Posts
I've often said, in these blogs, that I feel like an alien in a world I simply cannot understand. And the more I reach for the "Delete All" option on my Spam folder, the more firmly I am convinced of it. I am truly sincere when I say that I cannot comprehend how greed has so overcome our world that over 10 billion spam messages are sent out every day. The sub-humans who create and perpetrate this idiocy have absolutely no concern for logic or human decency, or the fact that they are preying on the gullible.
We've all heard jokes about and seen reports on jobs which are held in lowest esteem by the pubic. Traditionally lawyers and used car salesmen are on the list. But spammers are so far beneath contempt they do not even register. What purpose do these creatures serve, other than to take advantage of others? And that they apparently succeed and prosper says clearly that we are doomed as a species.
And, dear Lord, it never ends. The backed-up sewers of cyberspace continue to bubble and spray and splatter over every computer on the planet. At times, I like to put myself in the role of what I imagine the spammers see as their ideal target, and react accordingly to their messages. It seldom works, and my instant reactions, even under the most ideal of circumstances are less than positive. Here are a few more shining examples of the spammer's art, and my immediate response to them.
"He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell" (I still didn't open it, but I do applaud its creativity)
"Your illegal activity." (oooooh, dear! Am I in trouble? Can I write you a check to make it go away? Please?)
"Missed my message?" (No, I didn't miss your message. I didn't see it, but I certainly didn't miss it.)
"Deeper in her entrails. What your score...." (What a lovely mental picture!)
"Waiting for reply" (Of course you are. Keep waiting)
"Should the Acronym LOOL just die?" (I have no problem with that.)
"I'm pressing charges!" (Good. If I send you a couple pair of pants, will you press them, too?)
"Perhaps you could be my new friend--Hi, My name is Maria. I am looking for a friend to chat. I have a picture if you wi...." (Note: If your name is Maria, why did your note come from someone named Pearline Triplett? And why did I immediately think of that old drinking song: "Get off the table, Mable....the quarter's for the beer.")
"Ah no replied she--What ails you, king's daughter! lodgings! Mr. Greenland lawful...." (And the answer is still "No!")
"Your request canceled" (Oh, no! Please tell me how I can un-cancel a request I never made! I can't live without whatever the hell you're talking about!)
"This is my third and Final Mail to you!" (Promise?)
"She went and opened the door--The next day. counterflow. Jr. Tariff brothers favoring..." (And this is supposed to get me to buy something from you...how?)
"Britney: I was a slave--You received this newsletter because you expressed an interest in our products and services...." (You are mistaken. I assure you I have no interest whatsoever in your products or services, whatever they may be. And I'm not even curious as to what Britney's being a slave has to do with it.)
I do not fool myself that any amount of ranting against spam and its loathesome perpetrators will do a bit of good. But like so many things over which I have no control, raging against them is better than merely accepting them. And once again, I will not go gently into that good night.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com
Friday, June 05, 2009
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
I, Universe
After reading one of my more lugubrious (love that word) posts, a friend said “Do you honestly think you’re the only person in the world who has ever felt this way?” To which I replied: “Yep.”
The fact is that I was fudging just a bit. It is partly because I realize that I am NOT the only person to suffer from bouts—some more justifiable than others—of doubt and self-pity, or to have done incredibly stupid things, or to be too-frequently frustrated to the point of tears or sometimes frightening rage by something that does not go the way I want or expect it to go. Which is, in turn, the basic reason I am a writer rather than a plumber or watch repairman.
Because each of us is born into a species in which we are only one of seven billion and are therefore so vastly outnumbered, we tend to assume, erroneously, that everyone else is part of a vast private club to which we do not belong. It's a little like not being able to see the forest for the trees, and it simply never occurs to us that we are ourselves, in fact, a tree in that forest. And we're not only a tree in the forest, we're also round pegs in a square hole, and any of two thousand other metaphors indicating our sense of being separate and separated from everyone else. In a world of an infinite range of color, the social rules by which we live are largely written only in black or white, with very rare occasional shadings of grey. Our society sets up immutable rules which no single individual within that society could possibly follow fully.
Yet we are led to believe there is some sort of gigantic yardstick against which we are convinced we must measure ourselves. And since there is in fact no such yardstick, inevitably we fail. And the problem is not that there is none, but that we insist upon assuming there is. “This is the way you must behave,” we are told, and the fact that almost nobody really does or could behave in that exact way has nothing to do with it. “This is how you must think,” we are told. A box is drawn around us, and those few who ever even think to step beyond its imaginary boundaries do so act at their own peril.
Our popular culture insists upon establishing arbitrary and ultimately self-destructive rules which benefit few and do harm to many. Two of the most unbendable of these rules is that to have worth as a human being, to be adored, to be worshipped, one must be young and beautiful. That only a relatively small percentage of humanity is either of these things is immaterial. The further you are from either of these standards, the less value you have as a human being. Susan Boyle's initial appearance on Britain's Got Talent was a quintessential example of this theory. Here is this....this person....no one would look at twice on the street. You could see the scorn on the faces of the audience when she first walked out on stage. She was obviously a nobody. A nothing. Not worth paying attention to. Until she opened her mouth.
And how many people learned a lesson of tolerance and understanding from Ms. Boyle's stunning contradiction of what everyone automatically assumed by just looking at her? Sadly, I'd imagine very few.
We treasure our prejudices, even if we ourselves are victims of them.
I do not do either pontification or pondering of deep issues well, as evinced by the above, but I do enjoy doing it, just to prove to myself that I am capable of thinking at all. Descartes hit it on the head back in 1641 when he said, "Cogito, ergo sum."
So what do you think?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, where this blog also appears.
The fact is that I was fudging just a bit. It is partly because I realize that I am NOT the only person to suffer from bouts—some more justifiable than others—of doubt and self-pity, or to have done incredibly stupid things, or to be too-frequently frustrated to the point of tears or sometimes frightening rage by something that does not go the way I want or expect it to go. Which is, in turn, the basic reason I am a writer rather than a plumber or watch repairman.
Because each of us is born into a species in which we are only one of seven billion and are therefore so vastly outnumbered, we tend to assume, erroneously, that everyone else is part of a vast private club to which we do not belong. It's a little like not being able to see the forest for the trees, and it simply never occurs to us that we are ourselves, in fact, a tree in that forest. And we're not only a tree in the forest, we're also round pegs in a square hole, and any of two thousand other metaphors indicating our sense of being separate and separated from everyone else. In a world of an infinite range of color, the social rules by which we live are largely written only in black or white, with very rare occasional shadings of grey. Our society sets up immutable rules which no single individual within that society could possibly follow fully.
Yet we are led to believe there is some sort of gigantic yardstick against which we are convinced we must measure ourselves. And since there is in fact no such yardstick, inevitably we fail. And the problem is not that there is none, but that we insist upon assuming there is. “This is the way you must behave,” we are told, and the fact that almost nobody really does or could behave in that exact way has nothing to do with it. “This is how you must think,” we are told. A box is drawn around us, and those few who ever even think to step beyond its imaginary boundaries do so act at their own peril.
Our popular culture insists upon establishing arbitrary and ultimately self-destructive rules which benefit few and do harm to many. Two of the most unbendable of these rules is that to have worth as a human being, to be adored, to be worshipped, one must be young and beautiful. That only a relatively small percentage of humanity is either of these things is immaterial. The further you are from either of these standards, the less value you have as a human being. Susan Boyle's initial appearance on Britain's Got Talent was a quintessential example of this theory. Here is this....this person....no one would look at twice on the street. You could see the scorn on the faces of the audience when she first walked out on stage. She was obviously a nobody. A nothing. Not worth paying attention to. Until she opened her mouth.
And how many people learned a lesson of tolerance and understanding from Ms. Boyle's stunning contradiction of what everyone automatically assumed by just looking at her? Sadly, I'd imagine very few.
We treasure our prejudices, even if we ourselves are victims of them.
I do not do either pontification or pondering of deep issues well, as evinced by the above, but I do enjoy doing it, just to prove to myself that I am capable of thinking at all. Descartes hit it on the head back in 1641 when he said, "Cogito, ergo sum."
So what do you think?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, where this blog also appears.
Monday, June 01, 2009
The Deaf Heart
The mind speaks quietly and logically, but too often the heart is deaf.
One of the writers I've gotten to know on the internet....and who is with the same publisher....came into town with his partner this past Saturday for a book signing, and suggested we meet for coffee before the event. Though I had to work and couldn't attend the signing, I mentioned it to a couple of friends and Gary agreed to join us for coffee, then go on to the reading/signing. Both the author and his partner proved to be really nice and interesting guys, and when they suggested that Gary and I join them for a drink later that night, we agreed.
I had not been to a gay bar on a Saturday night in far more years than I care to count. With each passing year, I find myself moved....pushed, if you will....further and further to the perimeter of a community with which I have always identified and of which I felt an integral part for so many years. And frankly, it hurts to know I no longer belong.
Now, the mind points out with irrefutable logic that this is simply the way the world works, that it is nothing personal. But the heart totally refuses to accept that reality, and to me it is very personal indeed.
Chicago's Boys Town on a Saturday night is a mass of people. All young, all beautiful. We met in front of one of Boys Town's largest and most popular bars. The writer's partner was parking the car, and so we stood on the sidewalk amidst a steady Mississippi of 20- and 30-somethings, each one more attractive, more vibrant, more joyous than the one before. And I stood there, excruciatingly aware that I was no longer one of them, my heart literally aching with longing to be one of them.
The partner showed up, and we moved to the door, where two very handsome young men in a tight tee-shirts were checking IDs of everyone who entered. No one could possibly doubt, at a distance of three blocks let alone three feet, that I had blown out the candles on my 21st Birthday cake long, long ago, but rather than have the checker ask (it's probably required by law), I showed him mine, feeling about three inches tall as I did so.
We made our way through three or four different bar areas, some with blaring music, some more quiet, to the stairway leading to a very pleasant roof garden, with two separate bars of its own. I ordered a Kaluha and Cream---light on the Kaluha, heavy on the cream, which all but shouted "Woos, here!" I didn't want to explain that I didn't order a manhattan, which I'd have loved, because alcohol burns my mouth, so I let the bartender think whatever he might; and that he would think anything at all is a form of reverse Narcissism...it was just another drink order. To him, perhaps, but not to me.
As we stood around talking I developed what I call "a case of the drools:" my mouth produces no saliva, but secondary glands do, under certain stimulus, produce large quantities of liquid over which I have no control and am seldom aware until I open my mouth to speak. So as a result, I say very little, undoubtedly adding to my image as a dull, uninteresting old man.
Once again, my mind tells me that I am being far, far to hard on myself. And once again, my heart refuses to listen.
My favorite epitaph, which I quote frequently, reads: "As you are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall you be." And as I looked out over the sea of beautiful young people swirling and laughing and talking as they flow around a solitary, aging man they do not see, my mind logically repeated that phrase. My heart did not care.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
One of the writers I've gotten to know on the internet....and who is with the same publisher....came into town with his partner this past Saturday for a book signing, and suggested we meet for coffee before the event. Though I had to work and couldn't attend the signing, I mentioned it to a couple of friends and Gary agreed to join us for coffee, then go on to the reading/signing. Both the author and his partner proved to be really nice and interesting guys, and when they suggested that Gary and I join them for a drink later that night, we agreed.
I had not been to a gay bar on a Saturday night in far more years than I care to count. With each passing year, I find myself moved....pushed, if you will....further and further to the perimeter of a community with which I have always identified and of which I felt an integral part for so many years. And frankly, it hurts to know I no longer belong.
Now, the mind points out with irrefutable logic that this is simply the way the world works, that it is nothing personal. But the heart totally refuses to accept that reality, and to me it is very personal indeed.
Chicago's Boys Town on a Saturday night is a mass of people. All young, all beautiful. We met in front of one of Boys Town's largest and most popular bars. The writer's partner was parking the car, and so we stood on the sidewalk amidst a steady Mississippi of 20- and 30-somethings, each one more attractive, more vibrant, more joyous than the one before. And I stood there, excruciatingly aware that I was no longer one of them, my heart literally aching with longing to be one of them.
The partner showed up, and we moved to the door, where two very handsome young men in a tight tee-shirts were checking IDs of everyone who entered. No one could possibly doubt, at a distance of three blocks let alone three feet, that I had blown out the candles on my 21st Birthday cake long, long ago, but rather than have the checker ask (it's probably required by law), I showed him mine, feeling about three inches tall as I did so.
We made our way through three or four different bar areas, some with blaring music, some more quiet, to the stairway leading to a very pleasant roof garden, with two separate bars of its own. I ordered a Kaluha and Cream---light on the Kaluha, heavy on the cream, which all but shouted "Woos, here!" I didn't want to explain that I didn't order a manhattan, which I'd have loved, because alcohol burns my mouth, so I let the bartender think whatever he might; and that he would think anything at all is a form of reverse Narcissism...it was just another drink order. To him, perhaps, but not to me.
As we stood around talking I developed what I call "a case of the drools:" my mouth produces no saliva, but secondary glands do, under certain stimulus, produce large quantities of liquid over which I have no control and am seldom aware until I open my mouth to speak. So as a result, I say very little, undoubtedly adding to my image as a dull, uninteresting old man.
Once again, my mind tells me that I am being far, far to hard on myself. And once again, my heart refuses to listen.
