I have to make a record of two books that we talked about tonight...books some among us have read and enjoyed immensely (I am not one of them...I am one who should read them). One of the books is Canticle for Lebowitz by Walter M. Miller, a science fiction piece from the 1950s (I don't read much sci-fi) that tells the story of what happens after the acts of people of our time effectively end civilization; it's about how civilization is reborn.
The other book is The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell, another sci-fi with religious overtones. The way it was described to me, though, by people who I would characterize as anything but religious, makes me want to read it.
Thinking a bit about what I have been told about both books, without having read them, makes me want to get back to my serious efforts to write. One of the books I want to write might be entitled Matter, telling the personal story of a slightly misanthropic scientist/physicist as she uncovers and tries to explain the principles of how all matter is related to all other matter, how those principles are simple and traceable, and how that understanding can lead to a world without strife, violence, need, inequity, and the thousands of other problems that plaque humankind. Unlike other "we had the answer and we let it slip away" stories, this story will capture all the reasons that people tend to let those simple solutions slip away. It will tantalize the reader with possibilities that can answer any question ever posed.
I think this idea has merit. Please do not steal it, lest I put a razor-sharp steal dagger deep into your worthless heart after subjecting you to intense and almost unbearable pain for days and days and days on end. Don't believe me? Try me, motherfucker. I'm not feeling particularly hospitable toward people who take food off others' tables or take opportunitities out of others' reach.
My intellectual explorations today have gone from the depts of the ocean to the depths of the human heart. Ricochet. That word rings true about my mental gymnastics.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Philanthropy
I am content in my relative certainty that there is no 'fate,' no greater power, no omnipotent god that makes things happen at just the right time, for just the right reason. But there are times where experience and information and beliefs and emotions conspire to challenge that relative certainty. The challenge is never enough to shake my 'faith' in the uselessness of faith, but it is enough to cause me to remember what I think it is to be human.
As I wandered the badly worn, hole-ridden cobblestone streets of Ajijic and saw the poverty that allows many residents to live in little more than shanties, I was ashamed. I was ashamed to be looking for something cheap enough to let me retire early to a life of relative ease and affluence. When I saw the rib-cages of starving dogs and the dusty streets and the children satisfied with playing with discarded, broken toys, I wondered just where my humanity has been of late.
Stopping to view a relatively modest house (for the area), I was struck how very far above what most Mexicans in these little villages on Lake Chapala can afford this little house was. I saw ancient pickup trucks and long-dead Datsuns that had been brought back to life not because the vehicles were particularly appealing, but because they were all their owners could hope to afford. People who clean homes or build streets, or sweep them, at least have income from their efforts, though their incomes are miniscule compared to incomes of most of the people they serve.
I stopped at a roadside taco stand, where a man was cooking barbacoa tacos on a gas-powered stainless steel griddle. To this man and his family, I suspect that job and that tiny little building were fine. But I look around at the galleries and the fine restaurants and the magnificent homes in this Mexican paradise community and I see people like me, people for whom wealth is never enough.
After I returned from my little sojourn with family members, I decided to read a piece that an old friend had blogged about recently, as it dealt with some of the obscenities of being fixated on wealth. What I saw was that, but something more. His words propelled some of those thoughts that conspired to challenge my humanity. He wrote an item entitled, The Good News? You're Rich. The Bad News? Never Rich Enough. It would pay dividends to pay heed to another piece he wrote, the one I initially intended to read.
I am not suggesting that all the wealthy people in the villages surrounding this paradise give all their money to the poor. I'm suggesting, instead, that they keep the poor in mind when they are spending their wealth and they keep the poor in mind when they are looking at the next big purchase that will demonstrate to their wealthy friends that they have excellent taste.
I wonder how many people here have considered offering micro-loans to people in this area for whom banks are out of reach, but for whom hard work and integrity are values that are unwaivering? I wonder if I would have the strength of character, were I to move here, to give up some of my wealth to help others achieve a fraction of what I have come to take for granted?
I won't stop wanting money, I suppose, and the freedom it promises. But maybe one day I will come to embrace, in my heart as much as in my head, that wealth comes in many forms and that helping other people achieve simple financial hope may well be the highest form of philanthropy.
As I wandered the badly worn, hole-ridden cobblestone streets of Ajijic and saw the poverty that allows many residents to live in little more than shanties, I was ashamed. I was ashamed to be looking for something cheap enough to let me retire early to a life of relative ease and affluence. When I saw the rib-cages of starving dogs and the dusty streets and the children satisfied with playing with discarded, broken toys, I wondered just where my humanity has been of late.
Stopping to view a relatively modest house (for the area), I was struck how very far above what most Mexicans in these little villages on Lake Chapala can afford this little house was. I saw ancient pickup trucks and long-dead Datsuns that had been brought back to life not because the vehicles were particularly appealing, but because they were all their owners could hope to afford. People who clean homes or build streets, or sweep them, at least have income from their efforts, though their incomes are miniscule compared to incomes of most of the people they serve.
I stopped at a roadside taco stand, where a man was cooking barbacoa tacos on a gas-powered stainless steel griddle. To this man and his family, I suspect that job and that tiny little building were fine. But I look around at the galleries and the fine restaurants and the magnificent homes in this Mexican paradise community and I see people like me, people for whom wealth is never enough.
After I returned from my little sojourn with family members, I decided to read a piece that an old friend had blogged about recently, as it dealt with some of the obscenities of being fixated on wealth. What I saw was that, but something more. His words propelled some of those thoughts that conspired to challenge my humanity. He wrote an item entitled, The Good News? You're Rich. The Bad News? Never Rich Enough. It would pay dividends to pay heed to another piece he wrote, the one I initially intended to read.
I am not suggesting that all the wealthy people in the villages surrounding this paradise give all their money to the poor. I'm suggesting, instead, that they keep the poor in mind when they are spending their wealth and they keep the poor in mind when they are looking at the next big purchase that will demonstrate to their wealthy friends that they have excellent taste.
I wonder how many people here have considered offering micro-loans to people in this area for whom banks are out of reach, but for whom hard work and integrity are values that are unwaivering? I wonder if I would have the strength of character, were I to move here, to give up some of my wealth to help others achieve a fraction of what I have come to take for granted?
I won't stop wanting money, I suppose, and the freedom it promises. But maybe one day I will come to embrace, in my heart as much as in my head, that wealth comes in many forms and that helping other people achieve simple financial hope may well be the highest form of philanthropy.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Has anyone ever died of old eggs?
Yesterday, I made breakfast for those members of my family who had gathered in Mexico for the holidays. There were just four of yesterday...a brother, a sister, my wife, and me. I opened the refrigerator and took out the eggs we had found when we arrived (the house belongs to another brother and his wife, who had not yet returned form their own holiday trip). There were tree "old" eggs and a new carton we purchased the day before. I did not know how old the "old" eggs were, but decided they were probably still good. I used them, along with several that we had just bought.
After breakfast, I mentioned that I had used the "old" eggs. Someone said "you didn't tell us that!" It went on. "Are you trying to poison us?" Someone said, "the ones we leave behind will be told we died of old eggs." I just had to get that down so I can remember it when the time is right!
After breakfast, I mentioned that I had used the "old" eggs. Someone said "you didn't tell us that!" It went on. "Are you trying to poison us?" Someone said, "the ones we leave behind will be told we died of old eggs." I just had to get that down so I can remember it when the time is right!
Molly Ivins
There are some people I respect greatly, even when I consider their viewpoints wrong-headed and narrow. That's rarely the case with Molly Ivins. But, there are times when she and I have utterly different points of view and when our opinions seem to have taken wildly divergent paths. One of the reasons I respect her so much is that she is unafraid to speak her mind, no matter what the consequences and who she might offend. What is remarkable about that is not her obstinance, but the reason for it. She cares about freedom of expression and she expresses alarm when instruments of power...government, corporations, military units, whoever...are trending toward oppression. She is someone to admire and, as you will see here, others feel the same.
On the Lake
My siblings and my wife and I have been enjoying a relaxing time near Lake Chapala in Mexico, just a bit south of Guadalajara. We wandered around yesterday, driving into Jacotopec and then back, stopping for lunch at Las Ojas, a restaurant we visited last year for a dinner of red snapper. Lunch consisted of guacamole, marlin tacos, quesadillas, and chips & salsa. We were still stuffed from a large breakfast that I made earlier...bacon and eggs that I scrambled with tomatoes, jalapenos, onions, spices, and other odds & ends. We stopped in at an open house...large place with lots of yard and wonderful layout...just $358,000. I'm in the mood to buy, but my budget would be about one fifth that amount, so I may have to settle for an occasional visit.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Night Fishing
Steve and Rod and Mark were playing in the murky surf, throwing rocks at one another. Steve and Rod had carted "throwing" rocks out into the water in the lower front portions of their t-shirts, stretched out to form sacks that were ideal storage for rocks and anything else they cared to carry into the water. Mark had taken an oar with him into the water, rather than rocks, and he used it both as a means of defense against the rocks lobbed his way by the other two boys and as a bat, attempting to swat the rocks back at either Steve or Rod...whoever had thrown them at him. One of Rod's larger rocks, thrown with significant force, was met by the swing of Mark's oar; the oar, too, was swung with force. The collision of rock and wood created a fiercely loud "crack!" that caught everyone's attention. Even John, who had stayed on the beach to collect driftwood for the fire, heard it and looked up from his drudgery to see whether something bad had happened in the surf.
The oar snapped in two pieces, the wood split from top to bottom, right through the center. Mark yelped, as he was genuinely startled, then screamed out in mock outrage, "You broke my fuckin' oar, you asshole! This is WAR!" Mark's declaration, followed by his lunge toward his attackers, was met with a frenzy of rock-throwing and screeches and verbal assaults. The water in the cove became a boiling, bubbling froth as the three of them executed the war. Occasionally, a rock would strike Mark's arm or shoulder and he would yelp in pain and then dive under water to retrieve the offending weapon to use it against his attackers.
A sharp rock struck Mark just above his right eye, causing a much-louder-than-usual scream and an eruption of blood running down his right cheek. While it looked worse than it actually was, the appearance of a large volume of blood, Mark's pain, and the fear that the blood dripping into the water could attract sharks brought the war to an end. The three of them went to the shore and dragged themselves out of the water and onto the mixture of broken seashells and sand and gravel and lumps of buckskin-colored clay blobs that served as a beach.
