Little Odd is is filling out his "Letter to My Camp Counselor" for his first overnight camp adventure. There is a list of adjectives that one can circle to describe oneself, including such terms as shy, outgoing, athletic, musical, sarcastic -- no, really -- and a whole bunch more. In his "yes" column are outgoing, athletic, friendly, smart, funny, and excited. In the "no" column are sarcastic (phew!), popular, quiet, shy, noisy, and non-athletic. At the end of the section, there is a blank space preceded by the direction, "Please write any other words that describe you." After some thought, he wrote, "Tall."
It made me wonder what words would I write to describe me. Perhaps philosophical. Definitely sarcastic. Quiet when I'm not noisy. Distracted, stressed, reflective, achy, stubborn, tough, thoughtful, reserved, cautious, polite, dark, optimistic, handy, erudite, and occasionally verbose. Oh, and "Tall." Plus, and I don't know the word for it, but one who possesses unusually large calves.
What word describes you best? Just one word. One word. One. Me? Fortunate.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Shake the Money Tree
On the way to Little Odd's baseball practice tonight, I was able to catch a few minutes of NPR. My commute nowadays is measured in seconds, not minutes, so I have lost touch with NPR. I used to listen to Click & Clack, "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me", and public radio news with near-religious fervor. When I traded in two hour commutes, the loss of quality radio time was small price to pay
Lately my news comes from CNN and the Boston Globe (Boston.com), and while those source are informative, they are closer to junk food for the brain, served in small samples. Tonight I had a chance for a little brain salad, listening to a debate about US debt as it relates to GDP. I was relishing the chance to listen to a rational discourse from intellectuals regarding our economic future.
For awhile, I got what I hoped for. Detailed. Specific. Jargon-filled. Calm, thoughtful, well-presented. Deep. Slightly beyond me, a radio program that makes the listener stretch. It was good and good for me. And then it screeched to halt.
See, one of the guests went partisan. Up to that moment, I was unaware of party affiliation or political slant. Up to that very moment, the back-and-forth was the essence of thoughtful discourse and even exchange of ideas. And "BOOM!", it was as if I was listening to Fox News, news being just a word to put after Fox. What was the offending line?
The speaker, a Republican congressman, speaking about oft-dreamt of, rarely seen reduced spending in Washington, stated, "...My party isn't in control, but when they are, we will be able to seriously discuss reduced spending rather than increased taxes as way to balance debt loads as they related to GDP." Okay, I'm using quotes when I'm really just paraphrasing as best as I can recollect. But I'm close to getting what he said, so bear with me. Rant coming...
Who the HELL is he kidding? The Republicans had the White House and majority control of one or both houses of Congress for the better part of eight years, and just HOW did the Republicans control spending? Puh-lease. Cut taxes? For some. But reign in spending?!? If the Democrats now spend money like drunk sailors, the Republicans spent money like meth-addled lunatics throughout the decade. For the record, during the Clinton era, the Fed ran surpluses. Sure, things were trending down, so I don't blame the collapse of the market, the housing bubble burst, the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, and the whole fucking mess just on Bush. Alan Greeenspan missed a few things, now didn't he? But one thing is clear; nobody -- right, left, or unaffiliated -- has a record of reducing spending at this point.
What the HELL happened to my little radio Nirvana-moment? First, did Mr. Red-State forget that people who believe Republicans can control spending don't listen to NPR? Second, if you said NPR to someone who DOES believe Republicans are the party of fiscal restraint, they would scratch their heads and wonder what the "P" stands for in National Rifle Association. Third, did Mr. Oklahoma-Needs-a-Tea-Party-Militia actually think that the NPR audience, people who would sit still and hang on every word regarding currency policy with China, would miss his quip about the lamentable loss of fiscal sanity under the Republican controlled Congress? Dude... F.U.C.K. You and your weird Alice-in-Wonderland twist on the last ten years. The Distinguished Gentleman from Shang-ri La needs to stop smoking the pipe. And with no offense intended to morons, this guy went from Mr. Worth Listening To to "Oh, what-a-moron, I'm changing the channel to ESPN radio" in a split second.
So to sum up, NPR can't even host a sane, boring, fact-based discourse on US debt policy without some fool throwing out some blatant partisan, pop-culture crap. Yeah, NPR is a liberal haven, but at least it used to be clever liberalism. Tonight, even behind the sometimes-deep discussion, the us-versus-them thing showed up. Maybe I will run for Congress, on a platform of solving our debt problems by growing money trees. What's worse, I'm gonna' win.