My favorite epitaph, which I quote frequently, reads: "As you are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall you be." And as I looked out over the sea of beautiful young people swirling and laughing and talking as they flow around a solitary, aging man they do not see, my mind logically repeated that phrase. My heart did not care.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. And I hope you might stop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
A Can o' Spam
I'm so fond of those vitally important messages that flood everyone's computer "In" boxes that I've begun something of a collection of my favorites. Since I never open the actual messages, all I have to go by are the few words that accompany them. I note they fall into categories, and I present some of them here, exactly as I received them, and with my immediate reactions:
Category 1: I wouldn't touch these with a ten-foot pole
"Want your babe to moan loud?" ("Babe"? Didn't "babe" go out with "groovy"? I think the word "chick" is a lot cooler, man! Shows you're really with it and hip. And the answer is still "No!")
"Wanna meet?" (Uh, thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Become superman...return life to your rod!" (What do you mean, "return"?)
Category 2: The Carrot and the Stick
"create yourDestiny and obtain twenty grand. --folks all around the nation are rushing to join us, working for 1 just hour and......" (Oh, yeah, I can look out my window and see folks around the nation rushing to join whatever in hell it is you're peddling.)
"Crime Scene Investigators Wanted" (By whom? For what?)
Category 3: Nice try...you almost had me
"Everything's cancelled today." (Now that one I liked. I didn't open it, but I liked it)
Category 4: Riiiight
"Transform yourLife by obtaining 10000 without anyStrings attached. Right from the Gov, gain stupendous...." (10000 what? "The Gov"? The governor?)
"Re: Half-priced Houses: 3-4-5 Bedroom-Forclosures from 128/month" (Care to pick out the operative word in that sentence?)
Category 5: Long-lost pals
"Saying hi, Chrissy from myspace :)--hi there its been like a month or something since we last chatted and I was...." (Uh, try more like forever, Chrissy, and no, I would not like to buy your nude photos.)
Category 6: New words
"Do it now. Taking these blue pilules is like drinking from an infinite spring of endurance and desire...." (A "pilule"? What the hell is a "pilule"?)
Category 7: Irresistible Intrigue
"Hey! mgrprm zspu 2 piekvnr; cpiqcej! ewbxk....." (Well, that's a real inducement to open the thing.)
Category 8: The fine art of subtlety
"good stuff--for your meat muscle" (What a charming euphemism!)
"Do it now. --Be her mighty night predator" (Her? Oh, Charlie, are you barking up the wrong tree!)
*****
I'm saving all of the above to open and carefully peruse shortly after hell freezes over.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Category 1: I wouldn't touch these with a ten-foot pole
"Want your babe to moan loud?" ("Babe"? Didn't "babe" go out with "groovy"? I think the word "chick" is a lot cooler, man! Shows you're really with it and hip. And the answer is still "No!")
"Wanna meet?" (Uh, thank you, but I'll pass.)
"Become superman...return life to your rod!" (What do you mean, "return"?)
Category 2: The Carrot and the Stick
"create yourDestiny and obtain twenty grand. --folks all around the nation are rushing to join us, working for 1 just hour and......" (Oh, yeah, I can look out my window and see folks around the nation rushing to join whatever in hell it is you're peddling.)
"Crime Scene Investigators Wanted" (By whom? For what?)
Category 3: Nice try...you almost had me
"Everything's cancelled today." (Now that one I liked. I didn't open it, but I liked it)
Category 4: Riiiight
"Transform yourLife by obtaining 10000 without anyStrings attached. Right from the Gov, gain stupendous...." (10000 what? "The Gov"? The governor?)
"Re: Half-priced Houses: 3-4-5 Bedroom-Forclosures from 128/month" (Care to pick out the operative word in that sentence?)
Category 5: Long-lost pals
"Saying hi, Chrissy from myspace :)--hi there its been like a month or something since we last chatted and I was...." (Uh, try more like forever, Chrissy, and no, I would not like to buy your nude photos.)
Category 6: New words
"Do it now. Taking these blue pilules is like drinking from an infinite spring of endurance and desire...." (A "pilule"? What the hell is a "pilule"?)
Category 7: Irresistible Intrigue
"Hey! mgrprm zspu 2 piekvnr; cpiqcej! ewbxk....." (Well, that's a real inducement to open the thing.)
Category 8: The fine art of subtlety
"good stuff--for your meat muscle" (What a charming euphemism!)
"Do it now. --Be her mighty night predator" (Her? Oh, Charlie, are you barking up the wrong tree!)
*****
I'm saving all of the above to open and carefully peruse shortly after hell freezes over.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website (http://www.doriengrey.com) from time to time.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Eunuchs
Let's face it. We are increasingly a society of eunuchs.
Lily Tomlin's wonderful character, Ernestine, the telephone operator, sums up much of what has led to this situation with her classic line: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Phone Company." This attitude is shared by fully 95 percent of all corporations and businesses upon whom our lives depend, and the endlessly repeated assurances that "your call is very important to us" while you sit on hold for 45 minutes is nothing but bullshit. The worst thing is that the company knows it is bullshit and, like Ernestine's employer, they simply don't care. Why should they? What can you do about it, anyway?
My nearest supermarket is a large Chicago chain, Dominick's, and I've been shopping with them since I moved back to Chicago. There is a large one near my friend Norm's, with whom I stayed when I first arrived. It's a good store, and I like it. However, the one closest to me is located adjacent to DePaul University. It's a much smaller store and it is patently obvious that the corporation uses it as a dumping ground for outdated products. Because it is located near a university and its customers are largely college kids who, it is highly unlikely, even realize there is an expiration date on anything (including their own lives), the company rightly assumes they'll never notice they're being ripped off.
I have complained to the manager at least six times about the fact that their dairy products are, 80 percent of the time, either past their "sell by" date or within one or two days of it. The manager listens patiently each time, assures me that it is all purely coincidental, that there is absolutely no conscious effort on Dominick's part to try to pawn off older products at this particular store, and sends me on my way.
Yesterday while shopping there, I saw a product I'd not seen before....a packaged coffee flavoring, which I decided to try. This morning, as I fixed my coffee, I opened the package and took out one of the six packets. Looking for the calorie count, which I always do since I need all the calories I can get, I noted "Expires: 01-19-09." I plan to return it to the store, and I will again speak to the manager, who will apologize and again assure me that it was purely coincidental. And I will once again be sent on my way, fuming. I'm thinking of asking for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O. and writing him/her. But we all know where that will lead, don't we?
Ours is increasingly a society in which the individual is constantly made aware that he or she is totally at the mercy of whatever greed-driven whim strikes those too powerful to be affected by what anyone thinks. The feeling of being totally, utterly powerless is frustrating, and too much frustration can easily lead to madness. Is it really any wonder that people wander around with loaded weapons (thanks, N.R.A.!!) finally venting their frustration by shooting people at random?
So I will ask for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O., and I will write him/her, and though I know full well it will either never be read or will be viewed through the glazed eyes of total indifference, doing something is better than doing nothing. And I hold the romantic's hope that if enough other people actually did something...anything...to let those in power know they're sick and tired of being shat upon, there might actually be hope for change. Perhaps pigs can fly.
When is the last time you felt taken advantage of? When's the last time you were treated rudely or ignored by a sales person? Or had poor service in a restaurant, or been served cold or overcooked food? But more importantly, when is the last you did anything about it? When is the last time you asked to speak to a manager?....Think, now..... Exactly. There does come a time when we get what we deserve, and every time you allow yourself to be treated poorly without saying something....well, I'm sorry, but you get what you deserve.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. (And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website at www.doriengrey.com from time to time.)
Lily Tomlin's wonderful character, Ernestine, the telephone operator, sums up much of what has led to this situation with her classic line: "We don't care. We don't have to. We're the Phone Company." This attitude is shared by fully 95 percent of all corporations and businesses upon whom our lives depend, and the endlessly repeated assurances that "your call is very important to us" while you sit on hold for 45 minutes is nothing but bullshit. The worst thing is that the company knows it is bullshit and, like Ernestine's employer, they simply don't care. Why should they? What can you do about it, anyway?
My nearest supermarket is a large Chicago chain, Dominick's, and I've been shopping with them since I moved back to Chicago. There is a large one near my friend Norm's, with whom I stayed when I first arrived. It's a good store, and I like it. However, the one closest to me is located adjacent to DePaul University. It's a much smaller store and it is patently obvious that the corporation uses it as a dumping ground for outdated products. Because it is located near a university and its customers are largely college kids who, it is highly unlikely, even realize there is an expiration date on anything (including their own lives), the company rightly assumes they'll never notice they're being ripped off.
I have complained to the manager at least six times about the fact that their dairy products are, 80 percent of the time, either past their "sell by" date or within one or two days of it. The manager listens patiently each time, assures me that it is all purely coincidental, that there is absolutely no conscious effort on Dominick's part to try to pawn off older products at this particular store, and sends me on my way.
Yesterday while shopping there, I saw a product I'd not seen before....a packaged coffee flavoring, which I decided to try. This morning, as I fixed my coffee, I opened the package and took out one of the six packets. Looking for the calorie count, which I always do since I need all the calories I can get, I noted "Expires: 01-19-09." I plan to return it to the store, and I will again speak to the manager, who will apologize and again assure me that it was purely coincidental. And I will once again be sent on my way, fuming. I'm thinking of asking for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O. and writing him/her. But we all know where that will lead, don't we?
Ours is increasingly a society in which the individual is constantly made aware that he or she is totally at the mercy of whatever greed-driven whim strikes those too powerful to be affected by what anyone thinks. The feeling of being totally, utterly powerless is frustrating, and too much frustration can easily lead to madness. Is it really any wonder that people wander around with loaded weapons (thanks, N.R.A.!!) finally venting their frustration by shooting people at random?
So I will ask for the name and address of Dominick's C.E.O., and I will write him/her, and though I know full well it will either never be read or will be viewed through the glazed eyes of total indifference, doing something is better than doing nothing. And I hold the romantic's hope that if enough other people actually did something...anything...to let those in power know they're sick and tired of being shat upon, there might actually be hope for change. Perhaps pigs can fly.
When is the last time you felt taken advantage of? When's the last time you were treated rudely or ignored by a sales person? Or had poor service in a restaurant, or been served cold or overcooked food? But more importantly, when is the last you did anything about it? When is the last time you asked to speak to a manager?....Think, now..... Exactly. There does come a time when we get what we deserve, and every time you allow yourself to be treated poorly without saying something....well, I'm sorry, but you get what you deserve.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend. (And I'd be pleased to have you drop by my website at www.doriengrey.com from time to time.)
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Largesse
Because my generosity---and modesty---, is legend, and because I am truly appreciative of the fact that you follow these blogs, I have decided to share with you (yes, you!) the astonishing largesse which the fates have just bestowed upon me. Because I am still so overwhelmed by my good fortune and giddy in anticipation, I shall simply reproduce here, in it's entirety, a just-received email which explains it all:
Sir/Madam
TRANSFER OF US$17 MILLION
I am a Director of World Bank Development Programme {WBDP VISION 2010} Africa region, and my name is Dr.George Mbeki, from South Africa. I am currently on official assignment in Nigeria.
As an officer of the World Bank we are not allowed to operate foreign bank accounts or handle private business operations.
Hence I am in search of an independent foreign partner to assist in the re-profiling of the US$36 MILLION. Specifically, you will be required to:
1. Front as the beneficiary of the funds.
2. Assist in the transfer of the funds into a bank account provided by you.
As you may wish to know, the US$17 MILLION accrued from the US$1.5 BILLION recently approved by the World Bank Group for various development projects in Nigeria. The contract projects have been successfully executed and this excess fund of US$17 MILLION is floating in a suspense account. It will take only a few days to complete the transfer to your account and the business is completely risk free.
After the transfer, 45% of the US$17 MILLION will be your share. 10% will be set aside to reimburse expenses {if any} incurred during the transaction. 45% will be for me.
REQUIREMENTS:
If you are interested, pls immediately the following particulars:
1. Your full name and address
2. The name of yor company and address
3. Your direct phone and fax numbers.
4. A bank account where you want the fund transferred into.
Reply to my confidential email address:
Yours faithfully,
Dr. George Mbeki
******
If you wish to go into this once-in-ten-lifetimes opportunity with me (I have no doubt but that it is a genuine, totally legal proposal since Dr. Mbeki assures us it is "risk free," and I trust any representative of a foreign government implicitly), please contact me immediately via email. And please, no need to thank me. It's the least I can do.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Sir/Madam
TRANSFER OF US$17 MILLION
I am a Director of World Bank Development Programme {WBDP VISION 2010} Africa region, and my name is Dr.George Mbeki, from South Africa. I am currently on official assignment in Nigeria.
As an officer of the World Bank we are not allowed to operate foreign bank accounts or handle private business operations.
Hence I am in search of an independent foreign partner to assist in the re-profiling of the US$36 MILLION. Specifically, you will be required to:
1. Front as the beneficiary of the funds.
2. Assist in the transfer of the funds into a bank account provided by you.
As you may wish to know, the US$17 MILLION accrued from the US$1.5 BILLION recently approved by the World Bank Group for various development projects in Nigeria. The contract projects have been successfully executed and this excess fund of US$17 MILLION is floating in a suspense account. It will take only a few days to complete the transfer to your account and the business is completely risk free.
After the transfer, 45% of the US$17 MILLION will be your share. 10% will be set aside to reimburse expenses {if any} incurred during the transaction. 45% will be for me.