John had seen the blood on Mark's face almost immediately after the rock struck him, but he knew it was nothing serious because the other boys did not react the way they would have had it been serious. They would have panicked and screamed for John to go for help; since they didn't, he knew the damage was slight. Anyway, he was busy. He had to finish gathering enough wood to start and maintain a good fire that would last all night.
It would be sundown within a hour or so and there was much to do. Aside from collecting the wood and building a fire, they had to fashion a framework for the tarps that would serve as a tent, sneak back to Steve's house to recover the cooler full of beer that he had hidden in his backyard, and prepare a dinner of bacon, eggs, salt & pepper. John would prepare the meal in a cast-iron skillet that sat atop a rusty metal grate that had been left on the beach long ago, probably by another clan who fancied themselves adventurers.
Their little beach was only four or five blocks from John's house and just below a major bayside boulevard, but it was very private. The street was a good thirty feet above them, at the top of the 'cliffs' of clay and sand and palm trees and clumps of oleanders shielded the beach from view and provided a sound barrier. The cove was further protected, on the water side, by a series of three straight rows of broken concrete jetties that jutted out into the bay about fifty yards each. Typically, the water between the rows of concrete jetties was as calm and serene as a pond. The larger bay was relatively calm for the most part, as well, since its connection to the Gulf of Mexico was miles away.
To be continued...
The oar snapped in two pieces, the wood split from top to bottom, right through the center. Mark yelped, as he was genuinely startled, then screamed out in mock outrage, "You broke my fuckin' oar, you asshole! This is WAR!" Mark's declaration, followed by his lunge toward his attackers, was met with a frenzy of rock-throwing and screeches and verbal assaults. The water in the cove became a boiling, bubbling froth as the three of them executed the war. Occasionally, a rock would strike Mark's arm or shoulder and he would yelp in pain and then dive under water to retrieve the offending weapon to use it against his attackers.
A sharp rock struck Mark just above his right eye, causing a much-louder-than-usual scream and an eruption of blood running down his right cheek. While it looked worse than it actually was, the appearance of a large volume of blood, Mark's pain, and the fear that the blood dripping into the water could attract sharks brought the war to an end. The three of them went to the shore and dragged themselves out of the water and onto the mixture of broken seashells and sand and gravel and lumps of buckskin-colored clay blobs that served as a beach.
John had seen the blood on Mark's face almost immediately after the rock struck him, but he knew it was nothing serious because the other boys did not react the way they would have had it been serious. They would have panicked and screamed for John to go for help; since they didn't, he knew the damage was slight. Anyway, he was busy. He had to finish gathering enough wood to start and maintain a good fire that would last all night.
It would be sundown within a hour or so and there was much to do. Aside from collecting the wood and building a fire, they had to fashion a framework for the tarps that would serve as a tent, sneak back to Steve's house to recover the cooler full of beer that he had hidden in his backyard, and prepare a dinner of bacon, eggs, salt & pepper. John would prepare the meal in a cast-iron skillet that sat atop a rusty metal grate that had been left on the beach long ago, probably by another clan who fancied themselves adventurers.
Their little beach was only four or five blocks from John's house and just below a major bayside boulevard, but it was very private. The street was a good thirty feet above them, at the top of the 'cliffs' of clay and sand and palm trees and clumps of oleanders shielded the beach from view and provided a sound barrier. The cove was further protected, on the water side, by a series of three straight rows of broken concrete jetties that jutted out into the bay about fifty yards each. Typically, the water between the rows of concrete jetties was as calm and serene as a pond. The larger bay was relatively calm for the most part, as well, since its connection to the Gulf of Mexico was miles away.
To be continued...
Friday, December 22, 2006
Ricochet of Thoughts
As usual, the staff was restless today and expected, I suspect, that I would shut the office around noon. They dropped hints all morning. Considering that I close the office for an entire week, you'd think that would be enough, but apparently it is not. Because of the workload and all that I had to get accomplished before the holidays, I kept most of the staff at the office until about 4:00 pm, a pretty severe thing to do, judging from the reactions I got. The bills must be paid.
One of my blogger friends asked whether Leonard Cohen's Tacoma Trailer instrumental piece is, like, a house trailer in Tacoma? I don't know. I've always wondered whether that was it or whether it refers to a trailer...as in movie trailer. If Leonard were sitting next to me, I'd ask. The music touches me for reasons unknown...I suppose I would characterize it as music that conveys a sense of loneliness, sadness, loss...something like that.
I'm chomping at the bit to be kicking back in Mexico. That's an odd feeling, it is; anxious and on edge in anticipation of relaxation. It will be interesting to go to a place where daytime highs are in the neighborhood of 75 degrees, while nighttime lows get down to below 30 degrees.
We'll spend one week in Mexico and then come back with an agenda to quickly straighten the office so we can welcome the search committee of a prospective client into our office just two days later. It would be a significant piece of business, but I've stopped counting chickens...they too often are hit by semis as they cross the road.
I watched an interesting little piece on PBS news tonight. It was about Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks' project to write a play a day for a year. Now, they plays are being enacted inside and outside theaters all over the U.S. I couldn't find a link to the item I saw, but here's a link to an interesting piece about her project.
Today is my nephew's birthday. I called him during his celebratory birthday dinner with his wife, his sister and her husband, and my sister. Sounded like they were having a good time at a dumpling house.
One of my blogger friends asked whether Leonard Cohen's Tacoma Trailer instrumental piece is, like, a house trailer in Tacoma? I don't know. I've always wondered whether that was it or whether it refers to a trailer...as in movie trailer. If Leonard were sitting next to me, I'd ask. The music touches me for reasons unknown...I suppose I would characterize it as music that conveys a sense of loneliness, sadness, loss...something like that.
I'm chomping at the bit to be kicking back in Mexico. That's an odd feeling, it is; anxious and on edge in anticipation of relaxation. It will be interesting to go to a place where daytime highs are in the neighborhood of 75 degrees, while nighttime lows get down to below 30 degrees.
We'll spend one week in Mexico and then come back with an agenda to quickly straighten the office so we can welcome the search committee of a prospective client into our office just two days later. It would be a significant piece of business, but I've stopped counting chickens...they too often are hit by semis as they cross the road.
I watched an interesting little piece on PBS news tonight. It was about Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Suzan-Lori Parks' project to write a play a day for a year. Now, they plays are being enacted inside and outside theaters all over the U.S. I couldn't find a link to the item I saw, but here's a link to an interesting piece about her project.
Today is my nephew's birthday. I called him during his celebratory birthday dinner with his wife, his sister and her husband, and my sister. Sounded like they were having a good time at a dumpling house.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Explanation
I'm listening to Tacoma Trailer, an instrumental piece on Leonard Cohen's The Future album. It's a good example of how Cohen's music can touch something deep inside a person (at least me), regardless of the odd or cryptic lyrics that one normally attaches to Cohen's music.
A lot of instrumental music touches me somehow. I heard a piece on NPR a few days ago that may help explain it. But I don't remember exactly what the explanation was. I think it had something to do with the core sounds of music...and how they impact chemical paths in the brain.
I'm more romantic than that. The music simply touches my heart.
A lot of instrumental music touches me somehow. I heard a piece on NPR a few days ago that may help explain it. But I don't remember exactly what the explanation was. I think it had something to do with the core sounds of music...and how they impact chemical paths in the brain.
I'm more romantic than that. The music simply touches my heart.
Morals and Mexico and More
I read my brother's blog tonight and in the process learned about his trip, with his wife, from Houston to Austin, El Paso, Indio (CA), The Willows (CA) and, ultimately to Portland, Oregon. I envy his status as retiree and his financial security...but mostly his freedom to make such a lengthy trip. He and his wife started in Ajijic, Jalisco (Mexico), then went to the Guadalajara airport and flew to Houston. They headed north just as I was beginning to get excited about heading south to visit them.
They'll be back a day or two after I get to their house, where my wife and I will meet another brother and a sister the day before Christmas and Christmas day, respectively. Our trip is almost a repeat of last year, but we've added one day to the trip...or is it two? In any event, we're going to Mexico to unwind, relax, and relish the company of family. We had a much shorter visit with one of the brothers who will join us in Mexico, along with anothe brother and another sister, over Thanksgiving. One day, and it shouldn't be long, we'll have to arrange a longer visit with all the family.
A friend of mine...not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless...frequently shares his views on issues that parallel mine to an astonishing degree. Take a look at this post, for example. Or, take a gander at this piece that deals with our own election night in November. Jim Karger, my friend, writes most of his comments from his home in San Miguel de Allende. He has invited me to visit, but I have never been to see him there. I think the fact that he sees, right there where he lives, the angst that comes from un-earned poverty and unmet needs, helps him convey his messages in ways that I simply cannot, because I've only imagined many of the ills that befall the impoverished in Mexico...he has seen them.
Every time I think about Mexico and my desire to go there, I think about the inequities between the rich Americans and the poor Mexicans (and, for that matter, between the rich Mexicans and the poor Mexicans). A just society or, more appropriately, a moral society would solve the problems. They wouldn't simply talk about them. A moral society would enable all its citizens to comprehend the righteousness of reaching out to help those less fortunate. A moral society would teach its people why 'more' is sometimes much, much less in terms of happiness.
It's when I have such thoughts that I really consider turning into the hippie I never was; dropping out and living off the land, or what's left of it. I sometimes think to myself that there are wonderful teachings in many churches. If only we could pull them out of the religious mileu and polish them and place them in the classroom...but even that won't work. We need to turn the classroom back into a place of learning. It's become a day-care option for the middle-class, I'm afraid. The unwashed middle-class. The uneducated middle-class. The unimportant middle-class.
Enough. Tomorrow morning I will indulge myself in a way that goes completely counter to what I have been saying here. Tomorrow morning, I will buy a cup of Dunn Bros. coffee on my way to the office, but I will make a point of throwing in $5 to their collection for the needy. God, a $7 cup of coffee. No wonder this society is fucked up.