Lately my news comes from CNN and the Boston Globe (Boston.com), and while those source are informative, they are closer to junk food for the brain, served in small samples. Tonight I had a chance for a little brain salad, listening to a debate about US debt as it relates to GDP. I was relishing the chance to listen to a rational discourse from intellectuals regarding our economic future.
For awhile, I got what I hoped for. Detailed. Specific. Jargon-filled. Calm, thoughtful, well-presented. Deep. Slightly beyond me, a radio program that makes the listener stretch. It was good and good for me. And then it screeched to halt.
See, one of the guests went partisan. Up to that moment, I was unaware of party affiliation or political slant. Up to that very moment, the back-and-forth was the essence of thoughtful discourse and even exchange of ideas. And "BOOM!", it was as if I was listening to Fox News, news being just a word to put after Fox. What was the offending line?
The speaker, a Republican congressman, speaking about oft-dreamt of, rarely seen reduced spending in Washington, stated, "...My party isn't in control, but when they are, we will be able to seriously discuss reduced spending rather than increased taxes as way to balance debt loads as they related to GDP." Okay, I'm using quotes when I'm really just paraphrasing as best as I can recollect. But I'm close to getting what he said, so bear with me. Rant coming...
Who the HELL is he kidding? The Republicans had the White House and majority control of one or both houses of Congress for the better part of eight years, and just HOW did the Republicans control spending? Puh-lease. Cut taxes? For some. But reign in spending?!? If the Democrats now spend money like drunk sailors, the Republicans spent money like meth-addled lunatics throughout the decade. For the record, during the Clinton era, the Fed ran surpluses. Sure, things were trending down, so I don't blame the collapse of the market, the housing bubble burst, the sub-prime mortgage meltdown, and the whole fucking mess just on Bush. Alan Greeenspan missed a few things, now didn't he? But one thing is clear; nobody -- right, left, or unaffiliated -- has a record of reducing spending at this point.
What the HELL happened to my little radio Nirvana-moment? First, did Mr. Red-State forget that people who believe Republicans can control spending don't listen to NPR? Second, if you said NPR to someone who DOES believe Republicans are the party of fiscal restraint, they would scratch their heads and wonder what the "P" stands for in National Rifle Association. Third, did Mr. Oklahoma-Needs-a-Tea-Party-Militia actually think that the NPR audience, people who would sit still and hang on every word regarding currency policy with China, would miss his quip about the lamentable loss of fiscal sanity under the Republican controlled Congress? Dude... F.U.C.K. You and your weird Alice-in-Wonderland twist on the last ten years. The Distinguished Gentleman from Shang-ri La needs to stop smoking the pipe. And with no offense intended to morons, this guy went from Mr. Worth Listening To to "Oh, what-a-moron, I'm changing the channel to ESPN radio" in a split second.
So to sum up, NPR can't even host a sane, boring, fact-based discourse on US debt policy without some fool throwing out some blatant partisan, pop-culture crap. Yeah, NPR is a liberal haven, but at least it used to be clever liberalism. Tonight, even behind the sometimes-deep discussion, the us-versus-them thing showed up. Maybe I will run for Congress, on a platform of solving our debt problems by growing money trees. What's worse, I'm gonna' win.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Thanks for the Reminder
Dear God,
Thanks for the reminder. Last night, for some reason beyond my understanding, I stopped in my daughter's room. Initially, I suppose I went in to turn off her reading light. You know, to be green. But in the hushed darkness, I quickly found myself sitting on the rug, next to her bed. The rest of the world stopped spinning, and whatever worries I was carrying left me. I found myself sitting on the floor, listening to her soft breathing. She's a light sleeper, so she became aware of my presence shortly. In between sleep and wakefulness, she smiled. "I love you," she whispered. I kissed her on her forehead but didn't get up to leave. She quietly slipped back into full sleep, and I lingered for awhile soothed by her steady, peaceful breathing. For a few moments, I was the best version of myself, the father and man I hope to be. My daughter unwittingly gave me the best gift I've received in a long time. Maybe someday soon, when I can feel the world spinning around me too fast, or when I've made a mountain out of a mole hill, I'll recall her gift and be reminded of what I really am.