REQUIREMENTS:
If you are interested, pls immediately the following particulars:
1. Your full name and address
2. The name of yor company and address
3. Your direct phone and fax numbers.
4. A bank account where you want the fund transferred into.
Reply to my confidential email address:
Yours faithfully,
Dr. George Mbeki
******
If you wish to go into this once-in-ten-lifetimes opportunity with me (I have no doubt but that it is a genuine, totally legal proposal since Dr. Mbeki assures us it is "risk free," and I trust any representative of a foreign government implicitly), please contact me immediately via email. And please, no need to thank me. It's the least I can do.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Schlock
I have never considered myself...or been considered by anyone else to be...an arbiter of taste and refinement. I to this day consider my mother's allowing me, in junior high to paint my bedroom chartreuse and maroon the ultimate example of a mother's love. But I do know schlock when I see it.
I realize that one man's schlock is another man's idea of exquisite taste, and that's fine. Elvis paintings on black velvet, those adorable little figurines of cherubs and little children with huge, sad eyes standing on a little pedestal with "I Wuv You!" on the base, those innumerable "Starving Artists" paintings cranked out in under four minutes....they may not be my taste, but no matter.
I also don't mind crap as long as it doesn't pretend to be anything but crap, but spending an hour watching television---especially those channels without major network affiliations and therefore dependent "not sold in stores" products and those execrable infomercials---demonstrates Mammon at his worst. I'm sure you have seen the "Obama Chia"s now being peddled on commercials around the country. It's surpasses crap and reaches for blushingly embarrassing. I beg your pardon if your dining room and kitchen windows are lined with those adorable little Chia llamas and sheep and whatever....that's fine. But excrement coated in candy is still excrement, and it is with the sales pitch accompanying this particular pile of dung to which I object totally. It should, in my humble and always reasoned opinion, have the ad agency who came up with it banned forever.
So there's this clay head looking somewhat like our president, see, and you soak it in water and in a few days, weeks, months or years, depending on how much of a green thumb you have, you get a clay head of our first African American president in a huge, green afro. Even that, astonishingly inappropriate example of bad taste that it is, would be marginally tolerable were it just plunked out there in any store with sufficient lack of shame to carry it. But no; they have spent Lord knows how much money pitching it to "show your support for our nation and our new president." Oh, for the love of God, have these people no shame? Just how low will the purveyors of this crud sink to get you to part with your money? (That was a rhetorical question, since we all know that is a pit without a bottom.) And why hasn't the N.A.A.C.P. been screaming bloody murder?
I have new respect for the Walgreen's Drug Store chain, which yanked Chia Obama from their shelves.
And then there is the offer of the small "jewel-encrusted, silver" (plated) cross of the sort generally sold by street vendors from open cases atop TV trays. When you hold the cross up to your eye....and why anyone would want to do that is also a mystery....you can read The Lord's Prayer through a little magnifying window. Just what the world has been waiting for! Again, this tawdry gee-gaw would be okay were it not promoted on TV and in magazines in the reverent tones reserved for anticipation of the Second Coming. The inference is that if you do not rush out and buy several ("they make excellent gifts"), you are a godless heathen. And it comes in its own little box with....and this for me is the clincher....a "Certificate of Authenticity"! A what? What "authenticity" is it certifying? That it is totally worthless?
Oh, I know, I am being cynical again. I know there are good, dear people who take pleasure in such things, and I do not mean to criticize them. I do mean to criticize those manufacturers and advertisers for whom the only motive is money. Their utter hypocrisy and greed in preying on the innocents they see as as easy targets. Is shameful.
And I am sure, were those responsible to read this blog entry, they would cease their disgraceful money-grubbing immediately. Of course they would. (Watch out for the flying pigs.)
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
I realize that one man's schlock is another man's idea of exquisite taste, and that's fine. Elvis paintings on black velvet, those adorable little figurines of cherubs and little children with huge, sad eyes standing on a little pedestal with "I Wuv You!" on the base, those innumerable "Starving Artists" paintings cranked out in under four minutes....they may not be my taste, but no matter.
I also don't mind crap as long as it doesn't pretend to be anything but crap, but spending an hour watching television---especially those channels without major network affiliations and therefore dependent "not sold in stores" products and those execrable infomercials---demonstrates Mammon at his worst. I'm sure you have seen the "Obama Chia"s now being peddled on commercials around the country. It's surpasses crap and reaches for blushingly embarrassing. I beg your pardon if your dining room and kitchen windows are lined with those adorable little Chia llamas and sheep and whatever....that's fine. But excrement coated in candy is still excrement, and it is with the sales pitch accompanying this particular pile of dung to which I object totally. It should, in my humble and always reasoned opinion, have the ad agency who came up with it banned forever.
So there's this clay head looking somewhat like our president, see, and you soak it in water and in a few days, weeks, months or years, depending on how much of a green thumb you have, you get a clay head of our first African American president in a huge, green afro. Even that, astonishingly inappropriate example of bad taste that it is, would be marginally tolerable were it just plunked out there in any store with sufficient lack of shame to carry it. But no; they have spent Lord knows how much money pitching it to "show your support for our nation and our new president." Oh, for the love of God, have these people no shame? Just how low will the purveyors of this crud sink to get you to part with your money? (That was a rhetorical question, since we all know that is a pit without a bottom.) And why hasn't the N.A.A.C.P. been screaming bloody murder?
I have new respect for the Walgreen's Drug Store chain, which yanked Chia Obama from their shelves.
And then there is the offer of the small "jewel-encrusted, silver" (plated) cross of the sort generally sold by street vendors from open cases atop TV trays. When you hold the cross up to your eye....and why anyone would want to do that is also a mystery....you can read The Lord's Prayer through a little magnifying window. Just what the world has been waiting for! Again, this tawdry gee-gaw would be okay were it not promoted on TV and in magazines in the reverent tones reserved for anticipation of the Second Coming. The inference is that if you do not rush out and buy several ("they make excellent gifts"), you are a godless heathen. And it comes in its own little box with....and this for me is the clincher....a "Certificate of Authenticity"! A what? What "authenticity" is it certifying? That it is totally worthless?
Oh, I know, I am being cynical again. I know there are good, dear people who take pleasure in such things, and I do not mean to criticize them. I do mean to criticize those manufacturers and advertisers for whom the only motive is money. Their utter hypocrisy and greed in preying on the innocents they see as as easy targets. Is shameful.
And I am sure, were those responsible to read this blog entry, they would cease their disgraceful money-grubbing immediately. Of course they would. (Watch out for the flying pigs.)
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, May 04, 2009
Screwed
It bothers me deeply that I seem to spend more and more of my time being angry. I am, it seems, far more frequently angry, and that anger often escalates into full blown fury. I received a notice from my cable/internet service provider telling me that in their constant efforts to provide even better service to me, their valued customer, they are raising my already-astronomically high rates by yet another "$5 to $6" (care to guess which it will be?), and are in the process of "reorganizing my service package" (read they will be cutting the number of channels I receive), but will be offering a "new" package plan, which I have no doubt, will include exactly the same channels they will be cutting from my regular service at an even higher rate.
Postal rates going up again in May? Gee, that's really a shame. Go find yourself another post office.
I titled this blog entry "Screwed"? My, what a harsh and crude thing to say. Have I no couth? Not when I feel I'm being screwed, I don't. And if you think for one minute you're not being screwed either, just look back over your shoulder at the long line of companies, corporations, agencies, banks, credit card companies and "service organizations" all standing in line behind you, waiting their turn.
And the fury comes from the fact that there is not one single thing I or anyone else can do about it. It will be exactly the same as when I complained to my insurance company that my rates rose by 10-15 percent every year, regular as clockwork--as a matter of fact, I suspect it WAS clockwork. ("Oh, here it is March. Time to raise our premiums.") They, of course, being in business only to serve their customers, were extremely sympathetic. "We understand completely, Mr. Margason. Please feel free to find another insurance provider." The fact that every other insurance company raises their rates exactly the same amount at exactly the same time has nothing at all to do with it, of course. And far be it....FAR, I say....from me to in any way suggest that reps from every insurance company get together at some $900-a-night hotel and engage, over champagne and caviar, in a good old fashioned game of collusion. Collusion is illegal, and we all know that. So of course they would never consider it.
It is the same with credit card companies. If I as an individual were to loan you $100 and charge you 29 percent interest, you could sue me for usury. But credit card companies do it with impunity and no one....no one....sues a credit card company.
When I lived in northern Wisconsin, on the border with the U.P. of Michigan, every time there was a boost in the price of oil, every single one of the eight gas stations in the area would raise their prices by the exact same amount within ten minutes of one another. The fact that the gas in their underground tanks had already been purchased, and the barrels of crude oil with the higher price would not make it to the refineries for weeks if not months in no way dissuaded anyone.
And out of curiosity, when is the last time you saw prices other than the volatile gas pump prices come down once they are raised? And you can have no doubt that if they could have gotten away with it, we would still be paying $4.95 per gallon. (Of course that will never happen again. No, never.)
Oh, Lord, I truly, truly do not like to be this way. I want to see the good in people. I honestly believe that there are companies out there who occasionally look beyond the bottom line. But they are harder and harder to find and I cannot, at the moment, think offhand of a single one.
The anger rests, again, in my feeling of utter helplessness. I know all this fury is not good for my mind or my body, but I seem increasingly unable to deal with it without venting it through these blogs. I do appreciate your bearing with me, and the fact that you do suggests I may not be totally alone.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back....and bring a friend.
Postal rates going up again in May? Gee, that's really a shame. Go find yourself another post office.
I titled this blog entry "Screwed"? My, what a harsh and crude thing to say. Have I no couth? Not when I feel I'm being screwed, I don't. And if you think for one minute you're not being screwed either, just look back over your shoulder at the long line of companies, corporations, agencies, banks, credit card companies and "service organizations" all standing in line behind you, waiting their turn.
And the fury comes from the fact that there is not one single thing I or anyone else can do about it. It will be exactly the same as when I complained to my insurance company that my rates rose by 10-15 percent every year, regular as clockwork--as a matter of fact, I suspect it WAS clockwork. ("Oh, here it is March. Time to raise our premiums.") They, of course, being in business only to serve their customers, were extremely sympathetic. "We understand completely, Mr. Margason. Please feel free to find another insurance provider." The fact that every other insurance company raises their rates exactly the same amount at exactly the same time has nothing at all to do with it, of course. And far be it....FAR, I say....from me to in any way suggest that reps from every insurance company get together at some $900-a-night hotel and engage, over champagne and caviar, in a good old fashioned game of collusion. Collusion is illegal, and we all know that. So of course they would never consider it.
It is the same with credit card companies. If I as an individual were to loan you $100 and charge you 29 percent interest, you could sue me for usury. But credit card companies do it with impunity and no one....no one....sues a credit card company.
When I lived in northern Wisconsin, on the border with the U.P. of Michigan, every time there was a boost in the price of oil, every single one of the eight gas stations in the area would raise their prices by the exact same amount within ten minutes of one another. The fact that the gas in their underground tanks had already been purchased, and the barrels of crude oil with the higher price would not make it to the refineries for weeks if not months in no way dissuaded anyone.
And out of curiosity, when is the last time you saw prices other than the volatile gas pump prices come down once they are raised? And you can have no doubt that if they could have gotten away with it, we would still be paying $4.95 per gallon. (Of course that will never happen again. No, never.)
Oh, Lord, I truly, truly do not like to be this way. I want to see the good in people. I honestly believe that there are companies out there who occasionally look beyond the bottom line. But they are harder and harder to find and I cannot, at the moment, think offhand of a single one.
The anger rests, again, in my feeling of utter helplessness. I know all this fury is not good for my mind or my body, but I seem increasingly unable to deal with it without venting it through these blogs. I do appreciate your bearing with me, and the fact that you do suggests I may not be totally alone.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back....and bring a friend.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Bumbling
I spend an inordinate amount of time bumbling through a world I do not understand, have never understood, and am sure I will never understand. I take some comfort in the assumption that this is not a condition unique to me. It's all just the way things are, and that in itself is by turns sad, frustrating, and in my case occasionally perilously close to maddening. We all seem to be reaching out trying to find something to cling to; something solid.
It seems that from the age of five or so, we are increasingly swept off our feet and carried down the rapids of time. And as the world spins ever more erratically out of our control, the harder we try to find something to cling to; something solid. (Thus, to a large extend, my obsession with the past.) Increasingly, we turn to the internet....to places like Facebook and My Space and Twitter, a trend I
I find somehow both ominous and frightening. Twitter boasts that its intent is to enable us to keep in instant (???) touch with others, yet it allows us only 140 characters to do so. Surely I'm not the only one who finds this both ironic and annoying. But because others join Twitter and My Space and Facebook, I did too. I think of it as "The lemming principle".
My main goal in life, other than writing books, is to find people to read them. But not being quite sure how to obtain this goal, I bumble along, trying anything that even remotely offers the possibility of finding a new reader. And so, naturally, I turn to the internet. I join group after group, the members of which are, by and large, other writers seeking the same thing I'm seeking. I find that a great many of my fellow writers invite me to "join" them on Facebook or MySpace or various and sundry other places, and I can't help but wonder why? I already know them and see them regularly several other places. Why add another?A classic example of preaching to the choir. (So you've written a new book? That's great. Best of luck with it. Now, MY latest book.....). I am reminded too often, and too guiltily, of Ambrose Bierce's definition of a bore: "one who talks when I want him to listen."
