The notion that life begins at conception has been around, as far as I can tell, at least as long as I have. So that means for 27 years now, there have been people whose understanding of the world is that the instant sperm and egg join, that child (or in my estimation, potential child) is alive. Their life has begun. And for as long as I've heard this idea it's seemed wrong to me from a political and well biological perspective.
But today, I realized it's also a little strange in a couple of other ways. For instance. Birthdays. In my mind, when I ask a child how old they are and they gleefully thrust 3 stubby little fingers in my face and declare, "I'm three years old." I figure, you know what, roughly 3 years ago that child went from being all womby and whatnot to being outside, in the world we all share. But that's wrong, if you believe that life begins at conception. Hell that kid is off by a lot. She's actually 3 years and 9 months. That's a lot of rounding error. Does that mean that Life Begins at Conception children have to learn two different sets of ages? Wouldn't birthday parties be a bit strange-- I recognize that these annual celebrations mark the date of birth and not beginning of life, but doesn't that mean you'd have 3 candles but your child would have to say they were almost four years old.
It's strange this also means that if your parents are Conservative you're a much slower learner. I mean come on it takes that child 10 months to hold up its head, geez, that's getting into developmental disability territory.
Here's another thought. Let's say that Jess and I donate the requisite sperm and egg and create an embryo. We store it in some medical freezer. We decide never to make that embryo into a person (by my understanding of when life begins). Then 45 years later that embryo is implanted in a womb, grows and makes the transition from womb to real world. Does that mean the child was born at 45 years old. I think it has to. If life begins at conception, the clock starts ticking whenever the swimmers reach the dock (as it were).
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Etymology
Shouldn't prolific be the adjective form of pro-life.
That man over there is really weirded out by sex and seems to be overly concerned with wombs, he sure is prolific.
That man over there is really weirded out by sex and seems to be overly concerned with wombs, he sure is prolific.
You ate all the taragon and drank all the soy sauce.
In one of the great Simpsons episodes, Homer tries to gourge himself so that he can be classified as obese and therefore work from home. In the process he eats nearly everything in sight, prompting a final attempt at gluttony just before another work day:
BART: Bad news, Dad. We're out of food. We're even out of the basic elements of food. You ate all the tarragon and you drank all the soy sauce!
He is then offered some Play Doh shaped into a donut by Maggie, and eats it as Bart offers the consolation that "It says non-toxic."
This scene came to mind when, earlier today, I decided to read up on Crisco at Wikipedia. My coworker and I were talking about the unnatural product that is Crisco. Turns out I was more right than I knew.
From the Wikipedia entry on Crisco:
I love that. Because it looked like food, they decided to sell it as food. If it looked like a tire, would we be driving to work on Bridgstone-Crisco radials? Sometimes, and especially, I think in the case of Crisco, looks can be deceiving.
BART: Bad news, Dad. We're out of food. We're even out of the basic elements of food. You ate all the tarragon and you drank all the soy sauce!
He is then offered some Play Doh shaped into a donut by Maggie, and eats it as Bart offers the consolation that "It says non-toxic."
This scene came to mind when, earlier today, I decided to read up on Crisco at Wikipedia. My coworker and I were talking about the unnatural product that is Crisco. Turns out I was more right than I knew.
From the Wikipedia entry on Crisco:
When William Procter and James Gamble started the company Procter & Gamble, they hired chemist E. C. Kayser and developed the process to hydrogenate cottonseed oil, which ensures the shortening remains solid at normal storage temperatures. The initial purpose was to create a cheaper substance to make candles than the expensive animal fats in use at the time. Electricity began to diminish the candle market, and since the product looked like lard, they began selling it as a food. This product became known as Crisco, with the name deriving from the initial sounds of the expression "crystallized cottonseed oil"
I love that. Because it looked like food, they decided to sell it as food. If it looked like a tire, would we be driving to work on Bridgstone-Crisco radials? Sometimes, and especially, I think in the case of Crisco, looks can be deceiving.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Judgement
Joe Biden has decided that he's running for President. He apparently surveyed the field, and took a poll among his family members and decided that he had that certain something to be a middle of the pack loser in a Democratic primary. I wish he'd be honest about it. Declare on Meet the Press that he believes he has the certain skill set necessary to raise just enough money to put a skeleton staff on the ground in Iowa. That he'll be able to put together a team and funnel money into the pockets of a few consultant friends while being treated like shit by hairy armed, pear-shaped Iowans all while mowing their lawn and pleading for their support. Then he'll have just enough name recognition to throw his meager support to some other sure fire loser just before the caucuses in order to curry favor and save face. All before returning to Delaware where, when the Democratic nominee needs help rallying the literally 10s of volunteers for the crucial Delaware GOTV program, Joe will come out of seclusion and deliver a flat, head-ache inspiring speech about the importance of democracy and the value of volunteers, before returning to the Senate and supporting more crap bills sponsored by MBNA.
Here's the main reason that Joe Biden can't be president--judgment. Think about it, if Joe Biden has so little judgement that he thinks he's going to be President, he doesn't have the judgment necessary to be President.
Here's the main reason that Joe Biden can't be president--judgment. Think about it, if Joe Biden has so little judgement that he thinks he's going to be President, he doesn't have the judgment necessary to be President.
Back to the Future
Question: If you could time travel would you rather travel to the future or the past? Why?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Time, Time, Time is on my side.
My mom, has of late, become more and more interested in the intersection between quantum mechanics, astrophysics and faith. She is fascinated, though like me, relatively ill-informed about the physics portion of the discussion. Nearly finished with her M.div, she's certainly more informed about the spirtual side of the discussion than I am, so essentially it's the blind leading the near sighted. I told her about the book I read earlier this year, Brian Greene's Fabric of the Cosmos. It's a really tremendous read, and one that even a dullard like me can follow. The example that has stuck with me, and which I can still mostly recall deals with the nature of time as it relates to motion. I explained it to my mom, but I wanted to check with my readers (especially those with more information on the matters) to make sure I wasn't misleading her.
I explained that objects are moving either through space (speed) or time (time) or through both. The total movement of all objects is the same, it is the allocation, or vector that they travel that is different. For instance an object that is completely stationary is travelling almost entirely through time. Its lack of motion through space means that all of its energy of motion is devoted to moving through time. Similarly when an object moves closer and closer to the speed of light it is moving less and less rapidly through time. Meaning that the faster an object moves (through space) the slower it moves through time. I think I tried to explain this notion on this blog before, but I'm not sure if I got it right, or was as clear as I should have been.
Does this mean that at the speed of light there is no time? It seems like that is the case. So light does not exist within time? What are the practical/theoretical implications of something that fails to exist within time?
I explained that objects are moving either through space (speed) or time (time) or through both. The total movement of all objects is the same, it is the allocation, or vector that they travel that is different. For instance an object that is completely stationary is travelling almost entirely through time. Its lack of motion through space means that all of its energy of motion is devoted to moving through time. Similarly when an object moves closer and closer to the speed of light it is moving less and less rapidly through time. Meaning that the faster an object moves (through space) the slower it moves through time. I think I tried to explain this notion on this blog before, but I'm not sure if I got it right, or was as clear as I should have been.
Does this mean that at the speed of light there is no time? It seems like that is the case. So light does not exist within time? What are the practical/theoretical implications of something that fails to exist within time?
Mars, bitches
So I realize I'm years behind in this, but I just last night saw the Chappelle Show sketch "Black Bush." Laugh out loud funny.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Books.
When we were in Seattle this summer, Jesseca and I went to Elliot Bay Books. On a little sheet of paper taped to one of the bookshelves I found a quotation that I've paraphrased many times since. I just found the actual quotation today:
Right after finding this quote today, I read an article about another person who wants to decorate with books. Our president. Apparently he and friends (the few that he has left) are trying to raise 500 million dollars for his Legacy Library. 500 million dollars...but what books will belong there? It sounds like the primary goals of the library are a)kick backs to wealthy friends in the form of patronage and contracts b) rewriting history to vindicate the president. But seriously, 500 million. Maybe they are buying a ruby studded copy of My Pet Goat. Will there be a section devoted to the great intelligence briefing classics? Will the Library of Congress categories be revised so that The Bible is listed under philosophy, and history?
"I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves." Anna Quindlen
Right after finding this quote today, I read an article about another person who wants to decorate with books. Our president. Apparently he and friends (the few that he has left) are trying to raise 500 million dollars for his Legacy Library. 500 million dollars...but what books will belong there? It sounds like the primary goals of the library are a)kick backs to wealthy friends in the form of patronage and contracts b) rewriting history to vindicate the president. But seriously, 500 million. Maybe they are buying a ruby studded copy of My Pet Goat. Will there be a section devoted to the great intelligence briefing classics? Will the Library of Congress categories be revised so that The Bible is listed under philosophy, and history?
I'm at a "we ight" loss for words.
Like everyone else I get spam messages. I rarely read even the titles of the messages. Though, when I do it's usually about sexual function, financial windfall, or the apparently well documented problems with my weight. Today I glanced at the subject of one of these spam messages which promised solutions to my problems with "we ight." I wasn't aware that I'd grown so large as to require a plural for descriptive purposes. I should think I really need help if I've swelled to the size of two, or if I've gained such ego that I'm using the royal "we."
The great subject of the email was enough for me to read further, and it only got better.
I can honestly say I had no idea that fat people were prone to random, holy bleeding in social situations. Shit, health risks are nothing compared to bleeding patterned after the wounds of Christ. Does that make McDonald's the Romans?
The great subject of the email was enough for me to read further, and it only got better.
"Did you know obesity kiIIs more and more people every year? We know you hate the extra pounds, the ugly look and the social stigmata attached to fat people."
I can honestly say I had no idea that fat people were prone to random, holy bleeding in social situations. Shit, health risks are nothing compared to bleeding patterned after the wounds of Christ. Does that make McDonald's the Romans?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Wiiiiiillllllld Turkeys couldn't draaaggg me awaaay...
No apologies to the Stones. I don't like them that much so I'll borrow and mangle their song for my stupid blog post.
An article in the Boston Globe (from Mark and Stacy) makes a big to-do of a wild turkey roaming around Jamaica Plain. Turns out both Mark and Stacy have seen the big bird as it wanders the urban(ish) landscape in search of whatever turkeys eat. The article is really pretty hilarious but, as Stacy pointed out, the best line is this.