Respectfully,
Odd
Thanks for the reminder. Last night, for some reason beyond my understanding, I stopped in my daughter's room. Initially, I suppose I went in to turn off her reading light. You know, to be green. But in the hushed darkness, I quickly found myself sitting on the rug, next to her bed. The rest of the world stopped spinning, and whatever worries I was carrying left me. I found myself sitting on the floor, listening to her soft breathing. She's a light sleeper, so she became aware of my presence shortly. In between sleep and wakefulness, she smiled. "I love you," she whispered. I kissed her on her forehead but didn't get up to leave. She quietly slipped back into full sleep, and I lingered for awhile soothed by her steady, peaceful breathing. For a few moments, I was the best version of myself, the father and man I hope to be. My daughter unwittingly gave me the best gift I've received in a long time. Maybe someday soon, when I can feel the world spinning around me too fast, or when I've made a mountain out of a mole hill, I'll recall her gift and be reminded of what I really am.
Respectfully,
Odd
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Grief and Sadness
I am making myself write tonight. I don't want to, and I am not feeling it. What I want to do is play X-box 360 Call of Duty, Modern Warfare 2. Escape. Be distracted. Disengage. Be less human, more machine. Feast on visual stimulation, glut on loud noises, simulated explosions, and on-line banter. To feel like I'm doing something, faster, bigger, stronger. All without moving. Or at least without moving more than my thumbs and the small muscles in my eyes. I want to be without being. Alive without living. But I'm gonna' write this bastard out.
A rut, you say? Four years. No, actually five. Sure it is winter and who doesn't have a cold, which makes one feel a little closer to blue than yellow. But for the better part of five years, I've been working on finding space for Grief and Sadness in my life's house. Suddenly five years ago, I met Grief, shook his cold hand, and stuffed him in an old foot locker. I took the trunk to the attic, and that was that. Life goes on, right? Right? I followed the only rules I knew. Tough it out. Suck it up.
Fucking Grief, he sneaks out of the box a few days later and pops up next to me in my car on the Baltimore Beltway. Back in the box, motherfucker. Back into the attic, thank you very much. Perhaps it was okay if Grief was treated like children in the Victorian era, seen but not heard. I could occasionally look stricken, but I didn't let Grief be heard. Occasionally, sure, Grief would pop off the lid and surprise me unexpectedly. In the shower. Raking leaves in the yard. Hugging my daughter. Fucking cretin, get your hands off my family. Back in the box. Get. In. The. BOX.
I had Grief pretty well figured out, six months in. Locked the box. Shoved it deep in the attic. Way away in the darkest corner. Piled it under life's flotsam and jetsam. Sure, when I was home alone, I sometimes heard Grief banging around. But as long as he didn't come downstairs, into the daylight, the sunny-warm light, I could handle a bit of banging around.
So what does Grief do? The bastard finds a friend in Sadness, and damned if the two of 'em don't bust that trunk wide and come rumbling down from the attic. Thunder on the stairs. You should have seen the look on their faces; wide smiles and a gleam in their eyes, as if saying, "Hey, we don't like the attic and it's nice day, so we are STAYING." Mischief makers they are. Like Loki, but not as Dungeons & Dragons.
Or maybe more aptly, like Thing One and Thing Two, just with black stripes on their unitards. Yeah, imagine trying to catch just one of those bastards and getting just one of 'em back into the box, the box laying broken and ruptured? Little manic-happy motherfuckers running all over the damn house, messing up things and getting spots on shit. Like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube, my brother. Like toothpaste.
But like I said, I fall back on what I know. Tough it out. So I chase Grief and Sadness all over the place. The fuckers don't sit still. They hide. They sneak. They run. And they never sleep. Oh sure, I'd grab one by the collar and wrap him up in duct tape, all the while trying to shove him into something I could hide away. Sometimes I get lucky and grab hold of Grief, but when I would, Sadness would hop on my back and pull my hair. So I shaved my head. He'd grab my ears. Frisky little rascals.
So I've given up on the attic. Hey, they don't want to be shut up all the time. Can you really blame them? But they can't have run of the house, either. Little monkeys. So I'm making up twin beds in a spare guest room. They can jump up and down on the beds and tack up their idols on the bedroom walls. But they gotta' follow house rules; early to bed, no whining, and have some manners. And I'm bringing in some new friends for them to play with. "Boys, meet Joy, Silly, Happy, Smiles, and Love. Girls, this is Grief and Sadness. Now, go play."
Okay, that was way better than X-box.
A rut, you say? Four years. No, actually five. Sure it is winter and who doesn't have a cold, which makes one feel a little closer to blue than yellow. But for the better part of five years, I've been working on finding space for Grief and Sadness in my life's house. Suddenly five years ago, I met Grief, shook his cold hand, and stuffed him in an old foot locker. I took the trunk to the attic, and that was that. Life goes on, right? Right? I followed the only rules I knew. Tough it out. Suck it up.