A popular trend on the internet seems to be something called "following"---a term I find somehow slightly ominous, perhaps because of its implications of stalking. At any rate, I as usual have absolutely no idea what is supposedly involved in all this, but, hey..... I "follow" several people on Twitter primarily because I get a notice saying they are "following" me, and want to be politically correct by returning the favor. Yet after this initial exchange of announcements, I never to hear from, or hear of, them again. I have 187 "followers" on Twitter. How could I possibly keep up with all of them even if I did hear from them again, or understood what Twitter is really all about....which I don't.
And now I note that even on this blog page that there is now an option for "Followers". It suddenly appeared, from whence and why I of course hadn't a clue, and saw that I had one follower. Not having the foggiest idea of its purpose, I asked my friend Gary to sign up for it, and let me know what if anything happened as a result. The answer is "apparently nothing". And I noticed subsequently that my original "follower" dropped out. Was it something I said? Did he get bored?
I would be delighted to have you "follow" me here, and maybe you can explain to me exactly what that means. If you're kind enough to read these blogs, I assume you already are following me, but what do I know?
And so, again, I bumble along, trying to get some writing done and adapting my little dog-and-pony show in any possible way I can think of to encourage just one more reader to read my books. If you are already in the choir I give you my eternal thanks. If you have never read one of my books, well...what can I possibly do that I am not already doing to convince you? I'm open for suggestion; you can reach me on Twitter. Or Facebook. Or MySpace. Or.....(sigh).......
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend.
It seems that from the age of five or so, we are increasingly swept off our feet and carried down the rapids of time. And as the world spins ever more erratically out of our control, the harder we try to find something to cling to; something solid. (Thus, to a large extend, my obsession with the past.) Increasingly, we turn to the internet....to places like Facebook and My Space and Twitter, a trend I
I find somehow both ominous and frightening. Twitter boasts that its intent is to enable us to keep in instant (???) touch with others, yet it allows us only 140 characters to do so. Surely I'm not the only one who finds this both ironic and annoying. But because others join Twitter and My Space and Facebook, I did too. I think of it as "The lemming principle".
My main goal in life, other than writing books, is to find people to read them. But not being quite sure how to obtain this goal, I bumble along, trying anything that even remotely offers the possibility of finding a new reader. And so, naturally, I turn to the internet. I join group after group, the members of which are, by and large, other writers seeking the same thing I'm seeking. I find that a great many of my fellow writers invite me to "join" them on Facebook or MySpace or various and sundry other places, and I can't help but wonder why? I already know them and see them regularly several other places. Why add another?A classic example of preaching to the choir. (So you've written a new book? That's great. Best of luck with it. Now, MY latest book.....). I am reminded too often, and too guiltily, of Ambrose Bierce's definition of a bore: "one who talks when I want him to listen."
A popular trend on the internet seems to be something called "following"---a term I find somehow slightly ominous, perhaps because of its implications of stalking. At any rate, I as usual have absolutely no idea what is supposedly involved in all this, but, hey..... I "follow" several people on Twitter primarily because I get a notice saying they are "following" me, and want to be politically correct by returning the favor. Yet after this initial exchange of announcements, I never to hear from, or hear of, them again. I have 187 "followers" on Twitter. How could I possibly keep up with all of them even if I did hear from them again, or understood what Twitter is really all about....which I don't.
And now I note that even on this blog page that there is now an option for "Followers". It suddenly appeared, from whence and why I of course hadn't a clue, and saw that I had one follower. Not having the foggiest idea of its purpose, I asked my friend Gary to sign up for it, and let me know what if anything happened as a result. The answer is "apparently nothing". And I noticed subsequently that my original "follower" dropped out. Was it something I said? Did he get bored?
I would be delighted to have you "follow" me here, and maybe you can explain to me exactly what that means. If you're kind enough to read these blogs, I assume you already are following me, but what do I know?
And so, again, I bumble along, trying to get some writing done and adapting my little dog-and-pony show in any possible way I can think of to encourage just one more reader to read my books. If you are already in the choir I give you my eternal thanks. If you have never read one of my books, well...what can I possibly do that I am not already doing to convince you? I'm open for suggestion; you can reach me on Twitter. Or Facebook. Or MySpace. Or.....(sigh).......
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Spam and Altruism
It occurred to me this morning, as I set about deleting the 14,986 spam messages which had appeared miraculously overnight on my computer, that perhaps I have, as I so often find myself, been too judgemental of those dedicated men and women who care enough about me as an individual to contact me with such wondrous offers. As the Bible says, "Judge not, lest you be judged."
I never actually read any of these messages, realizing full well that each is a Pandora's box, and to even acknowledge receipt of a single spam message is to set yourself up to receive 80,000 more. But much can be learned by merely reading the few introductory words that appear on the screen.
So let us take a brief look, with a totally open mind, at just a very very small random sampling of today's offers, and consider the opportunities we may be passing by.
I've noticed that the offers seem to come in clusters. Today there were a large number alerting me to the fact that my future may lie in law enforcement; specifically in crime scene investigation. "Crime Scene Investigators wanted..." was the subject line of at least half a dozen messages, all from different people, but all with the totally altruistic goal of helping me find my true place in life. Of course I'm sure they all know that the fact that I find George Eads, an actor on the popular TV show, C.S.I., very attractive may have been a factor. Maybe if I took them up on their offer, whatever it was, they might guarantee me a chance to spend some time with him in our professional capacities.
I was also offered "Easy Work - Great Pay" in a Rebate Processor Position. Apparently there is a great shortage of workers in this field, since the note said "We need your help now!" How could I refuse such a heartfelt plea. Maybe later. Or I could "start a new career in medical billing."
My dear friend Michael Vincent (we went to different schools together) informs me that "I have found you a new job!" but, being the ever-coy, he wants me to open his post to find out what job it may be. While I am dying of curiosity, I resisted the temptation.
And speaking of dying, a number of messages addressed the matter of my health, and I am touched by their concern. "A. Reginato," for example, tells me she/he "stopped wasting my time and money when I visited Canadian Hea..." (the message dropped off, and so did I). Someone named "me" (I don't recall sending this to myself, but one never knows) says: "Hello. We have the widest selection of antibiotics....." Wonderful to know. I'll file that away for next time have jungle rot.
I must admit I occasionally question whether some of these people really want to be my friend, or if they are just sugar-coating insults in friendly, casual manner. Coleen Arturo begins her message "Hi there!" to make me think she's my pal. However, she then goes on to promote "The largest variety of products for patients with infectious diseases...." What are you trying to tell me, Coleen? And "Luwj" has the downright bald audacity to impune my masculinity. ("Once you're a man again, nothing is impossible." Well, Luwj, I'll have you know I've never stopped being a man and I resent your implication.)
Some of these well-intentioned offers paint vivid mental pictures I don't particularly want or need painted. "Cleanse and Flush Pounds from Your Colon." Uh, thanks, but I'll pass. I'll also skip dinner.
Christopher Maher was somewhat off base, too, in offering me "Free foot fetish movies." Obviously he had heard of my experience in Los Angeles with a young man who derived his pleasure from my tennis shoes. (I know, I found it oddly gross, too. But who am I to pass judgement?)
Well, I know what I should do. I should take up Belkie Latia's offer to "Buy a College Diploma, Get a 100% legal, verifiable Degree". I'll buy a law degree and sue the ass off Luwj. "Once you're a man again", indeed!
New entries are posted every by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
I never actually read any of these messages, realizing full well that each is a Pandora's box, and to even acknowledge receipt of a single spam message is to set yourself up to receive 80,000 more. But much can be learned by merely reading the few introductory words that appear on the screen.
So let us take a brief look, with a totally open mind, at just a very very small random sampling of today's offers, and consider the opportunities we may be passing by.
I've noticed that the offers seem to come in clusters. Today there were a large number alerting me to the fact that my future may lie in law enforcement; specifically in crime scene investigation. "Crime Scene Investigators wanted..." was the subject line of at least half a dozen messages, all from different people, but all with the totally altruistic goal of helping me find my true place in life. Of course I'm sure they all know that the fact that I find George Eads, an actor on the popular TV show, C.S.I., very attractive may have been a factor. Maybe if I took them up on their offer, whatever it was, they might guarantee me a chance to spend some time with him in our professional capacities.
I was also offered "Easy Work - Great Pay" in a Rebate Processor Position. Apparently there is a great shortage of workers in this field, since the note said "We need your help now!" How could I refuse such a heartfelt plea. Maybe later. Or I could "start a new career in medical billing."
My dear friend Michael Vincent (we went to different schools together) informs me that "I have found you a new job!" but, being the ever-coy, he wants me to open his post to find out what job it may be. While I am dying of curiosity, I resisted the temptation.
And speaking of dying, a number of messages addressed the matter of my health, and I am touched by their concern. "A. Reginato," for example, tells me she/he "stopped wasting my time and money when I visited Canadian Hea..." (the message dropped off, and so did I). Someone named "me" (I don't recall sending this to myself, but one never knows) says: "Hello. We have the widest selection of antibiotics....." Wonderful to know. I'll file that away for next time have jungle rot.
I must admit I occasionally question whether some of these people really want to be my friend, or if they are just sugar-coating insults in friendly, casual manner. Coleen Arturo begins her message "Hi there!" to make me think she's my pal. However, she then goes on to promote "The largest variety of products for patients with infectious diseases...." What are you trying to tell me, Coleen? And "Luwj" has the downright bald audacity to impune my masculinity. ("Once you're a man again, nothing is impossible." Well, Luwj, I'll have you know I've never stopped being a man and I resent your implication.)
Some of these well-intentioned offers paint vivid mental pictures I don't particularly want or need painted. "Cleanse and Flush Pounds from Your Colon." Uh, thanks, but I'll pass. I'll also skip dinner.
Christopher Maher was somewhat off base, too, in offering me "Free foot fetish movies." Obviously he had heard of my experience in Los Angeles with a young man who derived his pleasure from my tennis shoes. (I know, I found it oddly gross, too. But who am I to pass judgement?)
Well, I know what I should do. I should take up Belkie Latia's offer to "Buy a College Diploma, Get a 100% legal, verifiable Degree". I'll buy a law degree and sue the ass off Luwj. "Once you're a man again", indeed!
New entries are posted every by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Coffee Time
Human nature fascinates me. I have only my own to go by with any degree of accuracy, and that which I can extrapolate from the actions of others. But I've never quite understood the optimism with which, having attempted to do something fifteen times and failed, I (we) are under the illusion that exactly the same thing done exactly the same way a sixteenth time will work.
On my way to "work", I decided to stop at Panera's, a coffee shop I almost never visit unless I'm with someone, to have a cup of coffee and a small pumpkin muffin the coffee shop insists on calling a "muffie"....an appellation just so cloyingly "cute" that I try never to ask for one by name, merely pointing and saying, "One of those." As always, the place was full of couples and singles, many of them working on their laptops, and all apparently having a very pleasant, relaxing time. I didn't want to take out my own laptop, which I had with me, since I knew I'd not be there all that long, and decided to pretend I was just like all the others seated quietly and contentedly with their coffee.
The fact that, though I have an average of two to three cups of coffee a day I never finish them and really am not, if truth be told, all that wild about coffee to begin with, is another matter entirely. Do I really think, the next time I have a cup of coffee, that I am actually going to finish it and truly savor the deliciousness of every sip? No matter. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, so I just go along with it.
I have never done sitting quietly and contentedly very well, so what made me even remotely think I could do it this time is a mystery. So I sat there, slathering little tubs of butter onto my....one of those....and sipping my coffee while really, really trying to be relaxed and comfortable. What's wrong with me that I can't do it? I looked around me. There were maybe six or eight other people sitting alone, minding their own business, taking their own time, apparently without a care in the world. What were they doing? Surely they had to be thinking of something. They couldn't just sit there, thinking and doing nothing at all, could they? Then why did it appear that that was exactly what they were doing. Was nobody home behind the windows of their eyes?
I'm sure anyone looking through my own little hazel-colored "windows" would see ten thousand thoughts and ideas and things-I-should-be-doing-rather-than-just-sitting-theres bustling around, bumping into one another. Thoughts are as fleeting as smoke: if you don't capture them and put them into words they become harder and harder to remember, and nine out of ten of them are gone forever, or trampled beneath a stampede of the thoughts that come directly behind them.
Obviously, my inability to sit still, to breath deeply and slowly, and float calmly along the surface of time is some sort of character weakness. I know I am undoubtedly missing out on the wonders of silent contemplation and meditation; Buddhists dedicate their lives to it. I would go stark raving mad within ten minutes. And I wish I could say that I envy people who can find deep fulfillment in doing nothing, but I honestly cannot. There'll be plenty of time for doing nothing when I'm dead. I don't need practice in it while I'm still alive.
There's an ad running for an ocean cruise line which outlines all the wonderful things one can do aboard their ships, and it sounds great, until they add, as part of their list: "Or just do nothing at all." Nothing at all? I'm going to pay several thousand dollars to do nothing at all? What's wrong with this picture? If they want to do nothing at all, let them stay home. Or better still, have them come have a quiet cup of coffee at Panera's.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
On my way to "work", I decided to stop at Panera's, a coffee shop I almost never visit unless I'm with someone, to have a cup of coffee and a small pumpkin muffin the coffee shop insists on calling a "muffie"....an appellation just so cloyingly "cute" that I try never to ask for one by name, merely pointing and saying, "One of those." As always, the place was full of couples and singles, many of them working on their laptops, and all apparently having a very pleasant, relaxing time. I didn't want to take out my own laptop, which I had with me, since I knew I'd not be there all that long, and decided to pretend I was just like all the others seated quietly and contentedly with their coffee.