They'll be back a day or two after I get to their house, where my wife and I will meet another brother and a sister the day before Christmas and Christmas day, respectively. Our trip is almost a repeat of last year, but we've added one day to the trip...or is it two? In any event, we're going to Mexico to unwind, relax, and relish the company of family. We had a much shorter visit with one of the brothers who will join us in Mexico, along with anothe brother and another sister, over Thanksgiving. One day, and it shouldn't be long, we'll have to arrange a longer visit with all the family.
A friend of mine...not a close friend, but a friend nonetheless...frequently shares his views on issues that parallel mine to an astonishing degree. Take a look at this post, for example. Or, take a gander at this piece that deals with our own election night in November. Jim Karger, my friend, writes most of his comments from his home in San Miguel de Allende. He has invited me to visit, but I have never been to see him there. I think the fact that he sees, right there where he lives, the angst that comes from un-earned poverty and unmet needs, helps him convey his messages in ways that I simply cannot, because I've only imagined many of the ills that befall the impoverished in Mexico...he has seen them.
Every time I think about Mexico and my desire to go there, I think about the inequities between the rich Americans and the poor Mexicans (and, for that matter, between the rich Mexicans and the poor Mexicans). A just society or, more appropriately, a moral society would solve the problems. They wouldn't simply talk about them. A moral society would enable all its citizens to comprehend the righteousness of reaching out to help those less fortunate. A moral society would teach its people why 'more' is sometimes much, much less in terms of happiness.
It's when I have such thoughts that I really consider turning into the hippie I never was; dropping out and living off the land, or what's left of it. I sometimes think to myself that there are wonderful teachings in many churches. If only we could pull them out of the religious mileu and polish them and place them in the classroom...but even that won't work. We need to turn the classroom back into a place of learning. It's become a day-care option for the middle-class, I'm afraid. The unwashed middle-class. The uneducated middle-class. The unimportant middle-class.
Enough. Tomorrow morning I will indulge myself in a way that goes completely counter to what I have been saying here. Tomorrow morning, I will buy a cup of Dunn Bros. coffee on my way to the office, but I will make a point of throwing in $5 to their collection for the needy. God, a $7 cup of coffee. No wonder this society is fucked up.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Bad Writing
Reading back over last night's posting, I see only thin wisps of potential, buried deep beneath a 15-year-old's wannabe expressions of 'skill.' It was almost ugly enough to say "It's done, my attempts at writing are done, there's nothing there. Give up." But I didn't say it.
Toward the end of that short piece last night, I was growing tired and just wanted to wrap it up. There's a bit there worth salvaging for another day, but my talents have suffered badly from being exposed too long to corrosive underuse. If my damn business and job didn't get in the way, I'd write more...more real stuff, not the stream of consciousness crap that frequently finds its way to these 'pages.'
I must remember to document some ideas my wife and I shared about business possibilities. Knowledge college was one. Street coffee was another. That one launched a million ideas.
We attended a holiday party tonight at an employee's home, along with other staff and a significant other or two they brought along. It was a nice little affair. I do wish we had a small circle of friends to share evenings with. But we're usually home-bodies, all to ourselves.
I would write but, as is typical, I'm not quite ready. I need a month to myself, in a well-stocked and utterly desolate cabin in the woods, to think it all through and put real ideas to paper, leaving the scurvy crap like last night's eruption of mediocrity behind in the city.
Toward the end of that short piece last night, I was growing tired and just wanted to wrap it up. There's a bit there worth salvaging for another day, but my talents have suffered badly from being exposed too long to corrosive underuse. If my damn business and job didn't get in the way, I'd write more...more real stuff, not the stream of consciousness crap that frequently finds its way to these 'pages.'
I must remember to document some ideas my wife and I shared about business possibilities. Knowledge college was one. Street coffee was another. That one launched a million ideas.
We attended a holiday party tonight at an employee's home, along with other staff and a significant other or two they brought along. It was a nice little affair. I do wish we had a small circle of friends to share evenings with. But we're usually home-bodies, all to ourselves.
I would write but, as is typical, I'm not quite ready. I need a month to myself, in a well-stocked and utterly desolate cabin in the woods, to think it all through and put real ideas to paper, leaving the scurvy crap like last night's eruption of mediocrity behind in the city.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Testosteronica--1
Testosteronica. She may have been a girl I imagined in the maladies of my youth. She may have been, once, my idea of the perfect woman: intelligent, beautiful, witty, funny, strong, stingingly acerbic, powerful, angry, and unwilling to take bullshit from anyone. Or, she may be a false memory dredged up from a soggy, age-infused memory bank, tangled with alcohol and drugs and time. Regardless of where she came from, she is back. Let me tell you about Testosteronica. Her name is too long, so I call her 'Onica. If I called her by her real name, you might think I'm a latent homosexual. I assure you I am not. And, as liberal as I am, that suggestion makes me shudder. I have nothing against homosexuals, mind you, but I'm just not one. Not now, not ever. Oh, back to her name. Just so you'll get over the name thing, I'll call her, for now, Tonica.
This memory may not be a memory but, rather, an illusion, a hallucination, a fantasy, an unintentional zig-zag and thudding crash of neurons against synapses, with sparks that fly. I've never seen a neuron, up close, but I can imagine what happens when a neuron crashes into a synapse.
Whatever it is, it's the idea that's most important. It's the attitude, the mood, the architecture of the brain that it describes. That's what is most important.
On that night, the clock read only 9:00 pm and the night was struggling to stand, to bring itself up to its craggy, ugly feet and behave like a night is meant to behave.
Nights don't begin at 9:00 pm. They begin after midnight, when the simple people have all gone to bed to prepare for their days of office work and retail and filing extensions on tax returns and making motions to drop the charges.
Nights don't begin too early, as long as they haven't wrecked themselves early. If they have, they start from the beginning and try again.
This night is trying to start early, but by the looks of it, it doesn't have the bones. I look closely at it and ponder whether tonight might succeed in getting an early, dark, start or, more likely will fail as an imposter who can only claim the darkness as his proof of identity.
Real nights have a rough, growling, ugly edge to them. They're rough and hard and coarse and dangerous and they don't care who gets hurt. They're bastards. The bitches who court them are just as nasty and twice as brutal.
Are you wondering now why I haven't mentioned Tonica again? I'll explain later.
A hard night starts with a large bottle of red wine meant for a party of ten, but ends with the remnants of that bottle and a bottle of white wine the same size being used as a painkiller for one. That night gets comfortable with a funeral dirge, disguised as folk music.
A hard night cuts the jugular with a hacksaw and opens the chest with the claws of a hammer. A hard night has no room for sensitivity and love and caring. It has a short life that has precious little room for anything but rabid sex, broken bottles, a little blood and unearthly screams.
Tonica fit well with my idea of a hard night. I'd always wanted to be strong, tough, aloof. I pictured myself an intellectual, but allowed myself the fantasy of being a magnet for women who wanted a smart, hard-drinking player.
She called me early that night and made a point of breathing heavily into the phone as she spoke. She offered to bring me dinner and described a feast of raw tuna, rare lamb, raw oysters, lime-infused cilantro, tequila, onions, octopus, scotch, gobi Manchurian, kitfo, steak & kidney pie, and sex. I was unwilling to be bought cheap, so I requested the addition of nose-bleed hot Thai spices, fresh abalone, and hairy crab from China; she readily agreed.
We had our dinner outside, on the roof; the lights of the city were almost blindlingly beautiful, but they reminded me that everything...I mean everthing...I was used to was wasteful and detrimental to the planet. When I recognize that awful, ugly trait in myself, I become bellicose. So it was that night.
Just as Tonica finished the last of the raw oysters, my guilt caught up with me. I cursed and screamed and demanded to know what Tonica was doing to rid the planet of people like me, people like her, people who suck the life from the earth and never give it a second thought. Tonica was intelligent, beautiful, witty, funny, strong, stingingly acerbic, powerful, angry, and unwilling to take bullshit from anyone. That's when she decapitated me with one swift slash of her razor-sharp sabre.
My invention, prior to that fateful night, had been an instrument that was capable of downloading and storing the thoughts and memories of individuals who had been programmed into its remembrance sequence. I was one of those individuals. So, thanks to Tonica, my ideas and dreams and final thoughts were recorded for posterity or, more likely, as mechanisms to recover memory problems from bad downloads.
This memory may not be a memory but, rather, an illusion, a hallucination, a fantasy, an unintentional zig-zag and thudding crash of neurons against synapses, with sparks that fly. I've never seen a neuron, up close, but I can imagine what happens when a neuron crashes into a synapse.
Whatever it is, it's the idea that's most important. It's the attitude, the mood, the architecture of the brain that it describes. That's what is most important.
On that night, the clock read only 9:00 pm and the night was struggling to stand, to bring itself up to its craggy, ugly feet and behave like a night is meant to behave.
Nights don't begin at 9:00 pm. They begin after midnight, when the simple people have all gone to bed to prepare for their days of office work and retail and filing extensions on tax returns and making motions to drop the charges.
Nights don't begin too early, as long as they haven't wrecked themselves early. If they have, they start from the beginning and try again.
This night is trying to start early, but by the looks of it, it doesn't have the bones. I look closely at it and ponder whether tonight might succeed in getting an early, dark, start or, more likely will fail as an imposter who can only claim the darkness as his proof of identity.
Real nights have a rough, growling, ugly edge to them. They're rough and hard and coarse and dangerous and they don't care who gets hurt. They're bastards. The bitches who court them are just as nasty and twice as brutal.
Are you wondering now why I haven't mentioned Tonica again? I'll explain later.
A hard night starts with a large bottle of red wine meant for a party of ten, but ends with the remnants of that bottle and a bottle of white wine the same size being used as a painkiller for one. That night gets comfortable with a funeral dirge, disguised as folk music.
A hard night cuts the jugular with a hacksaw and opens the chest with the claws of a hammer. A hard night has no room for sensitivity and love and caring. It has a short life that has precious little room for anything but rabid sex, broken bottles, a little blood and unearthly screams.
Tonica fit well with my idea of a hard night. I'd always wanted to be strong, tough, aloof. I pictured myself an intellectual, but allowed myself the fantasy of being a magnet for women who wanted a smart, hard-drinking player.