Fucking Grief, he sneaks out of the box a few days later and pops up next to me in my car on the Baltimore Beltway. Back in the box, motherfucker. Back into the attic, thank you very much. Perhaps it was okay if Grief was treated like children in the Victorian era, seen but not heard. I could occasionally look stricken, but I didn't let Grief be heard. Occasionally, sure, Grief would pop off the lid and surprise me unexpectedly. In the shower. Raking leaves in the yard. Hugging my daughter. Fucking cretin, get your hands off my family. Back in the box. Get. In. The. BOX.
I had Grief pretty well figured out, six months in. Locked the box. Shoved it deep in the attic. Way away in the darkest corner. Piled it under life's flotsam and jetsam. Sure, when I was home alone, I sometimes heard Grief banging around. But as long as he didn't come downstairs, into the daylight, the sunny-warm light, I could handle a bit of banging around.
So what does Grief do? The bastard finds a friend in Sadness, and damned if the two of 'em don't bust that trunk wide and come rumbling down from the attic. Thunder on the stairs. You should have seen the look on their faces; wide smiles and a gleam in their eyes, as if saying, "Hey, we don't like the attic and it's nice day, so we are STAYING." Mischief makers they are. Like Loki, but not as Dungeons & Dragons.
Or maybe more aptly, like Thing One and Thing Two, just with black stripes on their unitards. Yeah, imagine trying to catch just one of those bastards and getting just one of 'em back into the box, the box laying broken and ruptured? Little manic-happy motherfuckers running all over the damn house, messing up things and getting spots on shit. Like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube, my brother. Like toothpaste.
But like I said, I fall back on what I know. Tough it out. So I chase Grief and Sadness all over the place. The fuckers don't sit still. They hide. They sneak. They run. And they never sleep. Oh sure, I'd grab one by the collar and wrap him up in duct tape, all the while trying to shove him into something I could hide away. Sometimes I get lucky and grab hold of Grief, but when I would, Sadness would hop on my back and pull my hair. So I shaved my head. He'd grab my ears. Frisky little rascals.
So I've given up on the attic. Hey, they don't want to be shut up all the time. Can you really blame them? But they can't have run of the house, either. Little monkeys. So I'm making up twin beds in a spare guest room. They can jump up and down on the beds and tack up their idols on the bedroom walls. But they gotta' follow house rules; early to bed, no whining, and have some manners. And I'm bringing in some new friends for them to play with. "Boys, meet Joy, Silly, Happy, Smiles, and Love. Girls, this is Grief and Sadness. Now, go play."
Okay, that was way better than X-box.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Days to Remember to Forget
Sanity apparently took the weekend off. In its stead? A poor substitute teacher, known as Surrealism. Today started like any other Sunday, but it went south quickly. Perhaps the gray, pallid clouds of a New England February chased our friend Sanity to Naples or Cocoa or St. Pete's in search of warmer weather?
The first sign things were upside down was there was no milk for the coffee. There was no milk because I had used it all cooking Saturday night's mac n' cheese, which in of itself was a hint that Surreality was coming to visit. I cooked dinner. On a Saturday night. The mac n' cheese was wicked freaking good, I'll have you know. But when Mrs. Odd woke up and brewed up a batch of coffee, there was no milk and no happy Mrs. Odd. A smart man would have jumped in his truck and run to the corner store for a gallon of 2%, but I'm not a smart man. I'm a man. So I sat on the couch, sipping my coffee black, and suggested that Mrs. Odd could swing by the bagel place on her way to grab the milk. Yeah, stupid and dumb.
So while Mrs. Odd trudged to the local bagelry and corner market, I got on our shared laptop to check on my dozens and dozens of Facebook friends. As the little machine booted up, I noticed that my son was already logged on. Odd, I thought to myself, as he was just getting out of bed when I rallied myself at 8 o'clock. Him in bed at eight was a sign I misread in the moment, but alas, hindsight is, well, twenty-twenty. I suppose in my case, hindsight could mean I can see an ass when I look in a mirror. Back to the laptop. What was weird about my son being logged onto the computer was that I was online at one a.m., checking Facebook for the dozens and dozens of friends who are not awake at 1 a.m., and he was distinctly not awake at that early hour. So how did he log on? Hmmmm? And when did he log on, if he was just getting up? Hmmmm? Sip coffee, check Facebook, wait for bagels, forget about son's use of laptop...