The fact that, though I have an average of two to three cups of coffee a day I never finish them and really am not, if truth be told, all that wild about coffee to begin with, is another matter entirely. Do I really think, the next time I have a cup of coffee, that I am actually going to finish it and truly savor the deliciousness of every sip? No matter. Everyone else seems to enjoy it, so I just go along with it.
I have never done sitting quietly and contentedly very well, so what made me even remotely think I could do it this time is a mystery. So I sat there, slathering little tubs of butter onto my....one of those....and sipping my coffee while really, really trying to be relaxed and comfortable. What's wrong with me that I can't do it? I looked around me. There were maybe six or eight other people sitting alone, minding their own business, taking their own time, apparently without a care in the world. What were they doing? Surely they had to be thinking of something. They couldn't just sit there, thinking and doing nothing at all, could they? Then why did it appear that that was exactly what they were doing. Was nobody home behind the windows of their eyes?
I'm sure anyone looking through my own little hazel-colored "windows" would see ten thousand thoughts and ideas and things-I-should-be-doing-rather-than-just-sitting-theres bustling around, bumping into one another. Thoughts are as fleeting as smoke: if you don't capture them and put them into words they become harder and harder to remember, and nine out of ten of them are gone forever, or trampled beneath a stampede of the thoughts that come directly behind them.
Obviously, my inability to sit still, to breath deeply and slowly, and float calmly along the surface of time is some sort of character weakness. I know I am undoubtedly missing out on the wonders of silent contemplation and meditation; Buddhists dedicate their lives to it. I would go stark raving mad within ten minutes. And I wish I could say that I envy people who can find deep fulfillment in doing nothing, but I honestly cannot. There'll be plenty of time for doing nothing when I'm dead. I don't need practice in it while I'm still alive.
There's an ad running for an ocean cruise line which outlines all the wonderful things one can do aboard their ships, and it sounds great, until they add, as part of their list: "Or just do nothing at all." Nothing at all? I'm going to pay several thousand dollars to do nothing at all? What's wrong with this picture? If they want to do nothing at all, let them stay home. Or better still, have them come have a quiet cup of coffee at Panera's.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 17, 2009
To Each a Rainbow
I'm not sure if I mentioned it in an earlier blog, but I received a note from a reader (I love notes from readers) who said that while he agreed with a lot of what I had to say, he'd hesitated to write to tell me so because he had also gotten the impression that I was a rather unpleasant person. I was honestly surprised to hear that, and hastened to tell him that I really hoped that wasn't the case. But on reflection I could see where he got the idea.
So many of these blogs rail against stupidity and injustice and negative things that it might be easy to think that's all I saw.
True, life is pretty stormy at times, and there are occasions when it seems the rain will never end. But it always does. I recently read something to the effect that without rain there would be no rainbows; I truly believe that, and that longer and more violent the storm, the more we can appreciate the rainbows when they appear. We all need our own rainbows. I often find mine in unexpected places. Recently I came across three of them in the form of YouTube videos, and I'd like to offer them to you in hopes you might enjoy them as much as I do.
The first is currently one of the most popular videos on YouTube: a little 47 year old Scottish woman named Susan Boyle, appearing on Britain's version of America's Got Talent. If you've ever watched a show of this type, you know that if you're not young/cute/perky/handsome you're pretty much doomed before you open your mouth.
Susan walks on stage looking like she were a teacher walking into a third-grade classroom. No makeup, sensible shoes, wearing a simple dress she bought for her nephew's wedding. The immediate reaction from the audience is one of sharks spotting a piece of chum being tossed into their tank. Audiences on this type of show tend to be an unforgiving and bloodthirsty lot. They look at one another and snicker when she announces she wants to be a professional singer, and then move forward in their seats eager to take part in the slaughter. And when asked what she'd going to sing, she says "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserables, and.... If you are one of the few people on the planet who has not yet seen it, do yourself a favor and go to YouTube and type in "Susan Boyle." (Unfortunately, I can't get direct links to work here.) And if you have already seen it, why not relive the pleasure?
The second video was shot in the Antwerp, Belgium, railway station during a normal day's routine, as unsuspecting travelers went about their business. I would give anything to have been there, to see the reactions of those not participating. I never tire of watching it. A wonderful and joyful experience. Go to YouTube and type in "Op zoek naar Maria" (The title is in Dutch.)
My third rainbow has special significance for me and the 20 million other Americans like me who historically been told we have no right to feel pride in who we are. For us, it has been a terrible and a long storm which is only now ending. Forced together because we were not welcome by the mainstream, we chose the rainbow as our own special flag of independence. Here, John Barrowman, an openly gay man, gives our pride voice. He sings not only for gays and lesbians, of course, but for all the disenfanchised who only want to be free to be who they are. Please watch Go to YouTube, type in "John Barrowman - I Am What I Am" and select the one where he is weaing a white open-collar shirt.
Each of us needs a rainbow....something that moves us, inspires us and gives us comfort, warmth, sheer joy, and an appreciation for the gift of life. When you find one, treasure it...and share it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
So many of these blogs rail against stupidity and injustice and negative things that it might be easy to think that's all I saw.
True, life is pretty stormy at times, and there are occasions when it seems the rain will never end. But it always does. I recently read something to the effect that without rain there would be no rainbows; I truly believe that, and that longer and more violent the storm, the more we can appreciate the rainbows when they appear. We all need our own rainbows. I often find mine in unexpected places. Recently I came across three of them in the form of YouTube videos, and I'd like to offer them to you in hopes you might enjoy them as much as I do.
The first is currently one of the most popular videos on YouTube: a little 47 year old Scottish woman named Susan Boyle, appearing on Britain's version of America's Got Talent. If you've ever watched a show of this type, you know that if you're not young/cute/perky/handsome you're pretty much doomed before you open your mouth.
Susan walks on stage looking like she were a teacher walking into a third-grade classroom. No makeup, sensible shoes, wearing a simple dress she bought for her nephew's wedding. The immediate reaction from the audience is one of sharks spotting a piece of chum being tossed into their tank. Audiences on this type of show tend to be an unforgiving and bloodthirsty lot. They look at one another and snicker when she announces she wants to be a professional singer, and then move forward in their seats eager to take part in the slaughter. And when asked what she'd going to sing, she says "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserables, and.... If you are one of the few people on the planet who has not yet seen it, do yourself a favor and go to YouTube and type in "Susan Boyle." (Unfortunately, I can't get direct links to work here.) And if you have already seen it, why not relive the pleasure?
The second video was shot in the Antwerp, Belgium, railway station during a normal day's routine, as unsuspecting travelers went about their business. I would give anything to have been there, to see the reactions of those not participating. I never tire of watching it. A wonderful and joyful experience. Go to YouTube and type in "Op zoek naar Maria" (The title is in Dutch.)
My third rainbow has special significance for me and the 20 million other Americans like me who historically been told we have no right to feel pride in who we are. For us, it has been a terrible and a long storm which is only now ending. Forced together because we were not welcome by the mainstream, we chose the rainbow as our own special flag of independence. Here, John Barrowman, an openly gay man, gives our pride voice. He sings not only for gays and lesbians, of course, but for all the disenfanchised who only want to be free to be who they are. Please watch Go to YouTube, type in "John Barrowman - I Am What I Am" and select the one where he is weaing a white open-collar shirt.
Each of us needs a rainbow....something that moves us, inspires us and gives us comfort, warmth, sheer joy, and an appreciation for the gift of life. When you find one, treasure it...and share it.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Heritage
A note from my cousin Judi mentioned that she and her husband had, on a recent trip to New Mexico, visited a native American museum, and noted that her husband had native American lineage. I pointed out to her that so did she: my great-great grandmother was a Blackfoot. This came as a total surprise to her.
And while the percentage of Blackfoot blood grows smaller with each generation, it is there. I am quite sure that it is responsible for the fact that I still have all my hair and for my lifelong inability to grow facial hair (not that I ever wanted a beard or mustache, but the option for sideburns would have been nice.) But when Judi asked what more I could tell her about her great-great-great grandmother, I had to admit I knew nothing more, not even her name.
I'm not sure if it as a peculiarly American trait---ours being so large and so relatively new a country. ---or a human one, but by and large, the average American knows almost nothing of his/her family more than two generations removed. Unlike the rest of the world, where an entire family may live in the same village for hundreds of years, we are a people of movement, and increasingly of the moment. What do you know of your great-grandparents? What were their names? Where did they live? What did they do for a living? What were their daily lives like?
If we are lucky, we know or knew our grandparents as people. We knew their personalities, what pleased or displeased them, what they valued, their quirks and other personal traits. Some of us know something of our great-grandparents as people from family stories passed down through the years. But the farther removed we are from them in time, the less we know of them, until within the space of only a few generations, they...and even their names...are totally unknown to us.
By nature, the famous are remembered far longer than the average citizen. The more famous one is were, the more that is known about them and the longer that information remains known. Certain cultures venerate their ancestors, but I really doubt any of those who do so actually know anything at all about who the real people they are venerating actually were.
The fact is, of course, that each of us is allotted only a certain amount of time on this earth, and there simply is not enough time within that relatively brief time to possibly know everything we might want to know about our heritage and about the people without whom we would not exist
And like it or not, this is simply the way things are. What's past is past and is of relatively little importance to or interest to us. We can hardly keep up with our own present, let alone our ancestors' past.
But wouldn't it be nice to go back in time to check in on those who have gone before us? My mom told me that her own mother, who died when Mom was only nine years old, had a sharp sense of humor, and a wonderful laugh. I'd love to hear it.
There is little we can do, without considerable research, to learn more about those from whom we descended. But we can be conscious of the fact that they did exist, and that they were people as real as you, and every now and then, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, make a trip to a cemetery and spend a little time walking among the tombstones. and give those beneath them a passing thought...and a "thank you."
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
And while the percentage of Blackfoot blood grows smaller with each generation, it is there. I am quite sure that it is responsible for the fact that I still have all my hair and for my lifelong inability to grow facial hair (not that I ever wanted a beard or mustache, but the option for sideburns would have been nice.) But when Judi asked what more I could tell her about her great-great-great grandmother, I had to admit I knew nothing more, not even her name.
I'm not sure if it as a peculiarly American trait---ours being so large and so relatively new a country. ---or a human one, but by and large, the average American knows almost nothing of his/her family more than two generations removed. Unlike the rest of the world, where an entire family may live in the same village for hundreds of years, we are a people of movement, and increasingly of the moment. What do you know of your great-grandparents? What were their names? Where did they live? What did they do for a living? What were their daily lives like?
If we are lucky, we know or knew our grandparents as people. We knew their personalities, what pleased or displeased them, what they valued, their quirks and other personal traits. Some of us know something of our great-grandparents as people from family stories passed down through the years. But the farther removed we are from them in time, the less we know of them, until within the space of only a few generations, they...and even their names...are totally unknown to us.
By nature, the famous are remembered far longer than the average citizen. The more famous one is were, the more that is known about them and the longer that information remains known. Certain cultures venerate their ancestors, but I really doubt any of those who do so actually know anything at all about who the real people they are venerating actually were.
The fact is, of course, that each of us is allotted only a certain amount of time on this earth, and there simply is not enough time within that relatively brief time to possibly know everything we might want to know about our heritage and about the people without whom we would not exist
And like it or not, this is simply the way things are. What's past is past and is of relatively little importance to or interest to us. We can hardly keep up with our own present, let alone our ancestors' past.
But wouldn't it be nice to go back in time to check in on those who have gone before us? My mom told me that her own mother, who died when Mom was only nine years old, had a sharp sense of humor, and a wonderful laugh. I'd love to hear it.
There is little we can do, without considerable research, to learn more about those from whom we descended. But we can be conscious of the fact that they did exist, and that they were people as real as you, and every now and then, on a pleasant Sunday afternoon, make a trip to a cemetery and spend a little time walking among the tombstones. and give those beneath them a passing thought...and a "thank you."
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Duds
Ever see news footage of an explosion in a fireworks factory? It's pretty much the situation I find myself in at the moment. It is six p.m. and I have known perfecly well all day that I have to post a new blog tomorrow morning. And not only do I not have one, but I haven't a clue as to what to write about. And just standing here babbling doesn't really help much either. Trying to come up with an idea got me to thinking of the fireworks factory analogy. I've got thoughts and ideas and possibilities and maybes and how about's and I've already done that ones shooting in all directions, whistling and popping and booming as they go.
So what's my problem? I grab myself (figuratively) by the shoulders to keep me from running around in circles chasing my own tail (again, figuratively) and try to talk some sense into myself---always a risky proposition at best. So I don't do a blog one day? What, the world will come to an end? Civilization as we know it will crumble? Hardly.
Okay, but if I don't have a blog ready for you after you've gone to all the trouble to come and look for it and expect to find one, you would rightly be unhappy with me, and I certainly couldn't blame you one bit. You'd probably go away muttering under your breath about these uppity writers who have no sense of responsibility, and how it will be a cold day in August before you ever come back again. There are ten million other bloggers out there who'd be happy to have you take your valuable time to read what they had to say, and they're probably a lot more interesting than I am, and....my tendency to melodrama
loves moments like this.
You don't care, nor should you, that one of the reasons I am unprepared is because I am still trying to transfer files from my PC to my new laptop, which is far easier to write about than to do. I find myself running full-tilt, head lowered and not wearing a helmet, into a concrete block wall every five minutes or so. I call Gary for help. He explains carefully. I thank him profusely, and do exactly what he has told me to do....if I can remember it (it's been all of ten seconds since he told me, after all. What does he expect? Miracles?)