She called me early that night and made a point of breathing heavily into the phone as she spoke. She offered to bring me dinner and described a feast of raw tuna, rare lamb, raw oysters, lime-infused cilantro, tequila, onions, octopus, scotch, gobi Manchurian, kitfo, steak & kidney pie, and sex. I was unwilling to be bought cheap, so I requested the addition of nose-bleed hot Thai spices, fresh abalone, and hairy crab from China; she readily agreed.
We had our dinner outside, on the roof; the lights of the city were almost blindlingly beautiful, but they reminded me that everything...I mean everthing...I was used to was wasteful and detrimental to the planet. When I recognize that awful, ugly trait in myself, I become bellicose. So it was that night.
Just as Tonica finished the last of the raw oysters, my guilt caught up with me. I cursed and screamed and demanded to know what Tonica was doing to rid the planet of people like me, people like her, people who suck the life from the earth and never give it a second thought. Tonica was intelligent, beautiful, witty, funny, strong, stingingly acerbic, powerful, angry, and unwilling to take bullshit from anyone. That's when she decapitated me with one swift slash of her razor-sharp sabre.
My invention, prior to that fateful night, had been an instrument that was capable of downloading and storing the thoughts and memories of individuals who had been programmed into its remembrance sequence. I was one of those individuals. So, thanks to Tonica, my ideas and dreams and final thoughts were recorded for posterity or, more likely, as mechanisms to recover memory problems from bad downloads.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Food Stuff
Who links to me?
Many of the following links are to Dallas/Fort Worth area food-related sites. I want to keep this information at easy reach.
Many of the following links are to Dallas/Fort Worth area food-related sites. I want to keep this information at easy reach.
- The British Emporium
- Central Market
- Central Market Dallas
- Central Market Fort Worth
- Central Market Plano
- Choosing and Selecting Fresh Produce
- Chowhound
- Chowhound Texas Boards
- Dallas Farmers Market
- Dallas Morning News Lifestyle/Taste Section
- Dallas Observer Dining Guide
- Dallas Restaurant Food Score Site [Official]
- Dallas Restaurant Food Score Site [Unofficial (but better)]
- Dallasfood.org
- East Dallas Restaurants
- Ethiopian Restaurant Links-Texas
- Ethiopianspices.com
- Ethiopian Spice Info.
- Fall Creek Farms in Granbury (pick your own veggies)
- FDA Certified Oyster Dealers in Texas
- Food Label Information
- Fort Worth Star-Telegrams Food Section
- GuideLive Dallas Restaurant Section
- Indian Grocery Stores in Texas
- Jim White's Eats & Drinks
- Lumar Lobster & Shrimp (Wholesaler)
- Penzeys Spice Company
- Roadfood
- Simply Australian
- Slow Food
- Slow Food Dallas
- Southern Foodways Alliance
- Texas Certified Farmers Markets
- Texas Oysters
- Texas Shrimp
- USDA Nutrient Data Laboratory
- Vietnamese Food Info.
- Whole Foods Market (Preston Road Store).
- (Richardson Road Store).
- (Plano Store).
- (Highland Park Store).
- (Greenville Ave. Store).
- Wine Tours of Texas
On the Matter of Neighbors
Mexico is our neighbor. Right next door. Not far away. Just 'over there.'
We cannot afford to ignore our neighbors if we want to live in a peaceful world. (We cannot afford to start wars and facilitate sectarian violence, either, but that's another story.)
And it is especially impolite and downright irrational of us to employ our neighbor's citizens, while insisting that they have no right to take our jobs away from us.
The clamouring to put up a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border is not the worst form of ignoring our neighbors, though. We are saying 'We don't want you and we're putting up a wall so we don't have to look at you.' We're also saying, in effect, 'we don't care what happens in your country...just stay out of ours.'
We don't seem to understand that political and social dislocations in Mexico are very real threats to peace here in the U.S. Our failure to attempt to understand Mexico's problems is arrogance at its worst. And our failure to pressue the Mexican administration to deal with them in ways that are reasonable and rational and respectful of the rights of its citizens is dangerous.
More meaningful media coverage of the events that are taking place in Mexico would be helpful. Here's a link to an article of interest that addresses what has been happening in Oaxaca.
You are Person of the Year
It's another early morning for me, just afte 4:30 am. I woke up about 10 minutes ago and knew immediately it was another one of those days...for whatever reason, I was awake and would be unable to go back to sleep. So, coffee is brewing and soon all will be well with the world.
As I do most mornings, I checked into the news when I got to my computer and saw that the predictions of the daughter of a friend I've never met came to pass. Time Magazine has named You as the person of the year. She mentioned this two days ago on her blog. And the emergence of her prediction happened right here in Dallas, on a layover at DFW airport, on their way back to England.
I'd like to think Time's assessment of our collective ability to change the world in a positive way is a good thing. It is, provided we don't blow it. Some of us who share philosophies and spout ideas about politics and preach about social justic and create videos and record music and do all the other things that the internet enables us to do are making a difference; no question about it. Others of us might as well be locked deep in a cave, screaming at the walls, for all the impact we have. The brief blurb about Time's selection that appeared on CNN (linked above), gets at the hear of it; the web gives us the collective ability to make a difference. We won't make a difference unless we work together to give our ideas legs and unless we give legs to the ideas of others.
Let's give each others' good ideas legs.
As I do most mornings, I checked into the news when I got to my computer and saw that the predictions of the daughter of a friend I've never met came to pass. Time Magazine has named You as the person of the year. She mentioned this two days ago on her blog. And the emergence of her prediction happened right here in Dallas, on a layover at DFW airport, on their way back to England.
I'd like to think Time's assessment of our collective ability to change the world in a positive way is a good thing. It is, provided we don't blow it. Some of us who share philosophies and spout ideas about politics and preach about social justic and create videos and record music and do all the other things that the internet enables us to do are making a difference; no question about it. Others of us might as well be locked deep in a cave, screaming at the walls, for all the impact we have. The brief blurb about Time's selection that appeared on CNN (linked above), gets at the hear of it; the web gives us the collective ability to make a difference. We won't make a difference unless we work together to give our ideas legs and unless we give legs to the ideas of others.
Let's give each others' good ideas legs.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Musical Musings
OK, now my clock reads 4:08 am. What is it with me? It's generally a weekend thing; I am up at the crack of dark...ready to take on the day, which is still a couple of hours away.
I've spent this last little while listening to "top 10" list music from NPR listeners. Some of what I heard:
I listened to some fascinating stuff from Joanna Newsom's CD entitled Ys. She is a harpist with a very odd voice that shifts from sounding like a little girl to an old woman to a crazy person of any age. As I was listening, I was zipping about the internet, reading about what I was hearing, and I recall seeing something that said her music is an example of "freak folk."
The Decemberists' The Crane Wife is also interesting, more folk-style music that is interesting but I think I would need to take it in small doses. It seems to me to be story-telling, but it doesn't quite grab me...like hearing someone making up stories about the distant past and telling the stories with a bad accent. Can't quite describe my feelings about it, but it's not bad...just not my favorite.
I really liked hearing Spirit on the Water by Bob Dylan from his Modern Times CD. Despite his strange voice, I have always liked Dylan. I'd like to hear the rest of the CD before I decide whether I really want it...and so I probably will.
Tom Waits' voice is like broken glass and gravel and fingernails scraping on a blackboard...but I find it appealing anyway. I listened to Bottom of the World from his Orphans CD. The music accompanying his raspy voice is moving; it sounds like a family band from the back-country...real feelings and real people making real music.
I've never heard of Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, that I recall, but one listen of one song gives me a good feeling about them. The Charging Sky from Rabbit Fur Coat is a quirky mix of folk and country and wierd. I like it. I'll have to hear more.
I wandered to another page and got intriguted by the music of Juana Molina, an Argentinian whose La Verdad from the Son CD got me interested in her. I subsequently went wandering off looking for more samples of her music and learned that she will be on tour in England in January...I'd like to see her perform, along with the others who will be touring with her, but not enough to go to England.
As I write these words, it's 5:41 am and I have come to the conclusion that I am up for the day. So, it's time to make some coffee.
I've spent this last little while listening to "top 10" list music from NPR listeners. Some of what I heard:
I listened to some fascinating stuff from Joanna Newsom's CD entitled Ys. She is a harpist with a very odd voice that shifts from sounding like a little girl to an old woman to a crazy person of any age. As I was listening, I was zipping about the internet, reading about what I was hearing, and I recall seeing something that said her music is an example of "freak folk."
The Decemberists' The Crane Wife is also interesting, more folk-style music that is interesting but I think I would need to take it in small doses. It seems to me to be story-telling, but it doesn't quite grab me...like hearing someone making up stories about the distant past and telling the stories with a bad accent. Can't quite describe my feelings about it, but it's not bad...just not my favorite.
I really liked hearing Spirit on the Water by Bob Dylan from his Modern Times CD. Despite his strange voice, I have always liked Dylan. I'd like to hear the rest of the CD before I decide whether I really want it...and so I probably will.
Tom Waits' voice is like broken glass and gravel and fingernails scraping on a blackboard...but I find it appealing anyway. I listened to Bottom of the World from his Orphans CD. The music accompanying his raspy voice is moving; it sounds like a family band from the back-country...real feelings and real people making real music.
I've never heard of Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins, that I recall, but one listen of one song gives me a good feeling about them. The Charging Sky from Rabbit Fur Coat is a quirky mix of folk and country and wierd. I like it. I'll have to hear more.
I wandered to another page and got intriguted by the music of Juana Molina, an Argentinian whose La Verdad from the Son CD got me interested in her. I subsequently went wandering off looking for more samples of her music and learned that she will be on tour in England in January...I'd like to see her perform, along with the others who will be touring with her, but not enough to go to England.
As I write these words, it's 5:41 am and I have come to the conclusion that I am up for the day. So, it's time to make some coffee.
Wee Hour Ramblings
My computer's clock reads 2:27 am. That means I have been up for 27 minutes. I'm not sure why I could not sleep, but it probably had something to do with the fact that, for some reason, I could hear and feel my very rapid heartbeat...something like a locomotive in terms of speed and sound. Once I got up, the sensation of the rapid, "thud, thud, thud, thud" in my chest and in my ears disappeared. I've had mightily stopped-up sinuses of late, which no doubt contributes.