"This morning, it was not clear where the turkey was heading. Peering through his windshield, Connelly estimated that the bird weighed seven, maybe eight pounds."
Stacy went on to comment, "This morning? I like that. Like usually the bird says 'hey, I'm going to the Snack Shack. Anyone want anything?'"
I have to agree with Brian who found the line about the turkey trying to get into the school particularly funny. "That bird later tried to enter a nearby school..." I have this image of the turkey walking up to the school only to be turned away by an Orval Faubus-esque figure.
Anyway, everyone needs a little local color, squirrel-that-looks-like-Abe Lincoln story now and again.
An article in the Boston Globe (from Mark and Stacy) makes a big to-do of a wild turkey roaming around Jamaica Plain. Turns out both Mark and Stacy have seen the big bird as it wanders the urban(ish) landscape in search of whatever turkeys eat. The article is really pretty hilarious but, as Stacy pointed out, the best line is this.
"This morning, it was not clear where the turkey was heading. Peering through his windshield, Connelly estimated that the bird weighed seven, maybe eight pounds."
Stacy went on to comment, "This morning? I like that. Like usually the bird says 'hey, I'm going to the Snack Shack. Anyone want anything?'"
I have to agree with Brian who found the line about the turkey trying to get into the school particularly funny. "That bird later tried to enter a nearby school..." I have this image of the turkey walking up to the school only to be turned away by an Orval Faubus-esque figure.
Anyway, everyone needs a little local color, squirrel-that-looks-like-Abe Lincoln story now and again.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The Power of Postively Crazy Thinking
Who said this:
Tony Robbins, self help guru, infomercial staple
Tom Cramer
Newt Gingrich, Former Speaker of the House
If you guessed Newt you're right. What a fucked up quotation. It's like a cross between some new-agey, self help guide ("if you say it it will happen") and Harry Potter-level-incantation. I wonder where on the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) this ranks. I'd have to say only about a 5. Keep in mind the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) is like the Richter scale, it increases exponentially as you get toward Tom level crazy. For instance this is not nearly as ridiculous as when Tom explained to me that he was planning on leading a great Democratic revolution which would be bigger than the 1994 Contract with America and that he would of course be swept into the Speakership because of his incredible influence and acumen.
"I am not 'running' for president. I am seeking to create a movement to win the future by offering a series of solutions so compelling that if the American people say I have to be president, it will happen."
Tony Robbins, self help guru, infomercial staple
Tom Cramer
Newt Gingrich, Former Speaker of the House
If you guessed Newt you're right. What a fucked up quotation. It's like a cross between some new-agey, self help guide ("if you say it it will happen") and Harry Potter-level-incantation. I wonder where on the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) this ranks. I'd have to say only about a 5. Keep in mind the Tom Cramer Delusions of Grandeur Scale (tm) is like the Richter scale, it increases exponentially as you get toward Tom level crazy. For instance this is not nearly as ridiculous as when Tom explained to me that he was planning on leading a great Democratic revolution which would be bigger than the 1994 Contract with America and that he would of course be swept into the Speakership because of his incredible influence and acumen.
Natural selection.
A few days ago while waiting for a prescription to be filled at the local CVS, Jess and I wandered around the aisles for entertainment. It's a little reminiscent of the entertainment Mark and I had for years through just walking in Meijers. It was our attempt at Whose Line is It Anyway mixed with what we figured were biting social critiques of consumption and aesthetic errors. Basically it two kids who weren't going to be out drinking or partying hanging out in the only establishment open past 10pm in Westerville. But I digress. The aisle with the greatest entertainment value in a CVS is, without question, the herbal remedy section. The names are amazing. Wang root, Musk Drops, Birch bark and licorice suppositories, you know things like that. And it requires a incredible patience and eyesight to determine from the packaging what on earth it is that they promise to do. Then after hiding what it is they might be able to help you with, they clearly explain that there is no evidence that they can muster to support the claim that they improve this problem. In the end it's a mystery. I should buy this product but you won't really tell me why, and then after scouring the packaging like I was looking for a Wonka Golden Ticket, you figure out it helps with memory only to be informed, that there's no reason to believe it does that. Sweet. Sign me up.
Whatever annoyances I may have with this aisle, Neil tops me and then some. I just got around recently to reading his really amazing blog post on organics, homeopathy and the like. It's witty, and smart and bitingly funny. I'm going to post some of it here, but really, read the whole thing.
Read it all
Whatever annoyances I may have with this aisle, Neil tops me and then some. I just got around recently to reading his really amazing blog post on organics, homeopathy and the like. It's witty, and smart and bitingly funny. I'm going to post some of it here, but really, read the whole thing.
Herbal medicine - I can't stand to hear people who are completely distrustful and skeptical of the pharmaceutical industry (as they rightly should be) talking about echinacea like it's god's gift. Just because the hippy-nutraceutical industry isn't quite as big, and doesn't have intellectual property lawyers up the wazoo, doesn't make them any less crooked. If someone tries to sell you anything to cure something, *be skeptical*, whether they're wearing a suit or hemp. At least the pharmaceutical industry has the FDA to hold them to some basic standards of safety and efficacy.
But no, we like to follow the latest trends, because it's 'natural' and 'chemical-free'. Maybe I can popularize hemlock as a cure for headaches? Or chewing poison ivy as a cure for palpitations? Hell, I don't have to prove jack, because it's a plant. You can't sue me the way you could sue pharma, and I can say whatever the fuck i want on the label as long as I put the 'FDA has not evaluated these statements' warning on it.
Read it all
Good News for People Who Love "Good News for People Who Love Bad News"
Mark emailed me today sharing the good news for people who love "Good News for People Who Love Bad News" That's right, it's a new Modest Mouse album. Since leaving college I have been really quite ill-informed about the latest machinations of any bands. I don't have the energy or ability really to follow the comings and goings of various singers and drummers, the emergence of new sounds, the best new bands or the hottest albums. I'm quickly and inexorably giving up whatever modicum of cool I once desperately clung to. It's all over now. But, that said, I still like a whole bunch of bands, and enjoy new music. So I was excited by Mark's email. New Modest Mouse and what's that you say, there will be songs where Isaac Brock is joined by the lead singer from The Shins--well sign me up.
After a little searching I found a site where you can listen to some of the new songs live. They sound pretty good.
Though, for me at least, it's always hard to figure out from live recordings and performances what songs I'll really love. I guess I'm not as much of a concert goer. I don't respond as viscerally to some songs live as I do to them recorded. Maybe I'm more of a movie guy than a theater guy. The element of live performance doesn't always make it better for me. There is something magical in live performace, I'll certainly agree with that. But for me the miracle of art is being able to share it with people, and I often feel cheated by live art for just this reason. I feel so saddened to think that I've seen something that I won't be able to share with others, that I won't be able to recreate, won't be able to experience again. I am still sad, a little, that I cannot see Ann's senior recital whenever I want. I loved that dance piece (and hell, even did the lights, and contributed the idea for a lift and jump to the piece) and that I cannot show it to Mark or Jess or anyone else who wasn't there, that's tough. I know it should make me feel special, I saw it. I had that experience. But it's quite the opposite, instead of feeling special I feel alone. Instead of feeling blessed I feel burdened, here is this amazing art this incredible experience that I have had and I cannot do it just in explanation and I cannot share it with others. I guess that's part of why live music doesn't do as much for me. Oh, that and the fact that it's a lot of standing in a crowded smoky room, it's noisy, and it involves staying up late. But for me, and for my own self image, I'm going to pretend it's this high minded frustration with the temporary nature, with the inability of the joy to be adequately shared or conveyed, the "survivor's guilt" of great art, if you will.
After a little searching I found a site where you can listen to some of the new songs live. They sound pretty good.
Though, for me at least, it's always hard to figure out from live recordings and performances what songs I'll really love. I guess I'm not as much of a concert goer. I don't respond as viscerally to some songs live as I do to them recorded. Maybe I'm more of a movie guy than a theater guy. The element of live performance doesn't always make it better for me. There is something magical in live performace, I'll certainly agree with that. But for me the miracle of art is being able to share it with people, and I often feel cheated by live art for just this reason. I feel so saddened to think that I've seen something that I won't be able to share with others, that I won't be able to recreate, won't be able to experience again. I am still sad, a little, that I cannot see Ann's senior recital whenever I want. I loved that dance piece (and hell, even did the lights, and contributed the idea for a lift and jump to the piece) and that I cannot show it to Mark or Jess or anyone else who wasn't there, that's tough. I know it should make me feel special, I saw it. I had that experience. But it's quite the opposite, instead of feeling special I feel alone. Instead of feeling blessed I feel burdened, here is this amazing art this incredible experience that I have had and I cannot do it just in explanation and I cannot share it with others. I guess that's part of why live music doesn't do as much for me. Oh, that and the fact that it's a lot of standing in a crowded smoky room, it's noisy, and it involves staying up late. But for me, and for my own self image, I'm going to pretend it's this high minded frustration with the temporary nature, with the inability of the joy to be adequately shared or conveyed, the "survivor's guilt" of great art, if you will.
Monday, November 20, 2006
One Flu Over The...
Slowly over the past few days I've moved back into the realm of the living. I spent all of Friday feeling as though I were being beaten for transgressions that I can only assume were severe, given the ferocity of the punishment they evoked. This was also coupled with a general intestinal, digestive mutiny in which many several systems that heretofore worked harmoniously each decided it was their turn to illustrate the myriad ways in which they could misbehave. My body became like Russia in the early 90s trying to control all these formerly obedient (well, submissive) provinces which all of a sudden decide at once to rebel and generally fuck things up. To avoid specifics, we'll just say my intestines were Chechneya and that the rebels were far more effective in their attacks than I'd have liked.