How about a blog on how computers hate me? Nope. Been there, done that. Less than a week ago. And so the fireworks factory burns to the ground, reduced at the end to firing off duds. And this is one.
Sigh. And once again I think of the high school English test for which I was totally unprepared. I threw myself on the mercy of the teacher, explaining nobly how I could have cheated but did not.. And I realized that is exactly what I have been doing here....babbling on in the hopes that you won't notice that I have said nothing at all, and that this is a pretty piss-poor excuse for a blog.
I really will try hard to see that this never happens again! Really, I will! You believe me, don't you? Huh?
Hey, it was worth a try.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
So what's my problem? I grab myself (figuratively) by the shoulders to keep me from running around in circles chasing my own tail (again, figuratively) and try to talk some sense into myself---always a risky proposition at best. So I don't do a blog one day? What, the world will come to an end? Civilization as we know it will crumble? Hardly.
Okay, but if I don't have a blog ready for you after you've gone to all the trouble to come and look for it and expect to find one, you would rightly be unhappy with me, and I certainly couldn't blame you one bit. You'd probably go away muttering under your breath about these uppity writers who have no sense of responsibility, and how it will be a cold day in August before you ever come back again. There are ten million other bloggers out there who'd be happy to have you take your valuable time to read what they had to say, and they're probably a lot more interesting than I am, and....my tendency to melodrama
loves moments like this.
You don't care, nor should you, that one of the reasons I am unprepared is because I am still trying to transfer files from my PC to my new laptop, which is far easier to write about than to do. I find myself running full-tilt, head lowered and not wearing a helmet, into a concrete block wall every five minutes or so. I call Gary for help. He explains carefully. I thank him profusely, and do exactly what he has told me to do....if I can remember it (it's been all of ten seconds since he told me, after all. What does he expect? Miracles?)
How about a blog on how computers hate me? Nope. Been there, done that. Less than a week ago. And so the fireworks factory burns to the ground, reduced at the end to firing off duds. And this is one.
Sigh. And once again I think of the high school English test for which I was totally unprepared. I threw myself on the mercy of the teacher, explaining nobly how I could have cheated but did not.. And I realized that is exactly what I have been doing here....babbling on in the hopes that you won't notice that I have said nothing at all, and that this is a pretty piss-poor excuse for a blog.
I really will try hard to see that this never happens again! Really, I will! You believe me, don't you? Huh?
Hey, it was worth a try.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Time Blinks
Time is about to blink. Ready? Now! And in the blink of Time’s eye, I’m 21 years old again: a young Naval Aviation Cadet who has just had his first solo flight. Come join me.
23 March, 1955
Dear Folks
As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor & twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months & ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.
This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, & ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all data on moods, temperament, & generosity of all instructors, could not help me.
At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, & you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if & how.
The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board & met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much & that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft & do a spin, then we’ll do some high work & go on over to 8-A & let you take it.”
Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, & went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, & had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back & get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in & stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger & get one.
Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.
After about fifteen minutes of delay, we took off. He was very nice & didn’t yell at me like most instructors do. We climbed on up, did a spin, some stalls, & did some cross-wind landings at Wolfe field. Cross-winds are tricky & dangerous—you’re always supposed to land into the wind, but sometimes that is not possible. At Wolfe field, everyone always lands on a runway that isn’t directly in line with the wind. As a result, you’re always being blown off to one side or the other, & you must make corrections for it, or else.
After that, we headed up to field 8A, a huge grass field where everyone solos. We shot three landings; two ½ flaps & one full flaps (flaps slow the plane down—the degree of flaps determines how fast or slow you’ll land). On the full flaps landing, he told me to taxi off the field & stop. Then he got out of the plane, came up to the front cockpit & said “All right, you’ve got it—go out & bust your ass.” (Instructors are noted for their poetic phrasing.)
I waited for a signal from the yellow crash truck which always is parked beside the runway in use, got a thumbs up, & took off. As I said on the phone, after five days of waiting & sweating & getting all keyed up for nothing, when it finally did happen I felt almost nothing. I did two ½ flap landings, which a buddy told me he watched & said were beautiful; then did a full stop, full flap landing & went back to pick up my instructor, & we came home.
No sooner had I said so-long to my check instructor, I looked on the board & saw I had an A-20 immediately. A-20 is your first real solo hop—you do everything yourself. The plane I was given was number 227.
I checked out a parachute & two back pads (otherwise I have a hard time reaching the rudder pedals & brakes) & went out to the plane. I secured the rear cockpit—strapped everything down so that it can’t flop all over & hit the instruments, took the instructor’s stick & secured it in a special holder (also that it wouldn’t whip around and hit anything).
Silverhill is a paved-runwayy field; the farthest one from Corry. It is used only by solos for landing practice. I decided I’d try a few. I entered the traffic pattern, lowered my wheels & ½ flaps; did everything necessary. Made a good approach, & landed.
There is a big difference in the handling, especially in the landing, of a plane when it is 160 lbs lighter—but I didn’t know that. The first landing wasn’t too good; the second was worse. On the third, I landed wheels, bounced, turned a little to the left, hit again, bounced again, & started to flip over on my left side. God, but I was scared! I thought for sure that I’d had it. But somehow I made it. I wanted to go home then, but thought I’d be afraid next time if I quit now. So I shot two more, neither one of which was too good, & came home.
So there you have the long story of the day I soloed. Hope it didn’t bore you; I rather enjoyed it , in retrospect.
* * * * *
From “A World Ago,” http;//www.doriengrey.blogspot.com
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
23 March, 1955
Dear Folks
As of today I am the proud possessor of a small gold bar about 1 ½” long, with a small silver oval in the center adorned with an anchor & twisted rope. This is my reward for seven months & ten days service; I believe I’ll wear it to bed with me.
This morning began just as the preceding five days had—I woke up at 5:45, dressed, washed, & ate breakfast. At 6:30 we mustered and marched to the hanger where, at 6:45, another muster was held. Upon checking the board, I found I had been assigned an instructor—Lt. Ashbridge. As he is a new (to Corry Field) instructor, the usual flourishing grapevine, which supplies all data on moods, temperament, & generosity of all instructors, could not help me.
At 7:15 I had the L-11 lecture for the third time. This lecture is given every day you are assigned an A-20 (first solo) hop, & you keep taking it until you finally get the hop. Subject matter is a summary of all the other lectures you’ve attended; what to do when, if & how.
The lecture was over about 0815. I raced out to the board & met my instructor—a short man with greying hair. I told him I hadn’t flown for five days; he said he didn’t expect too much & that he’d take the five days into consideration. He said “Climb on up to 8,000 ft & do a spin, then we’ll do some high work & go on over to 8-A & let you take it.”
Our plane was CA100—a plane borrowed from BTU-4. It was parked as far away as it is possible to be. I pre-flighted it (checked to see everything was OK), got in, started it, & went to report over the mike to my instructor—but when I reached for it, it wasn’t there. Since we were parked way out in the middle of nowhere, & had to take a bus to get to the plane, someone would have to run all the way back & get one. We sent a plane captain (enlisted man who helps strap you in & stands by with a fire bottle while the plane is starting), but he took too long, so the instructor said to taxi the plane to the hanger & get one.
Lt. Ashbridge is new here at Corry—he’d just come over rom Whiting; so he wasn’t certain of our taxi patterns. As a result, he had me taxi against traffic to get to the hanger. Fortunately, no other planes were coming toward us, because those taxi-ways are not wide enough to let two planes by comfortably.
After about fifteen minutes of delay, we took off. He was very nice & didn’t yell at me like most instructors do. We climbed on up, did a spin, some stalls, & did some cross-wind landings at Wolfe field. Cross-winds are tricky & dangerous—you’re always supposed to land into the wind, but sometimes that is not possible. At Wolfe field, everyone always lands on a runway that isn’t directly in line with the wind. As a result, you’re always being blown off to one side or the other, & you must make corrections for it, or else.
After that, we headed up to field 8A, a huge grass field where everyone solos. We shot three landings; two ½ flaps & one full flaps (flaps slow the plane down—the degree of flaps determines how fast or slow you’ll land). On the full flaps landing, he told me to taxi off the field & stop. Then he got out of the plane, came up to the front cockpit & said “All right, you’ve got it—go out & bust your ass.” (Instructors are noted for their poetic phrasing.)
I waited for a signal from the yellow crash truck which always is parked beside the runway in use, got a thumbs up, & took off. As I said on the phone, after five days of waiting & sweating & getting all keyed up for nothing, when it finally did happen I felt almost nothing. I did two ½ flap landings, which a buddy told me he watched & said were beautiful; then did a full stop, full flap landing & went back to pick up my instructor, & we came home.
No sooner had I said so-long to my check instructor, I looked on the board & saw I had an A-20 immediately. A-20 is your first real solo hop—you do everything yourself. The plane I was given was number 227.
I checked out a parachute & two back pads (otherwise I have a hard time reaching the rudder pedals & brakes) & went out to the plane. I secured the rear cockpit—strapped everything down so that it can’t flop all over & hit the instruments, took the instructor’s stick & secured it in a special holder (also that it wouldn’t whip around and hit anything).
Silverhill is a paved-runwayy field; the farthest one from Corry. It is used only by solos for landing practice. I decided I’d try a few. I entered the traffic pattern, lowered my wheels & ½ flaps; did everything necessary. Made a good approach, & landed.
There is a big difference in the handling, especially in the landing, of a plane when it is 160 lbs lighter—but I didn’t know that. The first landing wasn’t too good; the second was worse. On the third, I landed wheels, bounced, turned a little to the left, hit again, bounced again, & started to flip over on my left side. God, but I was scared! I thought for sure that I’d had it. But somehow I made it. I wanted to go home then, but thought I’d be afraid next time if I quit now. So I shot two more, neither one of which was too good, & came home.
So there you have the long story of the day I soloed. Hope it didn’t bore you; I rather enjoyed it , in retrospect.
* * * * *
From “A World Ago,” http;//www.doriengrey.blogspot.com
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a friend.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Disasters in Perspective
Somehow, in trying to transfer files from my Dell computer to my new Mac laptop, I managed to lose my entire blog file. Over two years worth of blogs, including the one I had prepared for today and my backlog of future blogs. A total disaster, I thought.
And there flashed into my mind an incident many years ago aboard the U.S.S. Ticonderoga which, once again, reminded me of the importance of perspective as to the difference between a minor inconvenience and a true disaster. So, for lack of a regular blog for today, I post here an entry from my “A World Ago” blog (http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)
21 November 1955
Several entries in this journal have begun “Nothing new today,” or words to that effect—I would rather have every day like that than one like tonight!
The movie on the mess deck was “Houdini”—the story of the great magician. I was sitting crouched on my chair, the better to see over the heads of the guys in front of me. About two hundred other guys were seated on benches, chairs, or the hard steel deck, or standing in the back. The movie was approaching its climax when suddenly the squawk box blared: “Man Overboard—Port Side!” The ship swung so sharply & suddenly to starboard that benches & chairs toppled & everyone was forced to the side of the hall. The lights came on almost immediately, & everyone began filing from the room, with much confusion. I saw one of the cooks & asked where we were to go—he said we had to muster on the hanger deck; that is the only way they could tell who it was who had gone over.
The scene on the hanger deck was one of mass confusion. Many planes were parked about, & guys were running every which way, getting to their stations. A jet was on the number two elevator, evidently just being lowered—I noticed it was a very dark night—the kind of blackness found only on the ocean. An officer came running across the hanger deck, yelling for guys to push the jet off the elevator & onto the hanger deck.
Since only cooks muster on the hanger deck & mess cooks muster on the mess decks, I went below. A few moments later Nick came down, looking very pale. I asked him what was wrong. He said “You can’t walk on the flight deck without slipping.”
A jet, coming in for a landing, had missed all the barriers & smashed into a group of guys preparing to launch planes—no one knew how many were dead, or how many had been thrown over the side. The bodies were scattered all over the flight deck, all dismembered. They’d started bringing them down on the elevator just after I’d left.
No one knows yet how many are gone—we’re missing two mess cooks (guys sometimes go up to the flight deck to watch operations). Six bodies were brought down, with God knows how many injured.
Sick Bay has been calling for blood donors; there is blood in the passageways leading to Sick Bay. As I am writing this, a call came to the Commissary Office to open the Garbage Disposal room so that the stretchers can be washed. The Reefers (Refrigeration Rooms ) have been opened to receive the bodies.
As the muster was called, I looked at the faces around me—all silent, some very pale; a few smoked cigarettes, others looked around as each name was called, wondering who would not answer. Something I will not soon forget.
Rumors & scuttlebutt will sweep the ship for days, but we will never be told how many went over the side, or how many more died. It may be in the stateside papers, but I doubt it.
And just a few moments ago, the squawk box announced, as it has hundreds of times during flight operations: “The smoking lamp is out while fueling aircraft.”
The doctor was just in, asking for keys to the Reefers again—“We found some more gear belonging to one of them—we don’t know which one.” A destroyer just came alongside with the pilot of the plane—other destroyers are busy searching for others. Let’s hope they are all found.
I could go on, but somehow I just don’t feel like it….
Another call just came for O-blood; at least thirty guys are standing in line, from seamen to Commanders. People can be marvelous beings
There will be a new blog posted this Wednesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday thereafter. I’ll try not to lose my files again.