I checked my email after I awoke and, to my delight, I had no new messages since I checked it before going to bed last night. It's a sign of the season: people don't have time to send me messages at all hours of the night, expecting immediate responses. My two latest messages were from 9:54 pm, which I read last night, and from 10:20 am on Saturday, which I also read last night. The 10:20 am message must have been sent from someplace like China; I read it last night, too, before I went to bed...the sender, though, lives in Dallas, but I gather is "on the road."
I decided to take advantage of the late hour to download lots of photos from my camera and then transfer them to my office PC. Through the wonders of technology, I can do that, though it's not a rapid process...it's going on as I write this and is expected to take 24 minutes. I have nothing better to do, though, and I need the photos for an electronic newsletter...it will be good to have them available, finally, at the office where I need them.
The weather here has taken a turn toward warm. According to my Weather Underground report on my home page, it's 63 degrees, which I suspect is a good 20 degrees warmer than a typical night this time of year in Dallas. Forecasts call for highs in the 70s for the next few days, which is not too bad, but it certainly dampens the sensation of wintertime.
Well, enough wee-hour ramblings for the moment. Maybe I'll try sleeping again...or maybe I'll just surf the web.
I checked my email after I awoke and, to my delight, I had no new messages since I checked it before going to bed last night. It's a sign of the season: people don't have time to send me messages at all hours of the night, expecting immediate responses. My two latest messages were from 9:54 pm, which I read last night, and from 10:20 am on Saturday, which I also read last night. The 10:20 am message must have been sent from someplace like China; I read it last night, too, before I went to bed...the sender, though, lives in Dallas, but I gather is "on the road."
I decided to take advantage of the late hour to download lots of photos from my camera and then transfer them to my office PC. Through the wonders of technology, I can do that, though it's not a rapid process...it's going on as I write this and is expected to take 24 minutes. I have nothing better to do, though, and I need the photos for an electronic newsletter...it will be good to have them available, finally, at the office where I need them.
The weather here has taken a turn toward warm. According to my Weather Underground report on my home page, it's 63 degrees, which I suspect is a good 20 degrees warmer than a typical night this time of year in Dallas. Forecasts call for highs in the 70s for the next few days, which is not too bad, but it certainly dampens the sensation of wintertime.
Well, enough wee-hour ramblings for the moment. Maybe I'll try sleeping again...or maybe I'll just surf the web.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Birthday Month
This is a big birthday month for my office...three people have December birthdays. That means three cakes. I'm not much into cakes, actually, but I do look forward to the one birthday that always assures a carrot cake.
Nothing else of import on my mind at the moment...maybe I'll wrote more later.
Nothing else of import on my mind at the moment...maybe I'll wrote more later.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Eat Local (right?)
I'm sorry, I misunderstood. They were saying "eat local," but I heard "eat yokel" and so have devoured a dozen rednecks over the course of the last few hours. If only I'd been vegetarian, I could have avoided all this...too bad, so sad.
Pre-Holiday Blues?
There are days that argue against posting to my blog. Yesterday was one. Today is another. I listened to the argument yesterday. Today, I decided that days cannot argue with me...what kind of craziness is it that I am supposed to believe days can argue?! Well, on to something different.
I read something in the Dallas Morning News a few days ago about an interesting exhibit at the Museum of Natural History in Dallas. The exhibit is The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies. I am interested. I want to see it.
iTunes has been agreeable lately...giving me free Christmas music (like I care about Christmas music...) and other freebies. Last night, I downloaded a documentary about Hispanics serving in the armed forces...it's really interesting. I have yet to buy anything from iTunes, but they are extremely clever marketers and I suspect they will be successful with me in the not-too-distant future.
My old notebook computer has a new soul. Ihave not yet installed its brain and heart and pancreas, but it is operational. I do not look forward to re-installing all the crap I lost. I may not do it until 2007. That may be my New Year's Resolution (that, or to lose 50 pounds or relocate to Mexico or retire and live in National Parks).
When I get deeply into something technical (like developing routines that do a lot of neat things in Access), I wonder just how smart today's kids really are. I have young people working for me...people who exemplify the demographic that is supposed to know all about using technology...who don't know as much as I do. It's disconcerting. I want young people to teach me. I want them to de-code the VCR for me, not vice versa.
All of my clients are using Harry & David as their gift-giving resource this year. We have lots of fruit at the office, along with candy, popcorn, etc., etc. I should have sent similar things to clients, but cannot afford to. Instead, we are sending 2007 New Year cards, each signed by all of us in the office.
I have such mixed feelings about Christmas. For one, it's not a religious holiday to me, because I'm not...not even a little...religious. For another, it has become so horrifically materialistic that it angers me. For another, I love the attitudes (however temporary) that it seems to engender in some people...attitudes that cause them to actually do good. I love the idea of Christmas (without any religious attachments), but I hate the reality of it. I don't want to give gifts...I want to donate money to organizations that need it to help people, and tell people to whom I would have given a gift, "Sorry, your gift money went to feed a broken family in Ames, Iowa" or "Sorry, I sent your gift money to Darfur, hoping they would put it to better use." But then I DO like giving gifts to my family. Dammit! I like using Christmastime as an opportunity to tell people I don't see or talk to often enough that I love them. Little gifts can do that.
I want to do things at Christmas, and all throughout the year, to help people who need a hand. But I don't do enough. Our dinner at McCormick & Schmick's, even though we used a gift card, could have turned a bleak and cold and painful night into a joyous occasion if I had shared the card with someone who really could have used it. I don't know if it's guilt or caring or something else that drives me, but I really want to do something for people who are down on their luck...and I don't want to do it just at Christmas. Why is it so hard to just get it done...to start helping people? Am I afraid that I'll end up distributing my "wealth" to others who need it more than I? Who knows...obviously, I don't.
I'm so fortunate and there are so many who are utterly unfortunate. Where is the fairness in that? How can those of use who are so fortunate make a big impact on the world by encouraging the most fortunate to share their good fortune? I guess we have to start doing it ourselves, first.
Is all of this some sort of pre-holiday depression? Maybe, but probably not. Believe it or not, these things go through my mind most days...and that gives me the blues.
I read something in the Dallas Morning News a few days ago about an interesting exhibit at the Museum of Natural History in Dallas. The exhibit is The Anatomical Exhibition of Real Human Bodies. I am interested. I want to see it.
iTunes has been agreeable lately...giving me free Christmas music (like I care about Christmas music...) and other freebies. Last night, I downloaded a documentary about Hispanics serving in the armed forces...it's really interesting. I have yet to buy anything from iTunes, but they are extremely clever marketers and I suspect they will be successful with me in the not-too-distant future.
My old notebook computer has a new soul. Ihave not yet installed its brain and heart and pancreas, but it is operational. I do not look forward to re-installing all the crap I lost. I may not do it until 2007. That may be my New Year's Resolution (that, or to lose 50 pounds or relocate to Mexico or retire and live in National Parks).
When I get deeply into something technical (like developing routines that do a lot of neat things in Access), I wonder just how smart today's kids really are. I have young people working for me...people who exemplify the demographic that is supposed to know all about using technology...who don't know as much as I do. It's disconcerting. I want young people to teach me. I want them to de-code the VCR for me, not vice versa.
All of my clients are using Harry & David as their gift-giving resource this year. We have lots of fruit at the office, along with candy, popcorn, etc., etc. I should have sent similar things to clients, but cannot afford to. Instead, we are sending 2007 New Year cards, each signed by all of us in the office.
I have such mixed feelings about Christmas. For one, it's not a religious holiday to me, because I'm not...not even a little...religious. For another, it has become so horrifically materialistic that it angers me. For another, I love the attitudes (however temporary) that it seems to engender in some people...attitudes that cause them to actually do good. I love the idea of Christmas (without any religious attachments), but I hate the reality of it. I don't want to give gifts...I want to donate money to organizations that need it to help people, and tell people to whom I would have given a gift, "Sorry, your gift money went to feed a broken family in Ames, Iowa" or "Sorry, I sent your gift money to Darfur, hoping they would put it to better use." But then I DO like giving gifts to my family. Dammit! I like using Christmastime as an opportunity to tell people I don't see or talk to often enough that I love them. Little gifts can do that.
I want to do things at Christmas, and all throughout the year, to help people who need a hand. But I don't do enough. Our dinner at McCormick & Schmick's, even though we used a gift card, could have turned a bleak and cold and painful night into a joyous occasion if I had shared the card with someone who really could have used it. I don't know if it's guilt or caring or something else that drives me, but I really want to do something for people who are down on their luck...and I don't want to do it just at Christmas. Why is it so hard to just get it done...to start helping people? Am I afraid that I'll end up distributing my "wealth" to others who need it more than I? Who knows...obviously, I don't.
I'm so fortunate and there are so many who are utterly unfortunate. Where is the fairness in that? How can those of use who are so fortunate make a big impact on the world by encouraging the most fortunate to share their good fortune? I guess we have to start doing it ourselves, first.
Is all of this some sort of pre-holiday depression? Maybe, but probably not. Believe it or not, these things go through my mind most days...and that gives me the blues.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Practicing Privacy
I've watched Crash, or parts of it, several times. On one level, I like it. I like the message it sends. But on several levels I don't like it. And I don't like the message it sends, because the message is flawed...badly flawed.
The message of the film is, pure and simple, intended to be that circumstance dictates our perceptions of the people around us...regardless of race, ethnicity, etc.
What I think it unintentionally says is this: race is not the thing, class is. A rich black man is more likely to have a lot in common with a rich white man than a poor black man. Race plays into it, but only a bit. White cops, who are middle class or lower, react badly to well-off blacks...but not because of race. Because of class.
Greg Palast, I've decided, had his moment in the sun when he pointed out the idiocies of the class war, but he has gone well into the deep end and is now just another blathering idiot himself. Who can I identify to articulate the need to fight both the race and the class wars? I don't know. Jimmy Carter? He's a mad-dog Baptist, I don't think so. But I don't mind religious types, sometimes, as long as they practice privacy.
The message of the film is, pure and simple, intended to be that circumstance dictates our perceptions of the people around us...regardless of race, ethnicity, etc.
What I think it unintentionally says is this: race is not the thing, class is. A rich black man is more likely to have a lot in common with a rich white man than a poor black man. Race plays into it, but only a bit. White cops, who are middle class or lower, react badly to well-off blacks...but not because of race. Because of class.