I can't quite recall the last time I felt as poorly as I did on Friday. I spent much of the day on the couch watching endless recountings of the glory of Bo Schembechler. Several things I learned about Bo Schembechler, 1) He went to Ohio State. Interesting, right. Adds a vaguely Shakespearean element to the battles between he and Woody. Or maybe it's more of a Euripedean element. Anyway, some element was added (Magnesium?). 2) Mitch Albom helped write Bo's autobiography (which I believe makes it a biography, but still). Albom of Tuesday's with Morrie Fame, and the 5 People you Meet When you Get to Stop Listening to Fucking Mitch Albom Eulegize a Damn Football Coach fame, was everywhere. Mitch Albom annoys me in a way that often defies explanation. That said, I'm going to try. Albom always strikes me as an author who is trying to write an entire essay using only the sappy ending lines from frilly hallmark cards interspered with parts of a Succesories poster. It's like he's writing using magenetic poetry built from those two genres. The it's the writing equivalent of cotton candy dipped into more cotton candy. It's shallow and substanceless, and largely about the miracle that comes from suggesting mass and volume. 3) I learned that Bo was a much better coach and probably person than Woody Hayes. Turns out Bo never punched opposing players. Hmm, I guess you could choose to conduct yourself like that. If you were a wuss. Geez, no sucker punching opposing players, no punching camera men, just because you're angry. It's like he was trying to set an example for his players. Loser.
After watching as much Schembechler eulogizing as is healthy for human consumption I... well honestly I don't really remember what I did. Suffice to say I did very little of it, and it was slow and unpleasant. To add to the fun of Friday Jesseca's father was also sick. He had been visiting most of last week. So we had two very sick guys, who barely know one another trying to make conversation and share a single bathroom. I can assure the phrase a good time was had by all has rarely found a less applicable target.
Eventually around 6:00p Jess returned home. I believe at this time her father was sleeping and I was spread out on the floor. I could be wrong in this, I'm honestly not sure. It was a little later that Ann showed up. See we were going to play Settlers. Why you might ask were we going to play Settlers with the residents (and temporary resident) of the apartment in such bad shape? Because I'm a moron. So I lay on the floor and made low pitched, incoherent sounds, while Jess and Ann talked. Eventually after lots of drugs and many attempts to find a comfortable spot on the floor (our couch is entirely too short for me to lay comfortable) I started to make some sense. At least this is what I tell myself to give my recovery something of an arc. We then watched Coupling and I thankfully got to bed and fell asleep-- for real.
Saturday was better. I was feeling my oats, which meant I could eat food again. Not specifically oats, but the point remains. So we managed a game of Settlers. Her father winning under what I can only call very trying and sanity assailing circumstances. Then there was the OSU Michigan game. I pretend, at times, to care very little for my home state. And frankly, it's not really pretending, my home state interets me very little...except on OSU vs Michigan. Something about growing up in Central Ohio makes it impossible to ignore this game. It's everywhere at home. I know without question that 80% of the cars in the parking lots have either a) soaped windows or b) those annoying flags that you put in the window slots of SUVs. I'm sure the local groceries had special savings for The Game. And that's what you call it. There is no need to explain what it is. It is THE GAME. And this year, it really was The Game. There's a good chance that Saturday's game will be better and more descriptive of the best two teams in the country than whatever crap happens in January. Without a full recap: OSU wins, script Ohio continues to be cool, and the Leavy-Boyer household enjoyed the game.
The positive uptic in my health and mood was shortlived. Just after I started to bed the Chechen rebels and, let's say their allies mounted a second offensive. I made in the span of 4-5 hours 13 trips to the battlefield. Finally at 3:30am Jess heroically went to CVS and returned with more medication, ginger ale, pediasure, things like this. You know you are loved when you are sitting on the floor of your own bathroom, simply to reduce the commute and someone will leave their comfortable warm bed to drive into the night to bring back the provisions necessary to keep you from sinking even further into pitifulness. It was a touch and go moment with me regressing to the state of a 5 year old. It's good to be cared for, it's glorious to be loved.
I'm feeling better now, and while I'm still really tired and glad to be at home and not working today (I'd be no use, this writing has tired me out, to say nothing of having to deal with clients and focus groups, etc), I'm even happier to feel connected through illness and strife with Jess. It's a strange thing to find yourself loving someone more after spending many hours with them in a state where you are greasy, sick, incoherent and largely incapable of high brain function. But it's reassuring to know that if they can love you then, that you're pretty safe. Midway through Saturday evening, Jess started to feel a little sick and she's now become the sickly one. It's a chance to return the favor, and remind her of how loved she is.
I can't quite recall the last time I felt as poorly as I did on Friday. I spent much of the day on the couch watching endless recountings of the glory of Bo Schembechler. Several things I learned about Bo Schembechler, 1) He went to Ohio State. Interesting, right. Adds a vaguely Shakespearean element to the battles between he and Woody. Or maybe it's more of a Euripedean element. Anyway, some element was added (Magnesium?). 2) Mitch Albom helped write Bo's autobiography (which I believe makes it a biography, but still). Albom of Tuesday's with Morrie Fame, and the 5 People you Meet When you Get to Stop Listening to Fucking Mitch Albom Eulegize a Damn Football Coach fame, was everywhere. Mitch Albom annoys me in a way that often defies explanation. That said, I'm going to try. Albom always strikes me as an author who is trying to write an entire essay using only the sappy ending lines from frilly hallmark cards interspered with parts of a Succesories poster. It's like he's writing using magenetic poetry built from those two genres. The it's the writing equivalent of cotton candy dipped into more cotton candy. It's shallow and substanceless, and largely about the miracle that comes from suggesting mass and volume. 3) I learned that Bo was a much better coach and probably person than Woody Hayes. Turns out Bo never punched opposing players. Hmm, I guess you could choose to conduct yourself like that. If you were a wuss. Geez, no sucker punching opposing players, no punching camera men, just because you're angry. It's like he was trying to set an example for his players. Loser.
After watching as much Schembechler eulogizing as is healthy for human consumption I... well honestly I don't really remember what I did. Suffice to say I did very little of it, and it was slow and unpleasant. To add to the fun of Friday Jesseca's father was also sick. He had been visiting most of last week. So we had two very sick guys, who barely know one another trying to make conversation and share a single bathroom. I can assure the phrase a good time was had by all has rarely found a less applicable target.
Eventually around 6:00p Jess returned home. I believe at this time her father was sleeping and I was spread out on the floor. I could be wrong in this, I'm honestly not sure. It was a little later that Ann showed up. See we were going to play Settlers. Why you might ask were we going to play Settlers with the residents (and temporary resident) of the apartment in such bad shape? Because I'm a moron. So I lay on the floor and made low pitched, incoherent sounds, while Jess and Ann talked. Eventually after lots of drugs and many attempts to find a comfortable spot on the floor (our couch is entirely too short for me to lay comfortable) I started to make some sense. At least this is what I tell myself to give my recovery something of an arc. We then watched Coupling and I thankfully got to bed and fell asleep-- for real.
Saturday was better. I was feeling my oats, which meant I could eat food again. Not specifically oats, but the point remains. So we managed a game of Settlers. Her father winning under what I can only call very trying and sanity assailing circumstances. Then there was the OSU Michigan game. I pretend, at times, to care very little for my home state. And frankly, it's not really pretending, my home state interets me very little...except on OSU vs Michigan. Something about growing up in Central Ohio makes it impossible to ignore this game. It's everywhere at home. I know without question that 80% of the cars in the parking lots have either a) soaped windows or b) those annoying flags that you put in the window slots of SUVs. I'm sure the local groceries had special savings for The Game. And that's what you call it. There is no need to explain what it is. It is THE GAME. And this year, it really was The Game. There's a good chance that Saturday's game will be better and more descriptive of the best two teams in the country than whatever crap happens in January. Without a full recap: OSU wins, script Ohio continues to be cool, and the Leavy-Boyer household enjoyed the game.
The positive uptic in my health and mood was shortlived. Just after I started to bed the Chechen rebels and, let's say their allies mounted a second offensive. I made in the span of 4-5 hours 13 trips to the battlefield. Finally at 3:30am Jess heroically went to CVS and returned with more medication, ginger ale, pediasure, things like this. You know you are loved when you are sitting on the floor of your own bathroom, simply to reduce the commute and someone will leave their comfortable warm bed to drive into the night to bring back the provisions necessary to keep you from sinking even further into pitifulness. It was a touch and go moment with me regressing to the state of a 5 year old. It's good to be cared for, it's glorious to be loved.
I'm feeling better now, and while I'm still really tired and glad to be at home and not working today (I'd be no use, this writing has tired me out, to say nothing of having to deal with clients and focus groups, etc), I'm even happier to feel connected through illness and strife with Jess. It's a strange thing to find yourself loving someone more after spending many hours with them in a state where you are greasy, sick, incoherent and largely incapable of high brain function. But it's reassuring to know that if they can love you then, that you're pretty safe. Midway through Saturday evening, Jess started to feel a little sick and she's now become the sickly one. It's a chance to return the favor, and remind her of how loved she is.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Scat Cat: Mascot for American Democracy
If the US needed further evidence of the absurdity of our stance on gay rights, we have only to look to South Africa. That's right, South Africa, lately of Apartheid, is ahead of the US on gay rights. See in South Africa, seriously SOUTH FRICKIN' AFRICA, gay couples are allowed to marry. You know where that's not the case, hmm let me think....here.
When you are lagging behind South Africa in the provision of human rights, you really have to start wondering. You think if Bulgaria had a stronger Navy than ours we might want to think things over. You imagine that if Mongolia had a more robust computer industry than we did, that might suggest the need for change. But we're cool with lagging behind South Africa in the provision of basic rights to our citizens. Sigh.
With the recent election results--Democratic dominance and the continued support for anti-gay measures--I'm left thinking that the lyrics from Opposites Attract have seeped into the collective moral conscience of this country.
"I take-2 steps forward
I take-2 steps back"
When you are lagging behind South Africa in the provision of human rights, you really have to start wondering. You think if Bulgaria had a stronger Navy than ours we might want to think things over. You imagine that if Mongolia had a more robust computer industry than we did, that might suggest the need for change. But we're cool with lagging behind South Africa in the provision of basic rights to our citizens. Sigh.
With the recent election results--Democratic dominance and the continued support for anti-gay measures--I'm left thinking that the lyrics from Opposites Attract have seeped into the collective moral conscience of this country.
"I take-2 steps forward
I take-2 steps back"
And now for something largely different.
So I figured after a pretty heavy, or at least long post (2600 words!) I needed a sillier one to follow it. In examining my stat tracker, which is a great distraction for me, I discovered that at least one person in the world came to my website after trying to search for mannequin repair. Try it yourself, go to google and enter the search string: how to repair manequins
Bam, there I am (well second, but still).