And there flashed into my mind an incident many years ago aboard the U.S.S. Ticonderoga which, once again, reminded me of the importance of perspective as to the difference between a minor inconvenience and a true disaster. So, for lack of a regular blog for today, I post here an entry from my “A World Ago” blog (http://www.doriengrey.blogspot.com)
21 November 1955
Several entries in this journal have begun “Nothing new today,” or words to that effect—I would rather have every day like that than one like tonight!
The movie on the mess deck was “Houdini”—the story of the great magician. I was sitting crouched on my chair, the better to see over the heads of the guys in front of me. About two hundred other guys were seated on benches, chairs, or the hard steel deck, or standing in the back. The movie was approaching its climax when suddenly the squawk box blared: “Man Overboard—Port Side!” The ship swung so sharply & suddenly to starboard that benches & chairs toppled & everyone was forced to the side of the hall. The lights came on almost immediately, & everyone began filing from the room, with much confusion. I saw one of the cooks & asked where we were to go—he said we had to muster on the hanger deck; that is the only way they could tell who it was who had gone over.
The scene on the hanger deck was one of mass confusion. Many planes were parked about, & guys were running every which way, getting to their stations. A jet was on the number two elevator, evidently just being lowered—I noticed it was a very dark night—the kind of blackness found only on the ocean. An officer came running across the hanger deck, yelling for guys to push the jet off the elevator & onto the hanger deck.
Since only cooks muster on the hanger deck & mess cooks muster on the mess decks, I went below. A few moments later Nick came down, looking very pale. I asked him what was wrong. He said “You can’t walk on the flight deck without slipping.”
A jet, coming in for a landing, had missed all the barriers & smashed into a group of guys preparing to launch planes—no one knew how many were dead, or how many had been thrown over the side. The bodies were scattered all over the flight deck, all dismembered. They’d started bringing them down on the elevator just after I’d left.
No one knows yet how many are gone—we’re missing two mess cooks (guys sometimes go up to the flight deck to watch operations). Six bodies were brought down, with God knows how many injured.
Sick Bay has been calling for blood donors; there is blood in the passageways leading to Sick Bay. As I am writing this, a call came to the Commissary Office to open the Garbage Disposal room so that the stretchers can be washed. The Reefers (Refrigeration Rooms ) have been opened to receive the bodies.
As the muster was called, I looked at the faces around me—all silent, some very pale; a few smoked cigarettes, others looked around as each name was called, wondering who would not answer. Something I will not soon forget.
Rumors & scuttlebutt will sweep the ship for days, but we will never be told how many went over the side, or how many more died. It may be in the stateside papers, but I doubt it.
And just a few moments ago, the squawk box announced, as it has hundreds of times during flight operations: “The smoking lamp is out while fueling aircraft.”
The doctor was just in, asking for keys to the Reefers again—“We found some more gear belonging to one of them—we don’t know which one.” A destroyer just came alongside with the pilot of the plane—other destroyers are busy searching for others. Let’s hope they are all found.
I could go on, but somehow I just don’t feel like it….
Another call just came for O-blood; at least thirty guys are standing in line, from seamen to Commanders. People can be marvelous beings
There will be a new blog posted this Wednesday, and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday thereafter. I’ll try not to lose my files again.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Change and "Never!"
The past and the future are like the earth’s tectonic plates, grinding against one another with infinite slowness. Their resulting motion is change.
Humans resist change, probably as a safety measure to prevent us from being like a runaway train. But the overwhelming chorus of “Never!” whenever some major change is proposed is as inevitable as it is incomprehensible once the change in question has come about.
Slavery, the vote for women, integration: how much screaming and yelling and digging-in-of-heels…not to mention bloodshed and terrible suffering…went on before the change finally arrived? And how many today can understand what all the fuss was about? The same is true of technology, though generally to a lesser degree, and certainly without the same level of violence. Technological change is accepted a bit more readily, mainly because technology generally improves our individual lives. But even they are not without their vociferous detractors. The automobile (“Get a horse!”) and the airplane (“If God had intended for men to fly, he’d have given us wings!”) are just two examples.
One of the only certainties in life is that it will change, and there are three ways we all deal with it: welcome it, fight it tooth and nail, or simply go along with it. Like most things, if Change were a sliding scale between total acceptance and total rejection, most people would fall somewhere toward the middle, and while we each tend to maintain a certain place on the scale, almost no one is consistent in their reaction.
I find myself pretty far along the “resist” side of the scale. I don’t, as you may have noticed, like change much, because to change means letting go of the past, and for me that is something not to be desired.
Just in my lifetime, there have been a couple truly monumental examples of change. John F. Kennedy became our first Catholic president. (“Never! He’ll be controlled by the pope.”) Now we have a black president. And some day we will have a woman president. (“Never! Never!”)
I myself have ridden city busses in the south when African-Americans—they were “coloreds” or “Negroes” (or worse) back then—were forced to sit in the rear, and interstate busses in which little African American children had to stand in the aisles even though seats next to whites were available. The armed forces did not even integrate “people of color” fully until WWII.
Women in the military were little more than secretaries in uniform as little as 30 years ago. That they might assume more active rolls in the military was unheard of. And that women might serve aboard a warship or be in combat situations was utterly, totally unthinkable. And now nobody gives either of these things a second thought.
And still, rather than look back to see what happened in the past to these monumental it’ll-never-happen changes, people STILL scream and holler and go apoplectic over allowing gays to serve openly. They use—sometimes with almost the identical words—the same utterly specious, idiotic excuses to ban gays as they used against African Americans and women. What do these people use for logic? Good Lord, you idiots, open your eyes! And those of us who realize that change is inevitable cannot merely sit back meekly and wait for it. We have to be brave enough to confront the nay-sayers. In our refusal to do so, we are all, straight and gay, still in the closet. All we have to do to get out is to open the door.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Humans resist change, probably as a safety measure to prevent us from being like a runaway train. But the overwhelming chorus of “Never!” whenever some major change is proposed is as inevitable as it is incomprehensible once the change in question has come about.
Slavery, the vote for women, integration: how much screaming and yelling and digging-in-of-heels…not to mention bloodshed and terrible suffering…went on before the change finally arrived? And how many today can understand what all the fuss was about? The same is true of technology, though generally to a lesser degree, and certainly without the same level of violence. Technological change is accepted a bit more readily, mainly because technology generally improves our individual lives. But even they are not without their vociferous detractors. The automobile (“Get a horse!”) and the airplane (“If God had intended for men to fly, he’d have given us wings!”) are just two examples.
One of the only certainties in life is that it will change, and there are three ways we all deal with it: welcome it, fight it tooth and nail, or simply go along with it. Like most things, if Change were a sliding scale between total acceptance and total rejection, most people would fall somewhere toward the middle, and while we each tend to maintain a certain place on the scale, almost no one is consistent in their reaction.
I find myself pretty far along the “resist” side of the scale. I don’t, as you may have noticed, like change much, because to change means letting go of the past, and for me that is something not to be desired.
Just in my lifetime, there have been a couple truly monumental examples of change. John F. Kennedy became our first Catholic president. (“Never! He’ll be controlled by the pope.”) Now we have a black president. And some day we will have a woman president. (“Never! Never!”)
I myself have ridden city busses in the south when African-Americans—they were “coloreds” or “Negroes” (or worse) back then—were forced to sit in the rear, and interstate busses in which little African American children had to stand in the aisles even though seats next to whites were available. The armed forces did not even integrate “people of color” fully until WWII.
Women in the military were little more than secretaries in uniform as little as 30 years ago. That they might assume more active rolls in the military was unheard of. And that women might serve aboard a warship or be in combat situations was utterly, totally unthinkable. And now nobody gives either of these things a second thought.
And still, rather than look back to see what happened in the past to these monumental it’ll-never-happen changes, people STILL scream and holler and go apoplectic over allowing gays to serve openly. They use—sometimes with almost the identical words—the same utterly specious, idiotic excuses to ban gays as they used against African Americans and women. What do these people use for logic? Good Lord, you idiots, open your eyes! And those of us who realize that change is inevitable cannot merely sit back meekly and wait for it. We have to be brave enough to confront the nay-sayers. In our refusal to do so, we are all, straight and gay, still in the closet. All we have to do to get out is to open the door.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Ya Know?
There are, ya know, all sorts of things that, ya know, drive me totally, ya know, crazy. It seems like, ya know, every time I, ya know, listen to sports figures or, ya know, just average people, ya know, talking on TV, it seems like, ya know, they can’t make it, ya know, through a single sentence without, ya know, sprinkling it with at least, ya know, forty or fifty “ya know”’s.
And worse still, if it is possible for there to be a worse, is the absolutely infuriating “ya know what I’m sayin’?” Yes, you obnoxious cretin, I know what you’re saying. And nine times out of ten, I don’t care.
Something there is that terrifies us about pauses in speech while we look for the next word we want to say. So we seem driven to plug the gaps with…something. Anything. The time-tested and ever-popular “…uh…” and “…um…” seem to have fallen out of favor in recent times. Perhaps the speaker, has some pathetic (and totally erroneous) hope that by rattling off an endless stream of “ya know”’s he—and for some strange reason it is invariably a “he”—is creating some sort of glue to hold the listener’s attention, and to implying a (nonexistent) bond between speaker and listener. But “ya know what I’m sayin’?”, in addition to being incredibly annoying, is also insulting in its implication that the speaker is not sure that you are bright enough to grasp the depth and subtlety of what he’s attempting to convey.
Gap fillers seem, like clothing fashions, to be trendy, and the only thing they all have in common seems to be their “fingernails on the blackboard” quality. They share this annoying tendency with their close relatives, the ubiquitous “catch words of the moment.” In the 40s and 50s, “sez” was quite popular (“So he sez, ‘I don’t like it,’ and I sez ‘too bad,’) “Like” is still quite popular (“and I’m, like, ‘oh, no you’re not!, and he’s, like, ‘oh yes I am”), but I am infinitely relieved that “goes” (“And then he/she goes…and I go…and he/she goes…”) seems to have been fading away. There are a number of lesser fillers, one that seems oddly out of place is “…and that” which some people use not as a gap filler but a sentence ender. (“So I shot him between the eyeballs and waited until the police came…and that.”)
Lord knows I have difficulty speaking in intelligible sentences. That, again, is why I became a writer, so that I could take the time necessary to put my thoughts into a coherent sentence. I don’t always succeed, but I have always found expressing myself through writing much more satisfactory and far less embarrassing than speaking them.
One of the worst things about gap fillers and catch words is that those using them are often totally unaware that they are doing so, and to point it out to them is rather awkward, like telling someone they have bad breath.
I really do try to avoid gap-fillers (even if I have serious problems with linear thought and wander aimlessly from point to point within the same sentence). Still, I’m sure even I may be guilty of, like, an occasional gap filler or catch word. ‘Ya know what I’m sayin’?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a freind.
And worse still, if it is possible for there to be a worse, is the absolutely infuriating “ya know what I’m sayin’?” Yes, you obnoxious cretin, I know what you’re saying. And nine times out of ten, I don’t care.
Something there is that terrifies us about pauses in speech while we look for the next word we want to say. So we seem driven to plug the gaps with…something. Anything. The time-tested and ever-popular “…uh…” and “…um…” seem to have fallen out of favor in recent times. Perhaps the speaker, has some pathetic (and totally erroneous) hope that by rattling off an endless stream of “ya know”’s he—and for some strange reason it is invariably a “he”—is creating some sort of glue to hold the listener’s attention, and to implying a (nonexistent) bond between speaker and listener. But “ya know what I’m sayin’?”, in addition to being incredibly annoying, is also insulting in its implication that the speaker is not sure that you are bright enough to grasp the depth and subtlety of what he’s attempting to convey.
Gap fillers seem, like clothing fashions, to be trendy, and the only thing they all have in common seems to be their “fingernails on the blackboard” quality. They share this annoying tendency with their close relatives, the ubiquitous “catch words of the moment.” In the 40s and 50s, “sez” was quite popular (“So he sez, ‘I don’t like it,’ and I sez ‘too bad,’) “Like” is still quite popular (“and I’m, like, ‘oh, no you’re not!, and he’s, like, ‘oh yes I am”), but I am infinitely relieved that “goes” (“And then he/she goes…and I go…and he/she goes…”) seems to have been fading away. There are a number of lesser fillers, one that seems oddly out of place is “…and that” which some people use not as a gap filler but a sentence ender. (“So I shot him between the eyeballs and waited until the police came…and that.”)
Lord knows I have difficulty speaking in intelligible sentences. That, again, is why I became a writer, so that I could take the time necessary to put my thoughts into a coherent sentence. I don’t always succeed, but I have always found expressing myself through writing much more satisfactory and far less embarrassing than speaking them.
One of the worst things about gap fillers and catch words is that those using them are often totally unaware that they are doing so, and to point it out to them is rather awkward, like telling someone they have bad breath.
I really do try to avoid gap-fillers (even if I have serious problems with linear thought and wander aimlessly from point to point within the same sentence). Still, I’m sure even I may be guilty of, like, an occasional gap filler or catch word. ‘Ya know what I’m sayin’?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and bring a freind.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Questions and Answers
The story goes that as Gertrude Stein lay dying, one of her friends, thinking that as Gertrude stood on the fine line between life and death she might have some profound insights into the mysteries of life, bent low and whispered “Gertrude, Gertrude, what is the answer?” To which Ms Stein replied: “What is the question?”
