particular evening – but very interesting, nonetheless.
......Saturday, spent the day just walking the city, riding the subways......our hotel was in the same block -- right around the corner, actually -- from the Ed Sullivan Theater, where Dave Letterman does his show, so we were about four blocks from downtown........had lunch in Chinatown, and then went down to the site......I think you have to.....I can't imaginec how anyone could go to Manhattan today and not go........just the thought of it......all of those souls.....I think they are still calling to us....I can't even attempt to explain it, so I won't even try.....when we flew in, we could see it below us........like a grey hole in the middle of this amazing metropolis........it's part of you as soon as you get there -- the whole city smells slightly of wet ash from burnt paper.....how could we not be breathing in some atomic residue of the victims?......it's ok......I wanted to feel like I could take some of them away from it....suffice it to say that it is, truly, the saddest thing I have ever seen........the pictures, and the notes........the sight of it all is poignant and terribly heartbreaking.....it really, really makes you angry, but you're crying within about two minutes or so of paying your respects.....and no one messes with you, no one gives you looks.....everyone leaves you alone, because they know.....for once, everyone knows the same thing..........we left flowers, shook hands with as many law and other official types as I could reach.......it is a different city today..........how could anyone do this........we were glad to have been able to be witnesses, though........kind of makes you feel closer to the heart of our nation.....more a part of the American family, maybe.....but this is truly so heartbreaking........I plan to return when they reopen the site, or a memorial....as the case may be......I will never forget the starkness of it all.........elderly new yorkers stopping as they pass openings in the blocks, where you used to be able to look up at the towers......they're prolly on their daily walk to the newstand, or fruit grocer, something they've done for the past 50 years.....this was, still is, their neighborhood.......Deniro lives here....Lou Reed......the Tribeca area........they stop, and look, and just shake their heads, and drop their faces and continue walking........what amazing people......I felt like I loved them all -- even the wild-eyed freaks, cursing invisible people who they think offended them..........stopped in for a much needed beer, and on a whim called an old high school buddy of mine, who I haven't seen for at least 15 years, knowing he lived in the area, and he stopped into this 50-year-old corner bar, and we had a few pints.....was very good to see him.....he lives three blocks from the site, and works nearby.....saw the whole thing from his office.......has a wife, a 9-mo-old son......all are fine, thank god.......said when you see shots of the site on the Fox news, they're shooting from the office next door to his...........
.....home now......son, asleep.....lover, asleep.......cat's a little nuts.........stay safe.....keep in touch..........peace.......rune