UPDATE:
Wow, Google is amazingly quick in its self corrections. I'm already removed from the list of top sites related to manequin (sp, I know) repair. Alas. I'll have to hang my random search hat on some other peg. Who knows maybe "bocce ball dishwasher counting" or "ultimate shark dance excitement" Only google and random inquiries will determine where I rank
Bam, there I am (well second, but still).
UPDATE:
Wow, Google is amazingly quick in its self corrections. I'm already removed from the list of top sites related to manequin (sp, I know) repair. Alas. I'll have to hang my random search hat on some other peg. Who knows maybe "bocce ball dishwasher counting" or "ultimate shark dance excitement" Only google and random inquiries will determine where I rank
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Flat Aaron
A few weeks ago while walking on the Mall, Neil, Ann, Brian and I encountered a Flat Stanley. He was laminated, rolled up into a tight tube and wedged in between the openings in a makeshift gate surrounding some DC grass restoration -- a most futile effort, to be sure. Ann noticed him first, and she and I, having each read the books knew immediately what he was. We debated whether or not to take the character and send him off to others, thereby making use of the great skill and most relevant trait of Flat Stanley--namely his capacity to travel and visit places and people.
In the books, Stanley is literally flat. He is bi-dimensional (or at least nearly so). His character is not flat, though. He is a kid, he has traits, he is imbued with enough energy to be capable of moving along a plot, no matter how simple.
Flash forward (or backward depending on whether you accept my previous Stanley anecdote as a point of temporal reference or whether you prefer to use this moment as your guidepost) to earlier today. While waiting to fly standby to Pittsburgh so as to fly to Baltimore and then eventually to get to work, I dropped 5 dollars on a New Yorker. I have to admit that as a liberal elitist, I'm something of a sham. I've never really read the New Yorker. I tend to find the cartoons unfunny, or at least only as funny as a well trod pun. That is, I recongize within it the effort at, and elements of humor but it does little to stir in my merriment. But, today I decided I should get the New Yorker. I should pretend to be erudite and well read, and maybe like with so many other things in my life, the act of pretending might make it so. I trudged through some letters to the editor, and movie reviews. I read bits and pieces of articles which promised to help me in my quest to be cool, in that tweed jacket and brandy snifter way. Or at least in the Volvo driving, best-Lithuanian-restaurant-knowing, kid going to Bryn Mawr way. All in all my first few hours with the magazine were well spent and I found myself thinking quite seriously about ordering a subscription. There was no shortage of postcards with which to indulge this impulse, and so I vowed to mail the post card when I arrived in Pittsburgh.
The love, affection and "if only you gave it a chance" appreciation that I feel for Cleveland has never extended to its Pennsylvania doppleganger. I have little love for Pittsburgh, though honestly I have no real experience with the city. They field a team against whom I routinely root (Steelers) and, really that's about the extent to which I consider the city. We landed there around 11:30 and I dutifully sought out the Post Office. It was staffed by a man whom I can only imagine was trying to win some sort of Milton from Office Space look-a-like contest. In the course of walking to the Post Office I passed two separate TGI Fridays and two Wok 'n Roll "restaurants." First off, Wok 'n Roll is just a horrible name. It's offensive to both concepts which it inelegantly mashes together. Neither food nor music deserve the slight they receive at the hands of this waste of space. But why the Pittsburgh airport needs two of these is beyond me. Out of curiosity, I investigate a nearby map, and find that not only do the fine residents and visitors to the city of Pittsburgh need Wok 'n Roll, but they four of them. Because God forbid one ever be more than 350 feet from a depressed high school drop out wearing velour making awful asian food.
I also have to say that the Pittsburgh airport is really estatic about its own existence. Signs everywhere inform you "There was a farm...That became an airport"
I keep wanting the banners to become imbued with musical abilities: "There was a farm became an airport, A-i-r-POR-T. With a whoosh whoosh here and a TSA there." This celebration of the conversion from farm to a shoddy midwestern airport is beyond me. And to use the passive voice, "became an airport" it's like the airport sprouted up because of some natural process. It's like they watered the field with airplane fuel and magically a runway blossomed.
But I digress. After getting some food (from Au Bon Pain) I settled in to read more of the New Yorker and wait out the layover. Another confession, and one that fits well with what I've already said about the New Yorker. I know nothing about Gertrude Stein. Honestly, nothing. I routinely get her confused with Gloria Steinem. That's how little I know. It's embarrasing and clearly stands in the way of my goal of erudition. But lo and behold, the New Yorker serves up a bountiful feast of Gertrude Stein, a really frickin' long essay. The premise of the essay, by Janet Malcolm is an investigation of her lover (news to me, sorta knew she was gay, no clue the woman was famous) Alice B. Toklas. Judging from the writing, and certainly confirmed by the photos Alice was not a looker. A friend (a friend!) describes her a looking witch-like. So you get the sense that she might have some insecurities living with this 20th Century icon, and having friends call her ugly. It'd get to me, I figure.
While reading this article I'm sitting in the a-ergonomically designed chairs that all airports get from the airport version of Costco. These long rows of chairs with faux-leather pouches that offer little support and less comfort. Directly behind me is some sort of college field trip cum conference. These kids (and they're finally now young enough relative to my age that the term seems apt) are, I later learn, from Towson State and are by even the most generous measures vapid. One guy, the "funny one" is regaling his friends with stories of how dumb he is. And saying, "Sometimes I think I'm the definition of stupid." But you know, people who say that really don't believe they are dumb. They want for someone to either laugh, thereby ensuring that everyone knows it is a joke, or for someone to counter this assertion and offer even faint praise. In this kid's case, he gets laughter. The less reassuring of the two remedies, but I wonder if it's not the one his friends' believe he most deserves.
I tune out their conversation and return to Stein. Turns out, in what has to be a pretty cool idea, that Stein wrote an autobiography of Toklas that is mostly made up and mostly about how great Stein is. How is that for self-absorbed. You make someone else's life a measure of how amazing you are. Their only purpose is to reflect back the rays of your sun like radiance. In transitioning into the discussion of Stein's approach to biography the author of the article offers this great little paragraph on the way that minor literary characters exist within their works.
It's a tremendous paragraph and sets off in my all kinds of terrible and amazing thoughts. I start to think about the many random people whose names I neither know, or barely remember who populate the stories on this blog, or the memories I cherish. How many people are there who are flat characters in my life. With what arrogance do I assume that they are simply minor characters, people whose only reason for being as far as I can ascertain is to stimulate some comment, some thought, some emotion in me. In 27 years how many people have I only seen as part of my story, not independent agents in their own. And, even worse, can I help but see others this way? For how many people have I been, will I be, a flat character. For how many people will my entire existence be like a rock thrown into a pond--important only in its capacity to create a ripple, and then be absorbed into nothingness, with only that momentary disruption to record its existence. (A little weighty, I grant you, but rest assured I wasn't nearly as sad or despondent as these recollections might suggest)
It's about this time that the guy behind me starts to talk about losing money at the Casino. Apparently they went to Canada and did some gambling and he's bragging about how he lost money. This is a softer version of the game he played earlier. He is trying to mask what is, and must be, an unpleasant thing--losing money--beneath a veneer of boastful disinterest. "Ha, I lost money, but that's okay." Now I realize, odds are (awful pun, I know) he doesn't really care too much about the loss. But it fits with what comes next. As I next pick up the strand of their conversation he's talking about his "pride" (his word) in breaking the stick with which he was "spanked "(his word, mine would be beaten). He talks about how it's great that he was strong enough that the stick broke over his legs when he was being "punished" (his word again, beaten would be mine). He's laughing and joking with these friends and he tells them that when his Dad would spank him he'd instruct the son to make a diamond on the bed. Now I can't see what he's doing with his hands, but I'm certain he's forming a little diamond with them. And then his Dad says for him to "put your nose in the diamond." Giving an unobstructed shot at his kid's ass. The guy keeps joking and says, his Dad was funny because he'd fake a blow, so the child would tense in anticipation and then as soon as his kid stopped then he'd spank him. Everyone is enjoying the story, finding it funny. Finally the kid (who was a child when spanked, and is still today) says that he's really glad he was spanked as a kid. He's glad because "I have all these funny stories."
I don't know this guy. I only know the back of his head, his meaty shoulders, his pierced ear and his military style buzz cut. He could be a Nobel Prize winner in 3 years or a Subway manager. All I know about him are three anecdotes. All I know, comes from these stories and my guess that he spends a lot of his life doing just what I've heard, trying to avoid dealing with actually unpleasant thoughts and experiences (losing money, wondering about your intelligence, being hit) by pretending they are a badge of honor, by immunizing himself from them by celebrating them. And as I listen to him I realize he's only ever going to be a flat character in my life. He's a person who I will write about, whom I will imbue with some extrapolated characteristics, some conjecture and some literary license. I know then, as I know for certain now, that his story will interweave with mine only a little, only this once. That he's going to be a flat character in this blog, maybe a little more well rounded than some, but flat all the same. That I'll write about that intersection but in the end I'll do so in part to celebrate and congratulate myself on being able to write, to see connections. I'll perform the Passover Miracle, I'll take something round and complex and full of energy and flatten it for the sake of speed and expediency and convenience. And none of this is to say I should do otherwise. The fullness of our lives are defined in opposition to those we never or barely know, it is how we know what is our story and what is not.
So I come back to the idea of the Flat Stanley. The great gift of being able to be anywhere, everywhere that comes with being flat, can only occur when you are simply a tangent to the life of a full person. A flat character, a person who simply moves the plot of our life along must lose their agency, at least in our eyes. They are primarily relevant in that they affect in us a reaction.
I left Pittsburgh and made my way back to DC. Worked for a few hours and was readying myself to head home when started an instant message conversation with Jen. Fairly normal conversation until we started to talk about our different understandings of the status of our friendship. We came to realize we had different expectations. I wanted us to be friends in a way similar to how we had been before and she did not. She felt it was wrong to force that to be the case, that breaking up is a sign that we are not meant to be close. I realized in the conversation that she is right, and that much of the stress I feel about that relationship has been made worse by trying to recreate a friendship that feels forced, or at least presumptious.