Fast forward to Mrs. Odd's announcement that there were bagels. Oh, goody! I meander out to the kitchen, get in line for the toaster, and make myself an 'everything' bagel with olive-pimento cream cheese. Good, good. Mrs. Odd joins me in the family room, and I casually remark, "Hey, why didn't you get onion bagels? They are my favorite. I don't really like 'everything' bagels." Yeah, hindsight. Stupid, dumb, selfish. "Man, meet caveman. Caveman, meet dead husband." So I eat my 'everything' bagel (it is not a metaphor, I swear, just a bagel) in in oddly uncomfortable silence that I didn't recognize until now, twelve hours later. Fucking cavemen are embarrassed for me, for Christ's sake. Mrs. Odd and I eventually head out to the kitchen around ten o'clock, and a bulb sort of flickers in my head, and I call my son up from the basement. He bangs up the stairs, and says, "Yeah, Dad?" And now the flickering bulbs lights off in my head, burning with a sudden incandescence rivaling a lightning strike, and before I can stop myself, I say to my son, "What were you looking up on the Internet this morning?" Mrs. Odd looks at me oddly. My son looks at me like a deer in the headlights. I start to feel Surreality tickling me under the armpits, an uncomfortable sensation that reminds me that I am an IDIOT. Tickle, tickle.
And my son sheepishly mutters, "Boobs." And because I'm a stupid, dumb, idiotic, caveman, I laugh. Mrs. Odd is trying to figure out how the hell I got to the point that I was asking our son about his Internet search predilections, and why in the world would I laugh out loud when he calmly announces that he got up at his usual 5:30 a.m. rising time, and spent two and half hours Googling "Tit Viedos". Yes, "Tit Viedos"; his spelling not mine. I checked the laptop's history, and that's how he spelled 'video'. He got 'tit' right, which is after all, phonetic. A C-V-C word, probably not on his weekly spelling list. Oh, did I mention my son is seven?!?
Yeah, today was surreal. That was what happened before lunch. The rest of the day pretty much followed suit. For the first time in a long, long time, Monday is looking pretty damn appealing.
The first sign things were upside down was there was no milk for the coffee. There was no milk because I had used it all cooking Saturday night's mac n' cheese, which in of itself was a hint that Surreality was coming to visit. I cooked dinner. On a Saturday night. The mac n' cheese was wicked freaking good, I'll have you know. But when Mrs. Odd woke up and brewed up a batch of coffee, there was no milk and no happy Mrs. Odd. A smart man would have jumped in his truck and run to the corner store for a gallon of 2%, but I'm not a smart man. I'm a man. So I sat on the couch, sipping my coffee black, and suggested that Mrs. Odd could swing by the bagel place on her way to grab the milk. Yeah, stupid and dumb.
So while Mrs. Odd trudged to the local bagelry and corner market, I got on our shared laptop to check on my dozens and dozens of Facebook friends. As the little machine booted up, I noticed that my son was already logged on. Odd, I thought to myself, as he was just getting out of bed when I rallied myself at 8 o'clock. Him in bed at eight was a sign I misread in the moment, but alas, hindsight is, well, twenty-twenty. I suppose in my case, hindsight could mean I can see an ass when I look in a mirror. Back to the laptop. What was weird about my son being logged onto the computer was that I was online at one a.m., checking Facebook for the dozens and dozens of friends who are not awake at 1 a.m., and he was distinctly not awake at that early hour. So how did he log on? Hmmmm? And when did he log on, if he was just getting up? Hmmmm? Sip coffee, check Facebook, wait for bagels, forget about son's use of laptop...
Fast forward to Mrs. Odd's announcement that there were bagels. Oh, goody! I meander out to the kitchen, get in line for the toaster, and make myself an 'everything' bagel with olive-pimento cream cheese. Good, good. Mrs. Odd joins me in the family room, and I casually remark, "Hey, why didn't you get onion bagels? They are my favorite. I don't really like 'everything' bagels." Yeah, hindsight. Stupid, dumb, selfish. "Man, meet caveman. Caveman, meet dead husband." So I eat my 'everything' bagel (it is not a metaphor, I swear, just a bagel) in in oddly uncomfortable silence that I didn't recognize until now, twelve hours later. Fucking cavemen are embarrassed for me, for Christ's sake. Mrs. Odd and I eventually head out to the kitchen around ten o'clock, and a bulb sort of flickers in my head, and I call my son up from the basement. He bangs up the stairs, and says, "Yeah, Dad?" And now the flickering bulbs lights off in my head, burning with a sudden incandescence rivaling a lightning strike, and before I can stop myself, I say to my son, "What were you looking up on the Internet this morning?" Mrs. Odd looks at me oddly. My son looks at me like a deer in the headlights. I start to feel Surreality tickling me under the armpits, an uncomfortable sensation that reminds me that I am an IDIOT. Tickle, tickle.