Greg Palast, I've decided, had his moment in the sun when he pointed out the idiocies of the class war, but he has gone well into the deep end and is now just another blathering idiot himself. Who can I identify to articulate the need to fight both the race and the class wars? I don't know. Jimmy Carter? He's a mad-dog Baptist, I don't think so. But I don't mind religious types, sometimes, as long as they practice privacy.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Annan and On and On
I have been able to read bits and pieces of Kofi Annan's speech today in Independence, Missouri, given at the Truman Presidential Museum and Library. I have always held Annan in moderately high regard, for I like the fact that he can be very, very diplomatic while excoriating his opponents. That's a skill I do not possess. His comments today, admonishing the U.S. to use its power wisely and encouraging us to remain true to our principles, the principles that allowed this country to become a great one, were on target.
Bush, of course, is not intelligent enough to even understand Annan's comments. How much longer do we have to suffer through this imbecile? I'm afraid it's too late, now, to regain respect for the U.S. throughout the world. Allowing Bush to steal the presidency once, then actually electing him to another 4-year term, have almost certainly informed the rest of the world about our true motives. This is wrong.
If we have any intelligent, truly intelligent, politicians in the next Congress, they should begin to think how the U.S. should work to position itself as a 2nd level world power. We've abandoned our position as leader; now, we better prepare to be near the top, or we will find outselves at the bottom. All of us should get used to the fact that we will become and increasingly irrelevant country, thanks to our policies over most of the last several generations. Or, we should kick ourselves in the butt and turn it around.
As I've said, though, I'm afraid it's too late.
Bush, of course, is not intelligent enough to even understand Annan's comments. How much longer do we have to suffer through this imbecile? I'm afraid it's too late, now, to regain respect for the U.S. throughout the world. Allowing Bush to steal the presidency once, then actually electing him to another 4-year term, have almost certainly informed the rest of the world about our true motives. This is wrong.
If we have any intelligent, truly intelligent, politicians in the next Congress, they should begin to think how the U.S. should work to position itself as a 2nd level world power. We've abandoned our position as leader; now, we better prepare to be near the top, or we will find outselves at the bottom. All of us should get used to the fact that we will become and increasingly irrelevant country, thanks to our policies over most of the last several generations. Or, we should kick ourselves in the butt and turn it around.
As I've said, though, I'm afraid it's too late.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
What I Want to Do Instead...
I've not been in the mood to blog today...still not in the mood. I'm jotting a few notes to record the fact that I'm unprepared to write. Got good news from a sister yesterday...she, too, will be in Mexico over Christmas. A brother and his wife, on their way to Oregon, are safely in El Paso on their way north and west...and another nephew is apparently doing well, which I'm glad to hear. My broadcast of photos of my niece's recent wedding got to the right people, albeit with the wrong year on the photos' date.
Tomorrow is another day that I don't particularly want to face. Gotta figure out what I want to do instead.
My wife just went to bed...I should do the same. I watched a Lewis Black special on the Comedy Channel awhile ago...funny in spots, but not what I had hoped for or expected. He's a geezer who should set a better example with his political comedy.
Tomorrow is another day that I don't particularly want to face. Gotta figure out what I want to do instead.
My wife just went to bed...I should do the same. I watched a Lewis Black special on the Comedy Channel awhile ago...funny in spots, but not what I had hoped for or expected. He's a geezer who should set a better example with his political comedy.
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Kiss
After a long and relatively unsatisfactory (but not without merit) strategic planning session today, I should have blogged...should have written something I wanted to capture for posterity or for that elusive novel I'd like to write. Instead, I spent more time leaving comments on others' blogs than writing in my own.
I'd not make a good polititian, regardless of my opinions and attitudes and ideas. I lose the 'burning flames of passion' about most issues before I act on them. I have passion, but I fear burning myself out if I allow myself to feed the passion.
Sometimes, I wish I'd just decide which direction to take. I write this blog primarily as a way to record my thoughts, create a resource for content for my one-day novel, and as a means to allow myself to decompress. I need to write more fiction and stop focusing so heavily on soapbox commentary. I pledge to myself: more fiction, poetry, and apolitical essay. Starting soon.
A kiss. A remarkable kiss. Something that touches me at the edge of my humanity, and makes me more human. How can I share that sense of safety, that sense of danger, that sense of wonder that erupts with this kiss? And who is this, this invader, this interloper, who offers a kiss without approval? Am I dreaming this, or am I looking backward to a life I never knew...or forward, to a life I'll never know?
I'd not make a good polititian, regardless of my opinions and attitudes and ideas. I lose the 'burning flames of passion' about most issues before I act on them. I have passion, but I fear burning myself out if I allow myself to feed the passion.
Sometimes, I wish I'd just decide which direction to take. I write this blog primarily as a way to record my thoughts, create a resource for content for my one-day novel, and as a means to allow myself to decompress. I need to write more fiction and stop focusing so heavily on soapbox commentary. I pledge to myself: more fiction, poetry, and apolitical essay. Starting soon.
A kiss. A remarkable kiss. Something that touches me at the edge of my humanity, and makes me more human. How can I share that sense of safety, that sense of danger, that sense of wonder that erupts with this kiss? And who is this, this invader, this interloper, who offers a kiss without approval? Am I dreaming this, or am I looking backward to a life I never knew...or forward, to a life I'll never know?
Still Smarting
It's just shy of 7:00 am and I'm slowly getting ready for an all-day-Saturday 'strategic planning session' with a client. I'm not really up for this, but have little choice if I want to keep the client deliriously happy. I'll first have my Saturday coffee (a nice French roast that has enough caffeine to jolt me into a state of attention that is befitting an important meeting), then run through a shower, put on my favorite weekend jeans and sweater (client notwithstanding, I'm not doing dress shirt, slacks, and such on THIS Saturday), and head out for a day of joy and wonder.
I'm still smarting from the miserable thief of a lawyer who sent me a $23K bill for work that was worth a fraction. His justification for the size of the bill was "you insisted we attend the meeting in person in New York, instead of by phone, and that took much more time." I asked how much more time it took in person than by telephone and he said "travel time." I asked how many more hours at $450 per hour it took for "travel time" and he hemmed and hawed and couldn't answer. It's a simple case of a high-dollar law firm billing out someone's time for having an attorney's mind on a topic at some point during an hour...and charging for the full hour. I will not use this firm ever again. Enough bitching.
It's a brisk 34 degrees outdoors, so a short-sleeve shirt is out of the question. Better move along, as I have places to be and things to see at 8:30.
I'm still smarting from the miserable thief of a lawyer who sent me a $23K bill for work that was worth a fraction. His justification for the size of the bill was "you insisted we attend the meeting in person in New York, instead of by phone, and that took much more time." I asked how much more time it took in person than by telephone and he said "travel time." I asked how many more hours at $450 per hour it took for "travel time" and he hemmed and hawed and couldn't answer. It's a simple case of a high-dollar law firm billing out someone's time for having an attorney's mind on a topic at some point during an hour...and charging for the full hour. I will not use this firm ever again. Enough bitching.
It's a brisk 34 degrees outdoors, so a short-sleeve shirt is out of the question. Better move along, as I have places to be and things to see at 8:30.
Friday, December 8, 2006
Laywers and Thieves...Apologies to My Late Father and My Nephew
My Dell notebook computer, which recently died, will undergo surgery next Monday. With good fortune, I will have a usable computer soon. If not, I will have a dead computer. I already have dead computers. Why do I need more?
Isabelita & Phil...if you read this, know I share your outrage and your joys.
My conversation with a lawyer today was not satisfactory. He offered a 25% reduction on a $23K invoice to me. I am now prepared to offer a bounty on thieves who pose as lawyers. And they do not care that their gluttonous fees ruin careers and lives. They are bastards.
I have a plan, though, and the lawyers will really not be happy. We will pay their fucking fees...but we will also notify the world what they did for us and what they charged. And that should suffice.
Isabelita & Phil...if you read this, know I share your outrage and your joys.
My conversation with a lawyer today was not satisfactory. He offered a 25% reduction on a $23K invoice to me. I am now prepared to offer a bounty on thieves who pose as lawyers. And they do not care that their gluttonous fees ruin careers and lives. They are bastards.
I have a plan, though, and the lawyers will really not be happy. We will pay their fucking fees...but we will also notify the world what they did for us and what they charged. And that should suffice.
Sense
It's apparent to all of us (isn't it?) that people have different perceptions of taste. I like the flavor of cilantro, but others loathe it...I love cumin, others think it akin to poison...I like dry wine, some like it sweet. So, that tells me we experience flavors in different ways...our senses of taste are very different.
If you'll give me that, consider this: since we experience that one sense differently, is it possible that we experience other of our senses differently? I think so. Some people enjoy being tickled...to others it is torture. Some people like to feel the weight of heavy blankets on them when they lie in bed...others feel like they are in straight jackets with more than a sheet.
How about sight? It's my contention that people may, indeed, see things differently...literally. Might the color I perceive as red be perceived, by you, the same way I perceive aqua? Speaking of colors, we have different tastes there, too...another of our senses that is experienced in different ways by different people.
I know, this question is the sort of thing a curious kid would come up with. I'm feeling like a kid today. I see the world with wonder.
If you'll give me that, consider this: since we experience that one sense differently, is it possible that we experience other of our senses differently? I think so. Some people enjoy being tickled...to others it is torture. Some people like to feel the weight of heavy blankets on them when they lie in bed...others feel like they are in straight jackets with more than a sheet.
How about sight? It's my contention that people may, indeed, see things differently...literally. Might the color I perceive as red be perceived, by you, the same way I perceive aqua? Speaking of colors, we have different tastes there, too...another of our senses that is experienced in different ways by different people.
I know, this question is the sort of thing a curious kid would come up with. I'm feeling like a kid today. I see the world with wonder.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Iraq
The situation in Iraq has gone from horrible to catastrophically bad. As I listened to bits and pieces of the Iraq Study Group report being discussed on NPR, I was torn between wanting to get out of Iraq, TODAY, and doing what I believe is the morally right thing to do...which is hard for me to comes to grip with.