I realize that no person is fully multi-dimensional in another's story, that we are all flat, just to differeing degrees. And so today, in many ways I went from being, at least in my own mind, a real full character in her story to a Flat Aaron. And that she is now a Flat Jen. Not to say I'm as flat to her as the guy in the airport is to me, but just that in her story I'm a rounded past and a flat present. I'm a point in time, or a line connecting two different moments, but not a full multi-dimensional character. It's not that we won't be friends, or won't chat, or that we dislike one another--not at all. It's just a realization of the transition, we're no longer the full deep characters who drive a biography we're the flat characters. I'm saddened to lose the depth and fullness, to feel in some ways (irrationally, really) rejected again, but like Stanley there is something very freeing in flatness. I think in many ways I've been searching off and on for the permission to flatten her, and be flat myself. I've wanted to be free of the burden of mattering in her story, and free of the burden of giving depth to her role within my own.
I'm blessed to be full-bodied in the stories of my many friends and family, people like my parents and Jess, Mark and Kadie, Brian and JKD,Liz and Libby, Paul and Stacy, Neil and Aaron, Dave and and and etc. And while this blog is often the story of my life, and certainly the story of my view of my life, I like to think my story has room for, and really requires, the fullness and richness of the lives of my many friends and family--people whom I love and who make my autobiography one well worth living, even if it's not always one worth writing.
In the books, Stanley is literally flat. He is bi-dimensional (or at least nearly so). His character is not flat, though. He is a kid, he has traits, he is imbued with enough energy to be capable of moving along a plot, no matter how simple.
Flash forward (or backward depending on whether you accept my previous Stanley anecdote as a point of temporal reference or whether you prefer to use this moment as your guidepost) to earlier today. While waiting to fly standby to Pittsburgh so as to fly to Baltimore and then eventually to get to work, I dropped 5 dollars on a New Yorker. I have to admit that as a liberal elitist, I'm something of a sham. I've never really read the New Yorker. I tend to find the cartoons unfunny, or at least only as funny as a well trod pun. That is, I recongize within it the effort at, and elements of humor but it does little to stir in my merriment. But, today I decided I should get the New Yorker. I should pretend to be erudite and well read, and maybe like with so many other things in my life, the act of pretending might make it so. I trudged through some letters to the editor, and movie reviews. I read bits and pieces of articles which promised to help me in my quest to be cool, in that tweed jacket and brandy snifter way. Or at least in the Volvo driving, best-Lithuanian-restaurant-knowing, kid going to Bryn Mawr way. All in all my first few hours with the magazine were well spent and I found myself thinking quite seriously about ordering a subscription. There was no shortage of postcards with which to indulge this impulse, and so I vowed to mail the post card when I arrived in Pittsburgh.
The love, affection and "if only you gave it a chance" appreciation that I feel for Cleveland has never extended to its Pennsylvania doppleganger. I have little love for Pittsburgh, though honestly I have no real experience with the city. They field a team against whom I routinely root (Steelers) and, really that's about the extent to which I consider the city. We landed there around 11:30 and I dutifully sought out the Post Office. It was staffed by a man whom I can only imagine was trying to win some sort of Milton from Office Space look-a-like contest. In the course of walking to the Post Office I passed two separate TGI Fridays and two Wok 'n Roll "restaurants." First off, Wok 'n Roll is just a horrible name. It's offensive to both concepts which it inelegantly mashes together. Neither food nor music deserve the slight they receive at the hands of this waste of space. But why the Pittsburgh airport needs two of these is beyond me. Out of curiosity, I investigate a nearby map, and find that not only do the fine residents and visitors to the city of Pittsburgh need Wok 'n Roll, but they four of them. Because God forbid one ever be more than 350 feet from a depressed high school drop out wearing velour making awful asian food.
I also have to say that the Pittsburgh airport is really estatic about its own existence. Signs everywhere inform you "There was a farm...That became an airport"
I keep wanting the banners to become imbued with musical abilities: "There was a farm became an airport, A-i-r-POR-T. With a whoosh whoosh here and a TSA there." This celebration of the conversion from farm to a shoddy midwestern airport is beyond me. And to use the passive voice, "became an airport" it's like the airport sprouted up because of some natural process. It's like they watered the field with airplane fuel and magically a runway blossomed.
But I digress. After getting some food (from Au Bon Pain) I settled in to read more of the New Yorker and wait out the layover. Another confession, and one that fits well with what I've already said about the New Yorker. I know nothing about Gertrude Stein. Honestly, nothing. I routinely get her confused with Gloria Steinem. That's how little I know. It's embarrasing and clearly stands in the way of my goal of erudition. But lo and behold, the New Yorker serves up a bountiful feast of Gertrude Stein, a really frickin' long essay. The premise of the essay, by Janet Malcolm is an investigation of her lover (news to me, sorta knew she was gay, no clue the woman was famous) Alice B. Toklas. Judging from the writing, and certainly confirmed by the photos Alice was not a looker. A friend (a friend!) describes her a looking witch-like. So you get the sense that she might have some insecurities living with this 20th Century icon, and having friends call her ugly. It'd get to me, I figure.
While reading this article I'm sitting in the a-ergonomically designed chairs that all airports get from the airport version of Costco. These long rows of chairs with faux-leather pouches that offer little support and less comfort. Directly behind me is some sort of college field trip cum conference. These kids (and they're finally now young enough relative to my age that the term seems apt) are, I later learn, from Towson State and are by even the most generous measures vapid. One guy, the "funny one" is regaling his friends with stories of how dumb he is. And saying, "Sometimes I think I'm the definition of stupid." But you know, people who say that really don't believe they are dumb. They want for someone to either laugh, thereby ensuring that everyone knows it is a joke, or for someone to counter this assertion and offer even faint praise. In this kid's case, he gets laughter. The less reassuring of the two remedies, but I wonder if it's not the one his friends' believe he most deserves.
I tune out their conversation and return to Stein. Turns out, in what has to be a pretty cool idea, that Stein wrote an autobiography of Toklas that is mostly made up and mostly about how great Stein is. How is that for self-absorbed. You make someone else's life a measure of how amazing you are. Their only purpose is to reflect back the rays of your sun like radiance. In transitioning into the discussion of Stein's approach to biography the author of the article offers this great little paragraph on the way that minor literary characters exist within their works.
The minor characters of biography, like their counterparts in fiction, are less tenderly treated than major characters. The writer uses them to advance his narrative and carelessly drops them when they have performed their function...Unlike the flat characters of fiction (as E. M. Forster called them), who have no existence outside the novel they were invented to ornament, the flat characters of biography are actual, three-dimensional people. But the biographer is writing a life, not lives, and, to keep himself on course, must cultivate a kind of narcissism on behalf of his subject that blinds him to the full humanity of anyone else. As he turns the bracing storylessness of human life into the flaccid narrativity of biography, he cannot worry about the people who never asked to be dragged into his shaky enterprise.
It's a tremendous paragraph and sets off in my all kinds of terrible and amazing thoughts. I start to think about the many random people whose names I neither know, or barely remember who populate the stories on this blog, or the memories I cherish. How many people are there who are flat characters in my life. With what arrogance do I assume that they are simply minor characters, people whose only reason for being as far as I can ascertain is to stimulate some comment, some thought, some emotion in me. In 27 years how many people have I only seen as part of my story, not independent agents in their own. And, even worse, can I help but see others this way? For how many people have I been, will I be, a flat character. For how many people will my entire existence be like a rock thrown into a pond--important only in its capacity to create a ripple, and then be absorbed into nothingness, with only that momentary disruption to record its existence. (A little weighty, I grant you, but rest assured I wasn't nearly as sad or despondent as these recollections might suggest)
It's about this time that the guy behind me starts to talk about losing money at the Casino. Apparently they went to Canada and did some gambling and he's bragging about how he lost money. This is a softer version of the game he played earlier. He is trying to mask what is, and must be, an unpleasant thing--losing money--beneath a veneer of boastful disinterest. "Ha, I lost money, but that's okay." Now I realize, odds are (awful pun, I know) he doesn't really care too much about the loss. But it fits with what comes next. As I next pick up the strand of their conversation he's talking about his "pride" (his word) in breaking the stick with which he was "spanked "(his word, mine would be beaten). He talks about how it's great that he was strong enough that the stick broke over his legs when he was being "punished" (his word again, beaten would be mine). He's laughing and joking with these friends and he tells them that when his Dad would spank him he'd instruct the son to make a diamond on the bed. Now I can't see what he's doing with his hands, but I'm certain he's forming a little diamond with them. And then his Dad says for him to "put your nose in the diamond." Giving an unobstructed shot at his kid's ass. The guy keeps joking and says, his Dad was funny because he'd fake a blow, so the child would tense in anticipation and then as soon as his kid stopped then he'd spank him. Everyone is enjoying the story, finding it funny. Finally the kid (who was a child when spanked, and is still today) says that he's really glad he was spanked as a kid. He's glad because "I have all these funny stories."
I don't know this guy. I only know the back of his head, his meaty shoulders, his pierced ear and his military style buzz cut. He could be a Nobel Prize winner in 3 years or a Subway manager. All I know about him are three anecdotes. All I know, comes from these stories and my guess that he spends a lot of his life doing just what I've heard, trying to avoid dealing with actually unpleasant thoughts and experiences (losing money, wondering about your intelligence, being hit) by pretending they are a badge of honor, by immunizing himself from them by celebrating them. And as I listen to him I realize he's only ever going to be a flat character in my life. He's a person who I will write about, whom I will imbue with some extrapolated characteristics, some conjecture and some literary license. I know then, as I know for certain now, that his story will interweave with mine only a little, only this once. That he's going to be a flat character in this blog, maybe a little more well rounded than some, but flat all the same. That I'll write about that intersection but in the end I'll do so in part to celebrate and congratulate myself on being able to write, to see connections. I'll perform the Passover Miracle, I'll take something round and complex and full of energy and flatten it for the sake of speed and expediency and convenience. And none of this is to say I should do otherwise. The fullness of our lives are defined in opposition to those we never or barely know, it is how we know what is our story and what is not.
So I come back to the idea of the Flat Stanley. The great gift of being able to be anywhere, everywhere that comes with being flat, can only occur when you are simply a tangent to the life of a full person. A flat character, a person who simply moves the plot of our life along must lose their agency, at least in our eyes. They are primarily relevant in that they affect in us a reaction.