And my son sheepishly mutters, "Boobs." And because I'm a stupid, dumb, idiotic, caveman, I laugh. Mrs. Odd is trying to figure out how the hell I got to the point that I was asking our son about his Internet search predilections, and why in the world would I laugh out loud when he calmly announces that he got up at his usual 5:30 a.m. rising time, and spent two and half hours Googling "Tit Viedos". Yes, "Tit Viedos"; his spelling not mine. I checked the laptop's history, and that's how he spelled 'video'. He got 'tit' right, which is after all, phonetic. A C-V-C word, probably not on his weekly spelling list. Oh, did I mention my son is seven?!?
Yeah, today was surreal. That was what happened before lunch. The rest of the day pretty much followed suit. For the first time in a long, long time, Monday is looking pretty damn appealing.
Friday, February 5, 2010
What Are the Odds
Fate. The very word suggests -- if in a disorganized, non-linear fashion -- the existence of a higher power. If not a higher power, certainly a more powerful force than everyday Joe or Jane. With no evidence of one God, the likelihood of three angry sisters spinning and cutting threads of life seems no more -- or less -- likely. It is too hard to envision a cabal of disembodied decisions-makers spinning each and every life onto its course. Think of the planning. Think of the paperwork. What a huge margin for error.
Randomness seems too, well, random, in the context of an alternate theory to fate. Just that one might ask "Why?" cries for something greater than a lucky confluence of 1's and 0's lining up just so. Force your mind's eye down past dust particles, past motes, pass microscopic microbes, keep thinking smaller. Atoms? Protons? Go to the smallest thing known or imagined, so infinitesimally small that we have haven't imagined how small they are. How can even a googleplex of these nottalots leaning slightly to the... let's say the left, somehow actually make it so Romeo never meets Juliet? Or, as likely, make it so Shakespeare writes a play about Romeo and Felicity?
The mere fact you are reading this means two people in your life thought something akin to affection for at least -- ahem...-- a few minutes. Lust. Like. Love. Maybe a lifetime of all three, maybe some span of time between five good minutes and 50 years. Think of the odds that you are sitting in front of your computer, reading this. What are the odds that just you are reading just this. Destiny? Luck? Fate? Chance? Well, how the fuck do you explain just this one insignificant phenomenon? Even in the time it took for this sentence to be written, billions of billions of occurrences occurred. Explain the origins and import of just one, completely. I could throw my sock across the room a thousand times and it will never happen the same way. And throwing a sock is not really all that interesting.
So, how can you (...or anyone...) explain love? If a leaf can fall an infinite numbers of ways from the branch on which it grew, how can love be explained? Come on. Love is preposterous. The simple fact that two people actually meet, like each other enough to share another moment, and perhaps even one day fall in love is so unlikely, so foolish a notion, no reasonable man or woman would believe it possible. And it happens every second of everyday, and that is so tremendously, wildly improbable yet so utterly, so wonderfully sure, it staggers the mind.
Someone recently mentioned, affectionately, that my parents were an unlikely couple. Aren't they all.
Randomness seems too, well, random, in the context of an alternate theory to fate. Just that one might ask "Why?" cries for something greater than a lucky confluence of 1's and 0's lining up just so. Force your mind's eye down past dust particles, past motes, pass microscopic microbes, keep thinking smaller. Atoms? Protons? Go to the smallest thing known or imagined, so infinitesimally small that we have haven't imagined how small they are. How can even a googleplex of these nottalots leaning slightly to the... let's say the left, somehow actually make it so Romeo never meets Juliet? Or, as likely, make it so Shakespeare writes a play about Romeo and Felicity?
The mere fact you are reading this means two people in your life thought something akin to affection for at least -- ahem...-- a few minutes. Lust. Like. Love. Maybe a lifetime of all three, maybe some span of time between five good minutes and 50 years. Think of the odds that you are sitting in front of your computer, reading this. What are the odds that just you are reading just this. Destiny? Luck? Fate? Chance? Well, how the fuck do you explain just this one insignificant phenomenon? Even in the time it took for this sentence to be written, billions of billions of occurrences occurred. Explain the origins and import of just one, completely. I could throw my sock across the room a thousand times and it will never happen the same way. And throwing a sock is not really all that interesting.