It was morally wrong for the U.S. to invade Iraq. Regardless of how bad Saddam Hussein was, it was simply wrong for us to go in. The reasons we were given were based on lies and many of us knew that was a fact from long before we started the invasion. Many of us, and I am very definitely among them, protested loudly that it was not in our interests nor in the interests of world peace to start a war under the policy of preemptive attack.
Just as it was morally wrong for us to go in to start with, I think it would be morally wrong for us to walk away from the problems we created and leave them for the Iraqis to sort out. We effectively facilitated the ongoing explosion of sectarian violence and what amounts to a civil war. The honorable thing to do, if we have any honor left, is to facilitate an end to the sectarian violence.
I don't know precisely how to do that, but I rather doubt the way is based on U.S. soldiers continuing in a military role. But I do think we are obliged to try to help rebuild a country we wrecked. I think we are obliged to try to restore order and infrastructure to a country we essentially obliterated. I think we are obligated not to say, "we didn't do it, it was our President, and now that he is without a majority in Congress, we can rub his nose in it by making a quick exit." I would dearly love to rub the President's nose in the shit for which he is responsible, but there will be a time to do that. In the interim, I'd like to think that the U.S. and its people will not abandon the Iraqi people simply because w are angry about the fact that about half our population were misguided and put George Bush in office.
George Bush lied, he caused many people to die, and he still doesn't regret it, not for a second. He is the epitome of greed and abnormal nationalism and patriotic dementia. We would fail as a nation if were were to use those facts as an excuse not to try to correct some of what he did.
It was morally wrong for the U.S. to invade Iraq. Regardless of how bad Saddam Hussein was, it was simply wrong for us to go in. The reasons we were given were based on lies and many of us knew that was a fact from long before we started the invasion. Many of us, and I am very definitely among them, protested loudly that it was not in our interests nor in the interests of world peace to start a war under the policy of preemptive attack.
Just as it was morally wrong for us to go in to start with, I think it would be morally wrong for us to walk away from the problems we created and leave them for the Iraqis to sort out. We effectively facilitated the ongoing explosion of sectarian violence and what amounts to a civil war. The honorable thing to do, if we have any honor left, is to facilitate an end to the sectarian violence.
I don't know precisely how to do that, but I rather doubt the way is based on U.S. soldiers continuing in a military role. But I do think we are obliged to try to help rebuild a country we wrecked. I think we are obliged to try to restore order and infrastructure to a country we essentially obliterated. I think we are obligated not to say, "we didn't do it, it was our President, and now that he is without a majority in Congress, we can rub his nose in it by making a quick exit." I would dearly love to rub the President's nose in the shit for which he is responsible, but there will be a time to do that. In the interim, I'd like to think that the U.S. and its people will not abandon the Iraqi people simply because w are angry about the fact that about half our population were misguided and put George Bush in office.
George Bush lied, he caused many people to die, and he still doesn't regret it, not for a second. He is the epitome of greed and abnormal nationalism and patriotic dementia. We would fail as a nation if were were to use those facts as an excuse not to try to correct some of what he did.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Pamela Brown
I guess I owe it all to Pamela Brown. So sings Leo Kottke as he ruminates about how his life was different because of who he didn't marry. Me, too! For me, it could be Nancy Davis. She was planning to be a dentist and join the Navy to pay for her education. "I guess I owe it all to Nancy Davis" doesn't sound quite right. And my favorite wife might not approve, anyway.
We could have all been different if our partners hadn't chosen us or vice versa. I might have ended up as a Department of Agriculture inspector or a hyper-poet who lives for his morning vodka and cool-aid. Fortunately, I married a wonder-wife who keeps me from harming myself most of the time.
We could have all been different if our partners hadn't chosen us or vice versa. I might have ended up as a Department of Agriculture inspector or a hyper-poet who lives for his morning vodka and cool-aid. Fortunately, I married a wonder-wife who keeps me from harming myself most of the time.
Heavy Heavy Fuel
I'm listening to a tribute album to Townes van Zandt on the earbuds that are intended for my iPod Shuffle...but I've dragged them into play to listen to music on my notebook.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm attached to music the way some people are attached to poetry. They're the same, in my view, but well-conceived music marries beautiful sounds with beautifully constructed ideas.
At this very moment, I am listening to Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson performing A Thousand Kisses Deep. It's mezmerizing.
Oh, back to Townes van Zandt: he was an amazingly skilled songwriter. I've enjoyed much of his music for years without knowing he wrote it.
Oh, this odd mix of music that I'm hearing is wild. Just now another piece started: Smooth, on Santana's album entitled Supernatural. "I could change my life to better suit your mood." That slaps me in the face when I hear it.
A new topic.
Today, I was in no mood to work. I have lots of work to do. But I was, and am not, in any mood to work. This is bad. Clients expect me to work on their behalf 24/7. Bad deal. I'd rather just listen to "if you wanna run cool, you got to run on heavy, heavy fuel."
OK. Stop this mindless crap. Let someone else contribute a comment to this blog!
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm attached to music the way some people are attached to poetry. They're the same, in my view, but well-conceived music marries beautiful sounds with beautifully constructed ideas.
At this very moment, I am listening to Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson performing A Thousand Kisses Deep. It's mezmerizing.
Oh, back to Townes van Zandt: he was an amazingly skilled songwriter. I've enjoyed much of his music for years without knowing he wrote it.
Oh, this odd mix of music that I'm hearing is wild. Just now another piece started: Smooth, on Santana's album entitled Supernatural. "I could change my life to better suit your mood." That slaps me in the face when I hear it.
A new topic.
Today, I was in no mood to work. I have lots of work to do. But I was, and am not, in any mood to work. This is bad. Clients expect me to work on their behalf 24/7. Bad deal. I'd rather just listen to "if you wanna run cool, you got to run on heavy, heavy fuel."
OK. Stop this mindless crap. Let someone else contribute a comment to this blog!
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Governmental Control is Real
The U.S. government may have its heart in the right place (I'm trying to be nonjudgemental), but it certainly is getting deeply involved in controlling what we can or cannot do.
I just got a new copy machine for my office, a jazzy piece of equipment that copies and prints in color. The salesman mentioned to me that the machine's technology would prevent anyone from using it to copy currency, ...he said problems with counterfitting made it necessary. I assumed he meant U.S. currency. I haven't tried that, but I did try today to make a photocopy (for a completely innocuous reason) of a 1 Yuan note from China (value is less than U.S. $0.13). I couldn't do it. The copy came out as a black sheet. How the hell can the machine determine that this piece of paper I'm trying to copy is a Chinese Yuan note? I'm absolutely confident that my blogs are read by U.S. agents. This is scary stuff.
I just got a new copy machine for my office, a jazzy piece of equipment that copies and prints in color. The salesman mentioned to me that the machine's technology would prevent anyone from using it to copy currency, ...he said problems with counterfitting made it necessary. I assumed he meant U.S. currency. I haven't tried that, but I did try today to make a photocopy (for a completely innocuous reason) of a 1 Yuan note from China (value is less than U.S. $0.13). I couldn't do it. The copy came out as a black sheet. How the hell can the machine determine that this piece of paper I'm trying to copy is a Chinese Yuan note? I'm absolutely confident that my blogs are read by U.S. agents. This is scary stuff.
Talking Testa
My new favorite musician, Gianmaria Testa, has a song that tests my ability to understand the brittle and bad translation that I get from www.freetranslation.com. Here is a translation of one of the phrases from one of my favorites, this one from Putumayo:
From "Dentro la Tasca di un Qualunque Mattino" (Inside the Pocket of Any Morning)
"Inside the pocket of any morning / I would hide you inside the pocket"
It's uncanny that other people are so much better at understanding artists than I: for example, Putumayo's website includes the following comment about his music, borrowed from other reviewers: "the Italian Leonard Cohen." I am astonished. I am a huge Leonard Cohen fan, but did not originally see the connection.
I have the Putumayo CD, "The Wine Lands," that includes a Testa song, but I do not yet own "Italian Cafe," which ostensibly has at least one of his pieces. But one day, I shall.
Sometimes, when I consider how important words are to mean to me, I decide I should have been a word person and that I would have been a much happier guy had I chosen something that better fits my psyche than what I do. But, then, maybe I'm just bitching and, regardless of what I had done, I would still be bitching. I may just be a bitcher.
But words and music do have a way of making me think, a way of causing me to think and feel like nothing else does...so, still, I may be a word person who didn't follow his calling. Moral: follow your calling, whatever it is. Even if you don't make more money, eat at nicer restaurants, drive nicer cars, etc., you'll feel better from the mind on down.
From "Dentro la Tasca di un Qualunque Mattino" (Inside the Pocket of Any Morning)
"Inside the pocket of any morning / I would hide you inside the pocket"
It's uncanny that other people are so much better at understanding artists than I: for example, Putumayo's website includes the following comment about his music, borrowed from other reviewers: "the Italian Leonard Cohen." I am astonished. I am a huge Leonard Cohen fan, but did not originally see the connection.
I have the Putumayo CD, "The Wine Lands," that includes a Testa song, but I do not yet own "Italian Cafe," which ostensibly has at least one of his pieces. But one day, I shall.
Sometimes, when I consider how important words are to mean to me, I decide I should have been a word person and that I would have been a much happier guy had I chosen something that better fits my psyche than what I do. But, then, maybe I'm just bitching and, regardless of what I had done, I would still be bitching. I may just be a bitcher.
But words and music do have a way of making me think, a way of causing me to think and feel like nothing else does...so, still, I may be a word person who didn't follow his calling. Moral: follow your calling, whatever it is. Even if you don't make more money, eat at nicer restaurants, drive nicer cars, etc., you'll feel better from the mind on down.
Haiku?
Tears flow and thoughts rush.
Smiles distant and fragile.
Happy times are over.
Tell me, is that haiku?
Smiles distant and fragile.
Happy times are over.
Tell me, is that haiku?
Monday, December 4, 2006
Mind Tricks with Radio
My search for information on getting a replacement music machine for my car...one that will allow me to plug in my iPod...is veering off in new directions. Phil offered some insights, based on his experience, and I got some interesting information as I perused new car information, as well. My theory was that I could check to see what new vehicles are offering and could then elect to buy something like their standard equipment.