I left Pittsburgh and made my way back to DC. Worked for a few hours and was readying myself to head home when started an instant message conversation with Jen. Fairly normal conversation until we started to talk about our different understandings of the status of our friendship. We came to realize we had different expectations. I wanted us to be friends in a way similar to how we had been before and she did not. She felt it was wrong to force that to be the case, that breaking up is a sign that we are not meant to be close. I realized in the conversation that she is right, and that much of the stress I feel about that relationship has been made worse by trying to recreate a friendship that feels forced, or at least presumptious.
I realize that no person is fully multi-dimensional in another's story, that we are all flat, just to differeing degrees. And so today, in many ways I went from being, at least in my own mind, a real full character in her story to a Flat Aaron. And that she is now a Flat Jen. Not to say I'm as flat to her as the guy in the airport is to me, but just that in her story I'm a rounded past and a flat present. I'm a point in time, or a line connecting two different moments, but not a full multi-dimensional character. It's not that we won't be friends, or won't chat, or that we dislike one another--not at all. It's just a realization of the transition, we're no longer the full deep characters who drive a biography we're the flat characters. I'm saddened to lose the depth and fullness, to feel in some ways (irrationally, really) rejected again, but like Stanley there is something very freeing in flatness. I think in many ways I've been searching off and on for the permission to flatten her, and be flat myself. I've wanted to be free of the burden of mattering in her story, and free of the burden of giving depth to her role within my own.
I'm blessed to be full-bodied in the stories of my many friends and family, people like my parents and Jess, Mark and Kadie, Brian and JKD,Liz and Libby, Paul and Stacy, Neil and Aaron, Dave and and and etc. And while this blog is often the story of my life, and certainly the story of my view of my life, I like to think my story has room for, and really requires, the fullness and richness of the lives of my many friends and family--people whom I love and who make my autobiography one well worth living, even if it's not always one worth writing.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Stephen: 10lbs of Pretense in a 5lb bag
So while wandering around Wikipedia I found out that Stephen from Season One of Top Chef has his own web site. I eagerly went there, hoping for something that could capture the incredible pretension and self-absorption of his television personna, or a site which would refute that personna.
If you've watched the show, you probably already know which of those two options is confirmed by the site. Yup, he's just as pretentious as you would imagine. It's wonderful.
The opening page features this quotation: "The quintessential epicurean experience is achieved through a balance of the senses and the harmonious marriage of food and wine." Is that true? Sure, I imagine it is. Is it something that only a pretentious, absurd man would feature as the opening page of his food site--you betcha. All this said, in the interest of full disclosure, Stephen was my pick for a good portion of season 1. I loved his presentation and thought he was just too funny not to root for. Someone that arrogant, that annoying, that cocksure. He was like the anal retentive version of Santino.
This season is shaping up to be even better. Marcel is playing a fine variation of Stephen. He's confident, prone to really strange choices for instance making avocado and bacon ice cream for children. It's hard to imagine the thought process that occurs in a chef's head whereby he decides that a) avocado and bacon belong as ice cream flavors or b) that even if they're acceptable flavors that children will want to eat them. This is reminiscent of Stephen lecturing kids at the Boys and Girls Club about the proper French pronuciation of his food, "gafrette." Marcel is also fantastic because he looks like the Top Chef version of Buddy (Syndrome) from the Incredibles.
Seriously, that's disconcerting. I do wonder whether Marcel will try to kill a fat chef whom he once idolized. I can only hope.
If you've watched the show, you probably already know which of those two options is confirmed by the site. Yup, he's just as pretentious as you would imagine. It's wonderful.
The opening page features this quotation: "The quintessential epicurean experience is achieved through a balance of the senses and the harmonious marriage of food and wine." Is that true? Sure, I imagine it is. Is it something that only a pretentious, absurd man would feature as the opening page of his food site--you betcha. All this said, in the interest of full disclosure, Stephen was my pick for a good portion of season 1. I loved his presentation and thought he was just too funny not to root for. Someone that arrogant, that annoying, that cocksure. He was like the anal retentive version of Santino.
This season is shaping up to be even better. Marcel is playing a fine variation of Stephen. He's confident, prone to really strange choices for instance making avocado and bacon ice cream for children. It's hard to imagine the thought process that occurs in a chef's head whereby he decides that a) avocado and bacon belong as ice cream flavors or b) that even if they're acceptable flavors that children will want to eat them. This is reminiscent of Stephen lecturing kids at the Boys and Girls Club about the proper French pronuciation of his food, "gafrette." Marcel is also fantastic because he looks like the Top Chef version of Buddy (Syndrome) from the Incredibles.
Seriously, that's disconcerting. I do wonder whether Marcel will try to kill a fat chef whom he once idolized. I can only hope.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
A game where principles are at stake
Again I'm reminded, we're not the first people to face faulty politics, nor are we the first to remedy that. A little reminder from TJ.
"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt......If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake. (italics mine)"
--Thomas Jefferson, 1798, after the passage of the Sedition Act
Bill O'Reilly, Dumber than Chance
Bill O'reilly so rarely makes sense that it's hard to believe he's not trying to fail. It's like when you take a standardized test and try to score highly and get worse than 25%...you almost have to be trying to fuck it up. I mean, random chance suggests that you would score 25%. To do worse than chance puts you in the same part of the Bell Curve as ferns, ginger ale, and the bumper from a 1987 Chevy Blazer. We're talking stupid. So I have to believe that since he, unlike those other nouns, has the power of speech, and occasionally the power of correct syntatic phrasing that he must be trying to fail; he must be willfully moronic. Witness this latest quotation:
"I think the Iraqis have got to step up and at least try to fight for their democracy, instead of being this crazy country of Shiia against Sunni — I don't ever want to hear Shiia and Sunni again."
Yes, that has to be the solution ... Iraqi's just have to stop caring about their faith and history and cultures. Geez...if those things aren't worth giving up they don't deserve democracy.
"I think the Iraqis have got to step up and at least try to fight for their democracy, instead of being this crazy country of Shiia against Sunni — I don't ever want to hear Shiia and Sunni again."
Yes, that has to be the solution ... Iraqi's just have to stop caring about their faith and history and cultures. Geez...if those things aren't worth giving up they don't deserve democracy.
Sign of the Times
You know how in Batman the police can shine the Bat Sign into the night sky and call forth the help of the Caped Crusader. Yeah, well apparently someone in the Democratic party loaded the light with the Bat-Shit-Crazy Sign and sure enough out popped Tom Vilsack, announcing his run for President. That may not be fair, Tom Vilsack isn't really insane, he's much more inane..
Two days after a Democratic victory that seems to me to have vindicated the notion of standing for prinicple and speaking from the heart to the voters--Tom decides it's his chance to run. Let me be clear, I don't think Vilsack is a bad man, or anything like that. But he is, in my estimation, achingly boring, and uninspiring--painfully uninteresting. This is a man whom I have described as unable to win an election at his own family reunion. He just doesn't inspire much energy, even from people who are seemingly obligated to like him.
But I guess the Inane Sign is shining bright these days. I'm waiting for Evan Bayh to answer the call to duty. Hell if we leave the light up long enough maybe we can get Dick Gephardt to run again.
Two days after a Democratic victory that seems to me to have vindicated the notion of standing for prinicple and speaking from the heart to the voters--Tom decides it's his chance to run. Let me be clear, I don't think Vilsack is a bad man, or anything like that. But he is, in my estimation, achingly boring, and uninspiring--painfully uninteresting. This is a man whom I have described as unable to win an election at his own family reunion. He just doesn't inspire much energy, even from people who are seemingly obligated to like him.
But I guess the Inane Sign is shining bright these days. I'm waiting for Evan Bayh to answer the call to duty. Hell if we leave the light up long enough maybe we can get Dick Gephardt to run again.
...and baby I love you Beep beep, beep beep yeah.
After her stint as the adopted staffer for Mary Jo Kilroy (whose daughter Mark informs me went to Oberlin) Jess drove my car to DC. Which means, that the sad white Saturn and I are again reunited. I'm not really one for anthropomorphizing cars. I did, when pressed, name my car. It's Norman. It's a white car, that's none too flashy and certainly servicable. Norman seemed a fitting name.
Now begins the process of registration, emissions checking, etc. Soon I'll have a car that's completely legal in the eyes of the DC government. It'll be nice. To celebrate, I'm going to drive to a frisbee tournament--just the Clique A tournament. But still, no ride requests for Aaron. I'm going to drive others (I hope). I'm excited about being able to get to Virginia and Maryland, to go hiking, to go to Ikea, to go to friends' homes. I think this first trip to a tournament is going to be great. I like to think of it as Norman's Conquest...over bothering friends for rides.
Now begins the process of registration, emissions checking, etc. Soon I'll have a car that's completely legal in the eyes of the DC government. It'll be nice. To celebrate, I'm going to drive to a frisbee tournament--just the Clique A tournament. But still, no ride requests for Aaron. I'm going to drive others (I hope). I'm excited about being able to get to Virginia and Maryland, to go hiking, to go to Ikea, to go to friends' homes. I think this first trip to a tournament is going to be great. I like to think of it as Norman's Conquest...over bothering friends for rides.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
I'm in shock
I feel like I'm an example of many Democrats. I have spent part of today waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for Osama to endorse Sherrod Brown, waiting for some magical horrible twist of the knife. But it's not there. Things just keep getting better. The Secretary of Defense who has so horribly managed this war, and whose myriad failures have cost thousands of American lives and hundreds of thousands of Iraqi lives, to say nothing of our status among the ethical nations of the world, he is retiring. Conrad Burns, he of the secret plan to win the war, is done. And from what I have read, after the canvass is completed the race will be certified--meaning we're likely to win in Virginia as well. So we'll have just won the House and the Senate and seen the resignation of Donald Rumsfeld. To say nothing of the many Governorships and State Houses we retook. It's a pretty amazing day. We have a chance to start changing things. A chance to really make concrete improvements in people's lives. I'm thrilled that the first piece of legislation is going to be the minimum wage. That's perfect. It's common sense, it helps those with lower incomes and will start the ball rolling. Great choice.