So, how can you (...or anyone...) explain love? If a leaf can fall an infinite numbers of ways from the branch on which it grew, how can love be explained? Come on. Love is preposterous. The simple fact that two people actually meet, like each other enough to share another moment, and perhaps even one day fall in love is so unlikely, so foolish a notion, no reasonable man or woman would believe it possible. And it happens every second of everyday, and that is so tremendously, wildly improbable yet so utterly, so wonderfully sure, it staggers the mind.
Someone recently mentioned, affectionately, that my parents were an unlikely couple. Aren't they all.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Death of Common Sense
Have you noticed that the national political parties spend most of their time pointing out what the other party is doing wrong? The Republicans blame the Democrats for the ridiculous spending the Federal Government is doing. The Democrats blame the Republicans for delaying progress, offering no new ideas for righting what is wrong in the country. What a bunch of dumb-ass, self-delusional nonsense. It makes me wonder what Harry Truman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, or John F. Kennedy would say. Probably that we are a nation of idiots. And I'm not talking about the fun loving Red Sox-Kevin Millar sort of idiots, but actual idiots. Like, stupid.
As an example, we are spending money hand over foot to fight wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a reminder, we invaded Iraq, in part, to dismantle their weapons-of-mass destruction. We must have scared the shit of out of the Iraqis, as they uninvented any and all weapons-of-mass destruction before they actually made them. How many billions of dollars and thousands of lives have we wasted? Many of both. And for the record, the Republicans led the charge, the Democrats followed like cows, and the American public bitches and complains. Perhaps most vulgar, we watch CNN or Fox and let the news media scare the piss out of us, and keep throwing money at Iraq. Or Yemen, or Nigeria, or fill-in the failed state of your choice. But as the old saying goes, if you break it, you buy it. We broke Iraq, so I guess we own the mess. Ka-ching.
Afghanistan? Maybe worth the fight. Not to save the country. The Russians broke it, the Taliban buried the pieces, and we smashed whatever was left. Except the poppy fields. So we have cheap heroin, so we have that going for us. And we don't want to piss off Pakistan, even though 3/4 of what is left of Al Queda is in...Pakistan. With friends like that, who needs enemas? But I can see staying in Afghanistan to smash the little terrorist groups that get organized enough to buy some AK-47's, cell phones, and 155 millimeter artillery shells. But let's be honest, what would be a good outcome there? Democracy? Less violence? An end to narco-terrorism? Less US causalities? Oh yeah, we have major military commitments on the Korean peninsula and small ones all over the damn place, too.
How about here at home? Starting in the Reagan-era, the conservatives behind the conservatives have systemically emasculated the Federal government, except the industrial-military complex. Practically is every case, we shop out real jobs in poorly regulated bid processes, spending lots of tax revenue for private companies to make some bucks and do piss-poor quality work. We stopped really regulating private business (banks, insurance, communications, etc.) in the 80's. Sure, it was piecemeal and didn't happen overnight, but we allowed the Federal government to become what we actually fear most. Fat, stupid, open to partisan politics, impersonal. For every example of good government, anyone who reads a paper or watches the nightly news can list a half dozen examples of the Fed fucking up.
But the American public is complicit. I'm socially liberal, but can't quite get over the fact that lots of groups -- on the left and right -- want someone else to fix their problems, pay for the pet projects, or make them feel better about their shitty existence. Our older population want entitlements that outstrip our ability to pay for them. Wall Street and the banking community want protection from risk. The housing sector wants double digit sales of new and existing homes, and at the same time wanting home values to grow by 10% a year. Huh? Supply and demand dictates that as more homes are available, prices should flatten out, if not go down. And their seem to be a few houses for sale. We spend a bunch of money to bail out the banks and are surprised that that money didn't end up in our hands? Really? But who wanted the banks to fail? My money is in a bank. My home loan is owned by a bank. We do stupid things, we watch stupid things happen, we listen to stupid things from politicians from all stripes, and we get angry. We don't do anything much, but we do angry well, don't you think?
Jobs? Well, as long as we ship out simple jobs to India, China, or other rim nations, does anyone think we'll have real job growth? No one wants to drop $120,000 for college, then drive for UPS. Could we create new jobs without a stronger manufacturing base? Maybe our country can employ 180 million adults in the film industry and video game design. But I doubt it. We need to develop industries that we keep control over. We need less accountants, stock brokers, and lawyers, and way more nurses, teachers, doctors, scientists, and engineers.