Looking at new car information on the web, of course, is an unwise move for someone whose car just passed 146,000 miles and is exhibiting crankiness in simple ways, like refusing to allow the truck to be opened with the key from time to time. I convinced myself a year ago to spend $5,000 on the beast to bring it to nearly new operating condition. That, alone, should be sufficient to vaccinate me against new car fever. It will probably work, but it's not a strong a vaccine as I believe it should be. My temperature has risen a bit as I look longingly at vehicles that aren't showing the wear that my 1997 Avalon is showing. But I'll be able to ward off distemper, or whatever it is I am warding off. After my recent posts questioning my credibility for failing to tithe a large percentage of my income to helping the needy, I damn sure better overcome this viscious fever!
Were I to succumb to temptation, though, I might make a radical departure from my present vehicle. The very same Phil suggested not long ago, as I was testing reactions to my mid-age craziness, that I would be better off investing in a tractor to till my land in Falba than in purchasing a Mazda Miata or some such "old man wants to demonstrate his powerful attractiveness to young stupid women" car. But, again, were I to succumb to temptation:
I might go for a 2007 Honda Element SC, which I am told gets good mileage, has a very nice set of mp3 devices, and looks sufficiently wierd to suit me.
While I was gazing at the Honda website, I came across another nice little convertible, the Honda S2000. Maybe I'd get one of those, if new car fever overcame me.
A 2007 Subaru Forester is actually moving up my list, quickly (but a 2003 version might be just as appealing). Subaru makes a point of noting that the vehicle will accommodate my iPod. I like that in a car manufacturer...mind reading.
Of course, I could fall into the lap of luxury by getting some domestic beast (which I am increasingly thinking about...when I do finally buy a car...due to my growing dissatisfaction with globalization as a concept). Were I to do that, I might get the new Lincoln MKZ, which looks rather nice.
Most likely, though, I will buy a used vehicle when the time comes. I've always talked about buying used, but haven't. When I was ready to buy my last car, I convinced myself that buying used was an invitation to dissatisfaction. So, I bought my Avalon...paid cash...brand new. That's the last time I'll be able to do that (pay cash). For years prior to buying it, after we paid off the earlier vehicles, we pretended to still have car payments and we socked the money away. That has changed. Anyway...I should buy used, if I can only convince myself that the chances are very high that I will get a good car. I'll save buckets of money and will be happier for it.
I'm taking it as a lesson...when one wants a new product for an old car, one should avoid looking at all the gadgetry on new cars. It only creates temptation and disappointment. Take an alternative approach: instead of looking for a new stereo system, for example, buy a $7 transistor radio and use it instead of the car stereo for a month. At the end of the month, the vast superiority of your car stereo over the little transistor will convince you that the car stereo is wonderful. Or so I think.
Looking at new car information on the web, of course, is an unwise move for someone whose car just passed 146,000 miles and is exhibiting crankiness in simple ways, like refusing to allow the truck to be opened with the key from time to time. I convinced myself a year ago to spend $5,000 on the beast to bring it to nearly new operating condition. That, alone, should be sufficient to vaccinate me against new car fever. It will probably work, but it's not a strong a vaccine as I believe it should be. My temperature has risen a bit as I look longingly at vehicles that aren't showing the wear that my 1997 Avalon is showing. But I'll be able to ward off distemper, or whatever it is I am warding off. After my recent posts questioning my credibility for failing to tithe a large percentage of my income to helping the needy, I damn sure better overcome this viscious fever!
Were I to succumb to temptation, though, I might make a radical departure from my present vehicle. The very same Phil suggested not long ago, as I was testing reactions to my mid-age craziness, that I would be better off investing in a tractor to till my land in Falba than in purchasing a Mazda Miata or some such "old man wants to demonstrate his powerful attractiveness to young stupid women" car. But, again, were I to succumb to temptation:
I might go for a 2007 Honda Element SC, which I am told gets good mileage, has a very nice set of mp3 devices, and looks sufficiently wierd to suit me.
While I was gazing at the Honda website, I came across another nice little convertible, the Honda S2000. Maybe I'd get one of those, if new car fever overcame me.
A 2007 Subaru Forester is actually moving up my list, quickly (but a 2003 version might be just as appealing). Subaru makes a point of noting that the vehicle will accommodate my iPod. I like that in a car manufacturer...mind reading.
Of course, I could fall into the lap of luxury by getting some domestic beast (which I am increasingly thinking about...when I do finally buy a car...due to my growing dissatisfaction with globalization as a concept). Were I to do that, I might get the new Lincoln MKZ, which looks rather nice.
Most likely, though, I will buy a used vehicle when the time comes. I've always talked about buying used, but haven't. When I was ready to buy my last car, I convinced myself that buying used was an invitation to dissatisfaction. So, I bought my Avalon...paid cash...brand new. That's the last time I'll be able to do that (pay cash). For years prior to buying it, after we paid off the earlier vehicles, we pretended to still have car payments and we socked the money away. That has changed. Anyway...I should buy used, if I can only convince myself that the chances are very high that I will get a good car. I'll save buckets of money and will be happier for it.
I'm taking it as a lesson...when one wants a new product for an old car, one should avoid looking at all the gadgetry on new cars. It only creates temptation and disappointment. Take an alternative approach: instead of looking for a new stereo system, for example, buy a $7 transistor radio and use it instead of the car stereo for a month. At the end of the month, the vast superiority of your car stereo over the little transistor will convince you that the car stereo is wonderful. Or so I think.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Order of activity
Order of activity for the day:
1) Shower
2) Coffee
3) Wander internet
4) Bacon & egg breakfast; more coffee
5) Wait for washing machine delivery, while wandering internet
6) Copy CDs to computer
7) Copy iTunes library to iPod
8) Copy more CDs
9) Leadership holiday luncheon with client group at Italian restaurant
10) Grocery shopping
11) More internet wandering...news, blogs, etc.
12) Consideration of what would be involved in replacing car tuner/CD/tape player with something that play mp3 files/iPod files...no conclusion
13) Television news
14) Television channel surfing (short term, with unsatisfactory results)
15) This posting
1) Shower
2) Coffee
3) Wander internet
4) Bacon & egg breakfast; more coffee
5) Wait for washing machine delivery, while wandering internet
6) Copy CDs to computer
7) Copy iTunes library to iPod
8) Copy more CDs
9) Leadership holiday luncheon with client group at Italian restaurant
10) Grocery shopping
11) More internet wandering...news, blogs, etc.
12) Consideration of what would be involved in replacing car tuner/CD/tape player with something that play mp3 files/iPod files...no conclusion
13) Television news
14) Television channel surfing (short term, with unsatisfactory results)
15) This posting
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Words without Borders
I stumbled across a website this afternoon that I've never heard about before, Words without Borders, which bills itself as the online magazine for international literature. A quick run through it made me think it will be added to my list of frequently-visited informative and thought-provoking sites.
Seeking Cheaper Goodness
It has warmed up to 41 degrees, after starting (when I got up late at 8:00 am) at 36. Inside, it's toasty and, thanks to my lack of self-discipline, the house smells like bacon. After a quick jolt of hot tea for my wife, we'll wander out into the world of washing machines to replace the corpse that sits idle in the laundry room. The new high-efficiency models, which cost damn near as much as my first car, use a fraction of the electricity and water of the older-style machines. The question is this: will I be selfish and get the old-style machine which will be cheaper and which will never save me enough money to make up the difference, or will I be responsible and get the newer machine which will be gentler on the earth? I think we've already decided. And I am proud to be good, but wish goodness were cheaper.
Friday, December 1, 2006
The 10% Solution?
I wonder, sometimes, what it must do to one's emotional well-being to be a journalist who covers something as horrific as the AIDS epidemic in Africa. There you are, watching as people's lives slip away from them...looking around you at huge numbers of people with not much time left...seeing the children whose parents are going fast or already gone...recognizing the utter hopelessness of it all. How do they cope?
On one hand, telling the story so that someone may be compelled to act must give journalists a sense of purpose. On the other hand, the problem is...up close and for the people they see day to day...hopeless. The people they interview, the babies they watch wither, the families they see fall to pieces...that must wreck their emotional lives. I know it would wreck mine.
I watched a special on PBS and then on CNN tonight, about the impact of AIDS, that leaves me limp and weak and feeling hopeless. How in the hell can those journalists go on? Maybe they feel that their efforts will, ultimately, make a difference. I hope it will.
I've only known one person who had AIDS, and I didn't know he had it until long after he died. It's not like the disease is having a horrible impact on me. But hearing about the pain it's inflicting on children in Africa is pretty jarring.
And yet here I sit in front of a computer, worrying about the cost of replacing a washing machine. What's really jarring is how I am able to just go on living a privileged life without contributing well over half my income to reduce suffering. I talk. I feel. My actions are small. If my charitable contributions exceed $2,000 in an average year I'd be surprised. Shouldn't we all try to find that 10% of our income that could change the course of mankind? It might change our lifestyles is modestly uncomfortable ways, but I reckon it would have extraordinary impacts on people who desperately need help.
So, what's stopping me, personally? I don't know. Maybe my wife will read this and say, "yes, we must do this." And then we will.
On one hand, telling the story so that someone may be compelled to act must give journalists a sense of purpose. On the other hand, the problem is...up close and for the people they see day to day...hopeless. The people they interview, the babies they watch wither, the families they see fall to pieces...that must wreck their emotional lives. I know it would wreck mine.
I watched a special on PBS and then on CNN tonight, about the impact of AIDS, that leaves me limp and weak and feeling hopeless. How in the hell can those journalists go on? Maybe they feel that their efforts will, ultimately, make a difference. I hope it will.
I've only known one person who had AIDS, and I didn't know he had it until long after he died. It's not like the disease is having a horrible impact on me. But hearing about the pain it's inflicting on children in Africa is pretty jarring.
And yet here I sit in front of a computer, worrying about the cost of replacing a washing machine. What's really jarring is how I am able to just go on living a privileged life without contributing well over half my income to reduce suffering. I talk. I feel. My actions are small. If my charitable contributions exceed $2,000 in an average year I'd be surprised. Shouldn't we all try to find that 10% of our income that could change the course of mankind? It might change our lifestyles is modestly uncomfortable ways, but I reckon it would have extraordinary impacts on people who desperately need help.
So, what's stopping me, personally? I don't know. Maybe my wife will read this and say, "yes, we must do this." And then we will.