One final thought. I know that Rahm Emanuel is going to claim credit for all of this, or at least try to, but Howard Dean's 50 state strategy deserves a ton of credit. Dean decided, as with his presidential bid, that voters in all states were worth fighting for. This energy, this approach meant that we were poised to make gains in states where we're rarely dominant. I cannot help but think that gains in Indiana are related to a belief that it's worth it to fight everywhere. But no region better exemplifies this than the West. Idaho, Wyoming and Montana had close races at all levels. That the Republicans had to pour money into Wyoming and Idaho means that money couldn't be used to turn the tide against Tester or Allen, or against numerous House winners. Howard Dean's belief in fighting everywhere meant that when the wave hit we had people ready to ride it everywhere. His approach meant that Republicans could not take for granted previously safe seats, and while they have a lot of money, it's not infinite. Forcing the GOP to make choices with its resources meant we were able to protect our leads in key states and key races. He was right in '03. He was right in '04. He was right in '05. And boy is he ever right today.
One final thought. I know that Rahm Emanuel is going to claim credit for all of this, or at least try to, but Howard Dean's 50 state strategy deserves a ton of credit. Dean decided, as with his presidential bid, that voters in all states were worth fighting for. This energy, this approach meant that we were poised to make gains in states where we're rarely dominant. I cannot help but think that gains in Indiana are related to a belief that it's worth it to fight everywhere. But no region better exemplifies this than the West. Idaho, Wyoming and Montana had close races at all levels. That the Republicans had to pour money into Wyoming and Idaho means that money couldn't be used to turn the tide against Tester or Allen, or against numerous House winners. Howard Dean's belief in fighting everywhere meant that when the wave hit we had people ready to ride it everywhere. His approach meant that Republicans could not take for granted previously safe seats, and while they have a lot of money, it's not infinite. Forcing the GOP to make choices with its resources meant we were able to protect our leads in key states and key races. He was right in '03. He was right in '04. He was right in '05. And boy is he ever right today.
I Kneed More Data.
Last week I installed a daily hit tracker for this site. I wanted to be able to see how many hits I was getting per day, how long people spent on the site, where visitors were coming from...generally I just wanted access to more random numbers in my daily life. It's a bit humbling to realize that most of the hits I get in a day are from people who want little to nothing to do with my site. There are people who get there by clicking on a google image result for Benny Hihnn, or something like that.
The tracker tells me the google search criteria that brings in various visitors. So far the strongest search terms that bring people to my site...at least for today are: "brayton ejected for kneeing." Apparently people searching for information about a the Raiders' football player (Brayton) who kneed Jerramy Stevens in the nuts...are taken to my site. This boggles the mind. Why I'm the number one site on the Internet for "brayton ejected for kneeing" is really startling. But I guess it's somewhat funny. Maybe there will be a rash of people who come upon this blog trying to learn about NFL-related gonadal violence...and stay for my vain attempts at wittiness. Though judging from the length of stay for those visitors...(less than 2 seconds usually) I'm doubtful.
The tracker tells me the google search criteria that brings in various visitors. So far the strongest search terms that bring people to my site...at least for today are: "brayton ejected for kneeing." Apparently people searching for information about a the Raiders' football player (Brayton) who kneed Jerramy Stevens in the nuts...are taken to my site. This boggles the mind. Why I'm the number one site on the Internet for "brayton ejected for kneeing" is really startling. But I guess it's somewhat funny. Maybe there will be a rash of people who come upon this blog trying to learn about NFL-related gonadal violence...and stay for my vain attempts at wittiness. Though judging from the length of stay for those visitors...(less than 2 seconds usually) I'm doubtful.
Even Better
In some ways, Democratic performance at the State level trumps success nationally. Democrats became the Governors of New York, Ohio and Massachussets (the 3rd, 7th and 12th most populous states in America). Even better Democrats made huge gains in State Senates and Legislatures around the country. These local races are the incubators for the next generation of Democratic leaders. These local races inspire energy, and swell the ranks of volunteers. Far too often political commentators focus on coat-tails, the notion that top of the ticket races will bring along lower offices. But I think it's often the energy of lower races that propel victories. Democrats made huge gains in Minnesota, retaking the House by a huge margin (85 to 49) and expanded control of the Senate 44 to 23. We took chambers in Iowa, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, and Oregon.
It's not the easiest way to break down the information, but go to the DLCC and switch between 2005 and 2006. You can see the country changing. As those state houses get a lot less red our future get a lot rosier.
It's not the easiest way to break down the information, but go to the DLCC and switch between 2005 and 2006. You can see the country changing. As those state houses get a lot less red our future get a lot rosier.
Well Hot Damn!
Well shit. It wasn't just a small reorganization in the House, this was Martha Stewart on Meth. We're talking cleaning like you see for OCD Jews before Passover. It's pretty outstanding. Apparently all it takes is 6 years of ferocious, unrepentingly corrupt leadership with a horrifically mismanaged war and a constant desecration of the basic values and rules that govern civil society for folks to get upset. But, you know, better late than never.
Sadly, the races with which I had any personal connection whatsover went Republican. Made calls for Christine Jennings through the DCCC...she lost. Rooted on Judy Dutcher (for whom I worked in 2002, and whom I know a little, and like a lot) and Mark Hatch--lost to Pawlenty. Tony Knowles in Alaska, for whom Jess and several friends worked in 04, lost. Mary Jo Kilroy for whom Jesseca bused out to Ohio, slept but 8 hours in 4 days and basically sweated blood--lost. I think the key is that I should try and make calls for Jeb Bush, or John McCain.
You know how some actors are refered to as box-office poison for their ability to kill an otherwise profitable movie. I'm ballot-box poison. My support is a sign for other voters to steer clear of a candidate. Oh well.
PS. In unrelated but similarly important news of change: Brittany Spears is getting rid of K-Fed. I'd like to be the first to attempt this awful joke... I guess She Was K-Fed Up.
Sadly, the races with which I had any personal connection whatsover went Republican. Made calls for Christine Jennings through the DCCC...she lost. Rooted on Judy Dutcher (for whom I worked in 2002, and whom I know a little, and like a lot) and Mark Hatch--lost to Pawlenty. Tony Knowles in Alaska, for whom Jess and several friends worked in 04, lost. Mary Jo Kilroy for whom Jesseca bused out to Ohio, slept but 8 hours in 4 days and basically sweated blood--lost. I think the key is that I should try and make calls for Jeb Bush, or John McCain.
You know how some actors are refered to as box-office poison for their ability to kill an otherwise profitable movie. I'm ballot-box poison. My support is a sign for other voters to steer clear of a candidate. Oh well.
PS. In unrelated but similarly important news of change: Brittany Spears is getting rid of K-Fed. I'd like to be the first to attempt this awful joke... I guess She Was K-Fed Up.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
My contribution
Along with Justin Timberlake I'm working to bring sexy back. My contribution, the logistics. If we're going to be transporting all this sexy we need to have someone doing the planning. I've gone ahead and rented a U-haul in which to transport the sexy, and I've gotten some Mapquest directions. I think we're ready to bring sexy back.
Turns out I'm dumber than a kindergartner
In preparation for tomorrow's election, and corresponding election night party I went to the store to get some food coloring. The theory being that we'll have dyed red and blue drinks. Blue drinks for celebration and red drinks as commiseration. So I went to the store and sought out the hand staining, sink discoloring monsters they call food dye. I wanted a simple little 4 pack with the basic colors. Failing that I bought red food coloring, green food coloring and yellow food coloring. I figured this is simple I'll mix the yellow and the green and bam! I'll have blue.
I get home and try batch after batch of yellow and green mixtures. And oddly enough none of them has even the slightest hint of blue. We're talking about more than a few attempts at this, varying proportions, mixing patterns. All to no avail. Then only after about 10 trials did I realize... yellow and blue make green. And while colors are many things they are not good representations of the commutative property. And even then...I didn't get that property right. Many, I am struggling today. Thankfully there isn't any paste around for me to dine upon. Geez.
I get home and try batch after batch of yellow and green mixtures. And oddly enough none of them has even the slightest hint of blue. We're talking about more than a few attempts at this, varying proportions, mixing patterns. All to no avail. Then only after about 10 trials did I realize... yellow and blue make green. And while colors are many things they are not good representations of the commutative property. And even then...I didn't get that property right. Many, I am struggling today. Thankfully there isn't any paste around for me to dine upon. Geez.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Who is Mike Jones
Over/Under on number of days before every alternative weekly headlines its story about the Haggard daliances with a prostitute named Mike Jones with the following: Who is Mike Jones?
I'd say in the next 2 days there will be 10 headlines like that, not including my own. Predictions?
Do we think that this Mike Jones calls out his own name during sex?
I'd say in the next 2 days there will be 10 headlines like that, not including my own. Predictions?
Do we think that this Mike Jones calls out his own name during sex?
It's go time
The Bush administration posted Iraqi documents in the hopes of bolstering its case against Saddam Hussein.
According to the NY Times article:
This crass political move was designed to demonstrate just how heroic the GOP was in capturing Hussein and just how much safer we are because of it. These documents were supposed to show just how close things were to being really awful. Except, here's the problem part of the information posted was essentially instructions on how to build atomic bombs. That's right, we cannot tell you about any of our secret plans to spy on Americans, cannot release records on anything in the Administration for fear of helping the terrorists. But it's completely cool to post a DIY Atomic Bomb link. I wonder if the folks from MAKEblog are working with the Administration to make this feasible.
In the end I think the only logical conclusion based on previous Bush actions, is to assume that the 101 Keyboard Kommandos are gearing up for their true test, the true reason that all these Conservatives have been jockeying for war from their Dorito stained Aeron chairs--- it's time to invade the Internets. We already know that the Internets have recently had access to the plans for creating atomic weapons. The Internets have long harbored conversations between terrorists and MoveOn members. The Internets have been a vehicle for tempting high ranking Republican leaders to try and have sex with young boys. It was bad enough when Trekkie Monster revealed the true use of the Internets (For Porn!). But now the Internets are really more of an Internest filled with terrorists, hedonists and bomb-maker-ists. I believe the course of action is clear. We invade. I suggest that odd groups go left. I also think the President should check on troop levels, and consult with the Generals about whether we have sufficient dots. It's quite possible we need more dots.