Let's sum up. We spend too much, save too little, expect too much, don't deal with change well, and don't pay attention for long. What are we, teenagers? If we spend a lot to save some dirt farmer in Afghanistan, we should raise taxes. If we want better infrastructure, perhaps you might also consider spending less on shit like a Mars program, F-35's, or a big fucking wall that doesn't keep illegal immigrants out of the country. Less urban violence? More jobs, a bit of dignity, laced with a hope for a safe, reasonably healthy retirement. Cheaper oil? Drive a smaller car. Too fat? Eat less. Sick of the news? Turn off the television. $50,000 for a tennis courts in Montana? Sheesh.
As an example, we are spending money hand over foot to fight wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. As a reminder, we invaded Iraq, in part, to dismantle their weapons-of-mass destruction. We must have scared the shit of out of the Iraqis, as they uninvented any and all weapons-of-mass destruction before they actually made them. How many billions of dollars and thousands of lives have we wasted? Many of both. And for the record, the Republicans led the charge, the Democrats followed like cows, and the American public bitches and complains. Perhaps most vulgar, we watch CNN or Fox and let the news media scare the piss out of us, and keep throwing money at Iraq. Or Yemen, or Nigeria, or fill-in the failed state of your choice. But as the old saying goes, if you break it, you buy it. We broke Iraq, so I guess we own the mess. Ka-ching.
Afghanistan? Maybe worth the fight. Not to save the country. The Russians broke it, the Taliban buried the pieces, and we smashed whatever was left. Except the poppy fields. So we have cheap heroin, so we have that going for us. And we don't want to piss off Pakistan, even though 3/4 of what is left of Al Queda is in...Pakistan. With friends like that, who needs enemas? But I can see staying in Afghanistan to smash the little terrorist groups that get organized enough to buy some AK-47's, cell phones, and 155 millimeter artillery shells. But let's be honest, what would be a good outcome there? Democracy? Less violence? An end to narco-terrorism? Less US causalities? Oh yeah, we have major military commitments on the Korean peninsula and small ones all over the damn place, too.
How about here at home? Starting in the Reagan-era, the conservatives behind the conservatives have systemically emasculated the Federal government, except the industrial-military complex. Practically is every case, we shop out real jobs in poorly regulated bid processes, spending lots of tax revenue for private companies to make some bucks and do piss-poor quality work. We stopped really regulating private business (banks, insurance, communications, etc.) in the 80's. Sure, it was piecemeal and didn't happen overnight, but we allowed the Federal government to become what we actually fear most. Fat, stupid, open to partisan politics, impersonal. For every example of good government, anyone who reads a paper or watches the nightly news can list a half dozen examples of the Fed fucking up.
But the American public is complicit. I'm socially liberal, but can't quite get over the fact that lots of groups -- on the left and right -- want someone else to fix their problems, pay for the pet projects, or make them feel better about their shitty existence. Our older population want entitlements that outstrip our ability to pay for them. Wall Street and the banking community want protection from risk. The housing sector wants double digit sales of new and existing homes, and at the same time wanting home values to grow by 10% a year. Huh? Supply and demand dictates that as more homes are available, prices should flatten out, if not go down. And their seem to be a few houses for sale. We spend a bunch of money to bail out the banks and are surprised that that money didn't end up in our hands? Really? But who wanted the banks to fail? My money is in a bank. My home loan is owned by a bank. We do stupid things, we watch stupid things happen, we listen to stupid things from politicians from all stripes, and we get angry. We don't do anything much, but we do angry well, don't you think?
Jobs? Well, as long as we ship out simple jobs to India, China, or other rim nations, does anyone think we'll have real job growth? No one wants to drop $120,000 for college, then drive for UPS. Could we create new jobs without a stronger manufacturing base? Maybe our country can employ 180 million adults in the film industry and video game design. But I doubt it. We need to develop industries that we keep control over. We need less accountants, stock brokers, and lawyers, and way more nurses, teachers, doctors, scientists, and engineers.
Let's sum up. We spend too much, save too little, expect too much, don't deal with change well, and don't pay attention for long. What are we, teenagers? If we spend a lot to save some dirt farmer in Afghanistan, we should raise taxes. If we want better infrastructure, perhaps you might also consider spending less on shit like a Mars program, F-35's, or a big fucking wall that doesn't keep illegal immigrants out of the country. Less urban violence? More jobs, a bit of dignity, laced with a hope for a safe, reasonably healthy retirement. Cheaper oil? Drive a smaller car. Too fat? Eat less. Sick of the news? Turn off the television. $50,000 for a tennis courts in Montana? Sheesh.
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