According to the NY Times article:
Last March, the federal government set up a Web site to make public a vast archive of Iraqi documents captured during the war. The Bush administration did so under pressure from Congressional Republicans who had said they hoped to "leverage the Internet" to find new evidence of the prewar dangers posed by Saddam Hussein.
But in recent weeks, the site has posted some documents that weapons experts say are a danger themselves: detailed accounts of Iraq's secret nuclear research before the 1991 Persian Gulf war. The documents, the experts say, constitute a basic guide to building an atom bomb.[Italics mine]
This crass political move was designed to demonstrate just how heroic the GOP was in capturing Hussein and just how much safer we are because of it. These documents were supposed to show just how close things were to being really awful. Except, here's the problem part of the information posted was essentially instructions on how to build atomic bombs. That's right, we cannot tell you about any of our secret plans to spy on Americans, cannot release records on anything in the Administration for fear of helping the terrorists. But it's completely cool to post a DIY Atomic Bomb link. I wonder if the folks from MAKEblog are working with the Administration to make this feasible.
In the end I think the only logical conclusion based on previous Bush actions, is to assume that the 101 Keyboard Kommandos are gearing up for their true test, the true reason that all these Conservatives have been jockeying for war from their Dorito stained Aeron chairs--- it's time to invade the Internets. We already know that the Internets have recently had access to the plans for creating atomic weapons. The Internets have long harbored conversations between terrorists and MoveOn members. The Internets have been a vehicle for tempting high ranking Republican leaders to try and have sex with young boys. It was bad enough when Trekkie Monster revealed the true use of the Internets (For Porn!). But now the Internets are really more of an Internest filled with terrorists, hedonists and bomb-maker-ists. I believe the course of action is clear. We invade. I suggest that odd groups go left. I also think the President should check on troop levels, and consult with the Generals about whether we have sufficient dots. It's quite possible we need more dots.
More straight guys: Anti-gay Republican leadership or Cher concert?
With the recent revelations about Ted Haggard (he of the gay prostitution and meth addiction) and the Florida gubernatorial candidate and Foley, and others, I've decided that until further evidence is presented, I'm assuming everyone who is virulently and unrepentingly anti-gay is likely closeted. Whether they're actually gay or just bi-sexual or curious or whatever, I have to assume that they're not being honest. It's just become too ridiculous. Trying to identify the straight political homophobe is now like trying to pickout the straight guy at a Cher concert, and you know what, I'm not going to play that game anymore.
Does this mean that when Ted Haggard visits Rick Santorum that Santorum's puppy will be kenneled? How do these people square their intense and unstinting hatred for gays with the fact that they really really want to think about sex with men, or in the case of a rising proportion...do seem to have sex with men. At some point the cognitive dissonance must just tear you apart. There has to be a moment when external hatred reaches some homeostasis with internal hatred and fear. I honestly feel sorry for the repression and self-denial and self-loathing that must define these mens' lives every day. However, that does not excuse their infliction of that loathing on others. Certain Conservatives are fond of saying, Hate the sin, love the sinner. But that expression comes from a place of moral certainty, or moral and religious superiority, a condescension that suggests that the sayer is able to avoid this sin and therefore is in a position to forgive. But what if, as seems the case, the one offering to "forgive" you is guilty of the same, it rings hollow. The Christian Right has come to power through anger, division and sanctimonious self-congratulations. That it may fall apart because the righteousness it so mightly pretends to own is a cover for its own predilictions and hypocritical desires is as they might say "reaping the whirlwind."
Does this mean that when Ted Haggard visits Rick Santorum that Santorum's puppy will be kenneled? How do these people square their intense and unstinting hatred for gays with the fact that they really really want to think about sex with men, or in the case of a rising proportion...do seem to have sex with men. At some point the cognitive dissonance must just tear you apart. There has to be a moment when external hatred reaches some homeostasis with internal hatred and fear. I honestly feel sorry for the repression and self-denial and self-loathing that must define these mens' lives every day. However, that does not excuse their infliction of that loathing on others. Certain Conservatives are fond of saying, Hate the sin, love the sinner. But that expression comes from a place of moral certainty, or moral and religious superiority, a condescension that suggests that the sayer is able to avoid this sin and therefore is in a position to forgive. But what if, as seems the case, the one offering to "forgive" you is guilty of the same, it rings hollow. The Christian Right has come to power through anger, division and sanctimonious self-congratulations. That it may fall apart because the righteousness it so mightly pretends to own is a cover for its own predilictions and hypocritical desires is as they might say "reaping the whirlwind."
Watch Out Mid-Atlantic Region
So in my quest to avoid recreating photos like this I've been working out. When I was young my parents were convinced I'd be a cross country runner. I'd run non stop all day long, just a bundle of boundless, un-tireable (It's a word now) energy. And then I stopped being like that. I have what I can only fairly assume is relatively poor cardiovascular fitness, at least in relation to the others who play ultimate. So I've been trying to work out at the gym and really run for long distances. Yesterday was the first day it actually felt good. I started out running a very slow first mile, 9:30-9:40 or so, and then ran a half mile at 9 minutes, then I cranked it up to 7:30 pace and ran for another 2 miles. All told I ran 3.6 miles in about 30 minutes. Again, nothing earthshattering. No great marathoner am I. But it's the longest sustained run I've ever completed and I felt strong throughout. It looks like this trainging stuff is working. So if I can continue to add strength and power to my legs and core, and build up some stamina...who knows, I might turn out to be a decent player sooner rather than later. The first test, PADA Mosh, comes this weekend. Unfortunately I woke up this morning with a chest cold and I'm phlegm-y like Brueghal. Though I guess that's more Flem-ish, but you get the idea.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Something worth doing
If you don't have a lot of time these next couple of days, or live far enough from a Democratic HQ to make travel difficult, fear not--technology has a solution. Go here.
I'm going to be at PADA Mosh this weekend, but I'm hoping to bring my laptop and make some calls from the Hotel. I figure they'll have wireless. And besides, I can make a few calls tonight while watching football. The system is pretty solid, reminds me a lot of the autodialers I used with Wellstone in 2002.
I'm going to be at PADA Mosh this weekend, but I'm hoping to bring my laptop and make some calls from the Hotel. I figure they'll have wireless. And besides, I can make a few calls tonight while watching football. The system is pretty solid, reminds me a lot of the autodialers I used with Wellstone in 2002.
Wow.
So I'm sure I'm well behind the times on this, but I just found out that I can blog via email. I have a special email address set up through blogger to which I can send posts. I just write up a little post, much like (exactly like) this one and email it off. And then in a matter of seconds there's a new post. God bless Google and its myriad ways of integrating its software to my life. Or is it that I'm integrating my life to its software. Either way, it's an exciting new day for WIMM.
Study Indicates Real Home Field Advantage
A study out of Britain finds that there is a demonstrable and significant advantage given to home teams by referees w/r/t to red and yellow cards. This is true even when controlling for a really staggering number of variables.
Apparently, for sports fans, it's not just in our heads the refs really do favor the home teams. I'd love to see brain scans of referees looking at fouls without context, and then with people cheering for one side or the other. Ie, give refs a video of two teams playing, help them with cheers and boos to know which team is home and which is away and then show them the clips. Then simply flip the color of the jerseys for the control. See if it's reproducable in the lab, and also see what parts of the brain, and what stress reactions there are in the body. Finally it'd be interesting to see how quickly the decisions are made. Does a call going against the home team take longer to process and make. Is there an internal delay that slows this down? Man, I wish I had the time and money to study all the random things I find interesting.
Apparently, for sports fans, it's not just in our heads the refs really do favor the home teams. I'd love to see brain scans of referees looking at fouls without context, and then with people cheering for one side or the other. Ie, give refs a video of two teams playing, help them with cheers and boos to know which team is home and which is away and then show them the clips. Then simply flip the color of the jerseys for the control. See if it's reproducable in the lab, and also see what parts of the brain, and what stress reactions there are in the body. Finally it'd be interesting to see how quickly the decisions are made. Does a call going against the home team take longer to process and make. Is there an internal delay that slows this down? Man, I wish I had the time and money to study all the random things I find interesting.
Keith Olbermann--The Last Good Writer On TV
Keith Olbermann was always my favorite ESPN anchor, and now he has become my favorite political journalist. Honest, angry, eloquent he is all the things I once believed journalism was meant to be. There are few writers today who are willing to be overtly eloquent, to write at a level above the 8th grade. It's seen as showboating and elitist, but as a person who adores this style, I am grateful for Keith Olbermann. He's what I wish I were.
Sadly he may be the last of this kind. A fierce and passionate writer and speaker, he often restores my faith in the power of words and speech. Would that these reassurances were less needed.
And part two
Sadly he may be the last of this kind. A fierce and passionate writer and speaker, he often restores my faith in the power of words and speech. Would that these reassurances were less needed.
And part two
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Someone Cue up Rockapella
Thanks in part to seeing a link from Mike Degnan I started playing around with Flickrs new mapping feature. The tool lets you geocode your photos. It uses GoogleMaps open source and with that you can select a point on the map and link your photo to that spot. It's really pretty spiffy. You can be as accurate as you want. For instance my photos of Lake 22 are linked to the particular side of the lake where I took them.
It then gives you this nice little map indicating where you've taken photos. And then to make it even cooler you can search your photos and anyone in Flickr's photos. For instance let's say I want to find all the photos of Ultimate in the US. I can search for ultimate and I can find collections in NJ (Wildwood) in Vancouver (Furious) etc. It's all pretty sweet. It's like a photogallery version of Where in the World is Carmen San Diego.
My map
UPDATE:
Another super cool feature, you can enter a location and see all the photos from that area. So you can put in Westerville Ohio and see everyone's photos from that place. Or Topeka Kansas or wherever. How fantastic is that.
It then gives you this nice little map indicating where you've taken photos. And then to make it even cooler you can search your photos and anyone in Flickr's photos. For instance let's say I want to find all the photos of Ultimate in the US. I can search for ultimate and I can find collections in NJ (Wildwood) in Vancouver (Furious) etc. It's all pretty sweet. It's like a photogallery version of Where in the World is Carmen San Diego.
My map
UPDATE:
Another super cool feature, you can enter a location and see all the photos from that area. So you can put in Westerville Ohio and see everyone's photos from that place. Or Topeka Kansas or wherever. How fantastic is that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)