While it seems that to ask questions is in our racial genes—and, in fact, one mark of being human is to want to know more than we do—we seem incapable of accepting the fact that some questions have no answers…at least no answers the human brain, astonishing as it is, could comprehend.
But it is the search for answers which drives us forward as a species, and every answer almost always poses a new set of questions. It is our ability to ask questions which separates us from every other living species on the planet. Without questions, what purpose would there be to existence (which, you will notice, is in itself a question)? Answers inevitably lead to change and progress. In fact, answers are progress. Granted, progress frequently has its drawbacks such as global warming and other man-made potential catastrophes which ironically threaten our very existence.
Of all the gifts given mankind, the greatest is wonder…the drive to explore, to see what lies around the next bend in the road. And wonder results in questions, the asking of which is often more important than the answer. If we knew exactly why a rose is beautiful, or what lies beyond the universe, what purpose would there be to human life? Cows don’t ask questions. To have the answer to everything would deprive us of wonder, and make us no different, basically, than cows. Or sea slugs.
No matter how wise we become, it would never be possible too determine the exact number of stars in the sky, or the exact number of grains of sand in all the deserts, or the gallons of water in the oceans because the only constant is change. But even if we had a set answer, could we comprehend it? The current financial crisis is being met by throwing a trillion dollars at the problem. How much is a trillion? Can you close your eyes and picture it? I can’t. Science has estimated there are a trillion trillion stars in the universe. Try that one.
Of course unanswerable questions are not limited to numbers of grains of sand, or stars, or gallons of water in the ocean. There are an infinite number of things each of us does not know about ourselves: how we came to be who we are, why we react to things the way we do, why what pleases us pleases us, and why what angers us angers us. Science—created by man specifically to answer questions—has reached the point where it is moving ever faster than any human can keep up with. In finding the answers to more and more once-unanswerable questions, the answers themselves reach a complexity few humans can comprehend.
Life, as you may have noticed, is a long string of compromises. As individuals, we all must reach an accommodation between what we can know and what we can’t and, like the Serenity prayer says, hope for the wisdom to know the difference. That restriction, however, does not appear to apply to Man as an overall species. The firm assumption that there is no question that cannot be answered has served us well for millennia. It’s just that the questions are getting harder.
Now…where did I leave my keys?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
While it seems that to ask questions is in our racial genes—and, in fact, one mark of being human is to want to know more than we do—we seem incapable of accepting the fact that some questions have no answers…at least no answers the human brain, astonishing as it is, could comprehend.
But it is the search for answers which drives us forward as a species, and every answer almost always poses a new set of questions. It is our ability to ask questions which separates us from every other living species on the planet. Without questions, what purpose would there be to existence (which, you will notice, is in itself a question)? Answers inevitably lead to change and progress. In fact, answers are progress. Granted, progress frequently has its drawbacks such as global warming and other man-made potential catastrophes which ironically threaten our very existence.
Of all the gifts given mankind, the greatest is wonder…the drive to explore, to see what lies around the next bend in the road. And wonder results in questions, the asking of which is often more important than the answer. If we knew exactly why a rose is beautiful, or what lies beyond the universe, what purpose would there be to human life? Cows don’t ask questions. To have the answer to everything would deprive us of wonder, and make us no different, basically, than cows. Or sea slugs.
No matter how wise we become, it would never be possible too determine the exact number of stars in the sky, or the exact number of grains of sand in all the deserts, or the gallons of water in the oceans because the only constant is change. But even if we had a set answer, could we comprehend it? The current financial crisis is being met by throwing a trillion dollars at the problem. How much is a trillion? Can you close your eyes and picture it? I can’t. Science has estimated there are a trillion trillion stars in the universe. Try that one.
Of course unanswerable questions are not limited to numbers of grains of sand, or stars, or gallons of water in the ocean. There are an infinite number of things each of us does not know about ourselves: how we came to be who we are, why we react to things the way we do, why what pleases us pleases us, and why what angers us angers us. Science—created by man specifically to answer questions—has reached the point where it is moving ever faster than any human can keep up with. In finding the answers to more and more once-unanswerable questions, the answers themselves reach a complexity few humans can comprehend.
Life, as you may have noticed, is a long string of compromises. As individuals, we all must reach an accommodation between what we can know and what we can’t and, like the Serenity prayer says, hope for the wisdom to know the difference. That restriction, however, does not appear to apply to Man as an overall species. The firm assumption that there is no question that cannot be answered has served us well for millennia. It’s just that the questions are getting harder.
Now…where did I leave my keys?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Nausea
I am buying a laptop computer to take with me to work at my prestigious and high paying part-time job behind the information desk at a nearby shopping center, a once glorious old one-screen movie palace gutted like a Halloween pumpkin and remade into a multi-level shopping mall (with a six-screen cineplex on the top floor). My job consists of sitting there every Saturday from 2-6, and every other Sunday 12-6, validating customers’ parking tickets and pointing the way to the bathrooms (“Every floor but this one, far right corner”) and the movie theaters (“Level four. Elevators or escalator.”)
There is also a Bally’s gym (“Down the hall, all the way in the back. Two elevators. Get off on level seven”) which does, admittedly, provide lots of eye candy, but even I can only see so many buffed and beautiful young hunks before my eyes glaze over.
So I generally spend my time reading or doing crossword puzzles. I”ve always mildly resented not being able to do anything constructive with my time there. Having the laptop will allow me to actually get some writing done.
One of my co-desksitters is a devotee of the type of gushing celebrity-fan magazines which, in their cloyingly unctious oohing and aahing over every belch the latest famous-for-being-famous sensation makes, induce projectile vomiting. To admit that I sometimes, in an incomprehensible burst of self-loathing, actually force myself to thumb through the glossy pages of tens of thousands of the Beautiful People busily being beautiful. One of these abominations has a regular feature called, with a stupendous degree of condescension, “The Stars are Just Like Us”, featuring celebrities caught in unguarded moments by the paparazzi. “They hold hands!” (A photo of some utterly fabulously famous hunk and bimbo—neither of whom I recognize, actually walking down the street—just like real live people!) “They eat ice cream!” (Through-a-long-distance-lens of another utterly fabulously famous hunk and bimbo eating ice cream cones.) And, looking at the photos, I find myself ooing and aahing and overcome with envy and dreams of Hollywood fame and fortune. And to think, these gods and goddesses actually do the same things you and I do! It’s....ohmygawdIcan’tbelieveit…absolutely astonishing!
My coworker’s fascination with how the rich and famous (to whom and why they’re famous is not always clear) live extends to a British magazine to which she must have to subscribe, called, I believe “Hello!” (Catchy name, what?) “Hello” is an outsized publication dealing with the lives of British upper-upper crust, and varies from its American counterparts mainly in that not all the people in it are gorgeous. But they have so much money, they don’t have to be. The pages are packed with exciting stories of royal teas and horse racing at Ascot and apres-polo receptions. The most current issue has a totally fascinating account of the Earl of Effingham-Slough’s engagement to Pamela Upston-Brandewyne-Smythe. And…can you believe it?…she’s a commoner! True, her father does happen to own half of Scotland, is listed in the Fortune 500 (he’s number 3), and controls several hundred offshore oil wells, but…he is not titled. The Earl is widely lauded for his democratic selection of a wife.
And the most astonishing thing of all is not just that perfectly good trees were cut down to produce the paper on which this excrement is printed, but that people actually buy these rags. Contemplating how utterly devoid of interest their own lives must be to force them to seek some semblance of a life in a tawdry magazine is enough to make one weep…well, me anyway.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
There is also a Bally’s gym (“Down the hall, all the way in the back. Two elevators. Get off on level seven”) which does, admittedly, provide lots of eye candy, but even I can only see so many buffed and beautiful young hunks before my eyes glaze over.
So I generally spend my time reading or doing crossword puzzles. I”ve always mildly resented not being able to do anything constructive with my time there. Having the laptop will allow me to actually get some writing done.
One of my co-desksitters is a devotee of the type of gushing celebrity-fan magazines which, in their cloyingly unctious oohing and aahing over every belch the latest famous-for-being-famous sensation makes, induce projectile vomiting. To admit that I sometimes, in an incomprehensible burst of self-loathing, actually force myself to thumb through the glossy pages of tens of thousands of the Beautiful People busily being beautiful. One of these abominations has a regular feature called, with a stupendous degree of condescension, “The Stars are Just Like Us”, featuring celebrities caught in unguarded moments by the paparazzi. “They hold hands!” (A photo of some utterly fabulously famous hunk and bimbo—neither of whom I recognize, actually walking down the street—just like real live people!) “They eat ice cream!” (Through-a-long-distance-lens of another utterly fabulously famous hunk and bimbo eating ice cream cones.) And, looking at the photos, I find myself ooing and aahing and overcome with envy and dreams of Hollywood fame and fortune. And to think, these gods and goddesses actually do the same things you and I do! It’s....ohmygawdIcan’tbelieveit…absolutely astonishing!
My coworker’s fascination with how the rich and famous (to whom and why they’re famous is not always clear) live extends to a British magazine to which she must have to subscribe, called, I believe “Hello!” (Catchy name, what?) “Hello” is an outsized publication dealing with the lives of British upper-upper crust, and varies from its American counterparts mainly in that not all the people in it are gorgeous. But they have so much money, they don’t have to be. The pages are packed with exciting stories of royal teas and horse racing at Ascot and apres-polo receptions. The most current issue has a totally fascinating account of the Earl of Effingham-Slough’s engagement to Pamela Upston-Brandewyne-Smythe. And…can you believe it?…she’s a commoner! True, her father does happen to own half of Scotland, is listed in the Fortune 500 (he’s number 3), and controls several hundred offshore oil wells, but…he is not titled. The Earl is widely lauded for his democratic selection of a wife.
And the most astonishing thing of all is not just that perfectly good trees were cut down to produce the paper on which this excrement is printed, but that people actually buy these rags. Contemplating how utterly devoid of interest their own lives must be to force them to seek some semblance of a life in a tawdry magazine is enough to make one weep…well, me anyway.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Body Snatcher
There is a scene at the end of the l956 film, “The Invasion of the Body Snatchers” in which Kevin McCarthy is running down a line of stopped cars in the rain, pounding on the windows, warning people of the invasion of the body snatchers. No one listens.
I know how Kevin felt. Time is stealing my body, and I am…we all are…helpless to prevent it. The theft is diabolically slow, apparently to keep us from being aware that it is happening, but Kevin and I are aware. I watch it with the horrified fascination of watching footage of people leaping from the doomed World Trade Center.
That it is “all a part of growing older” doesn’t work for me. That it is “just the way life operates” is so flimsy an explanation as to be discarded out of hand. The fact that we all age and are all robbed of what we once had does not make it right, nor does it mean we should just meekly accept it. Of course Time will win in the end. It always does. But I for one am not going without putting up one hell of a fight.
I have been chronicling the details of this theft endlessly in these blogs, to the point that I am sure you are tired of reading about it. I remember a guy I served with on the Ti, whose parents had been killed when their car was hit by a train. It was all he talked about, though they had been dead for many years. There seems to be something in a great many of us who are incapable of letting go of the past (let’s see, who do we know who is a prime example of this?). For us, the past is a huge old tree to which we lash ourselves against the hurricane winds of time. It worked for John Hall and Dorothy Lamour in the 1936 movie “Hurricane;” why can’t it work now?
To recognize a problem is, unfortunately, not to make it automatically go away. I dwell on aging largely because I cannot comprehend why it is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. It can’t be happening. To everyone else, maybe, but not to me! How the hell did I suddenly find myself in this Bates Motel mansion of a body? I constantly have to resist the temptation to grab people—especially young people—by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle, shouting “Look at me! This isn’t me! I’m 20 years old, fer chrissakes!”
And even as I in effect criticize my body for increasingly failing me, I feel guilty. It doesn’t deserve it. It’s really been a very nice, eminently serviceable body. Maybe not a Mercedes Benz of a body, but certainly a Toyota Corolla, and it has served me wonderfully well all these years. It’s not fair for me to suddenly disown it, or criticize it. It can’t help what’s happening to it, and I feel terribly sad for it. And just as I bought my 1978 Toyota Corolla—probably the best car I ever owned—off the showroom floor and drove it for 12 years with an absolute minimum of problems, so has my body served me well from the day I was born up until my bout with cancer in 2003. It’s still serving me amazingly well considering all it’s been through, but I can’t help but look at newer models and wish I had one. Ah, we fickle mortals.
You will note, ladies and gentlemen, how in an amazing display of non-linear thought, we have, in one short blog, somehow managed to carom from Time being a body snatcher, through 1960 and 1936 movie references, to comparing bodies to cars. And you will note that at no time did my fingers leave my hand. What can I say? It’s a gift.
But much as I rant about the various cruelties and unfairness of aging, I am reminded of two little bits of wisdom which we all too often ignore: first, life is often described as a roller coaster…and nobody rides free. There is a price to be paid for the luxury of growing older. Second (and you might want to write this one down): The only people who are as young as they used to be are dead.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend
I know how Kevin felt. Time is stealing my body, and I am…we all are…helpless to prevent it. The theft is diabolically slow, apparently to keep us from being aware that it is happening, but Kevin and I are aware. I watch it with the horrified fascination of watching footage of people leaping from the doomed World Trade Center.
That it is “all a part of growing older” doesn’t work for me. That it is “just the way life operates” is so flimsy an explanation as to be discarded out of hand. The fact that we all age and are all robbed of what we once had does not make it right, nor does it mean we should just meekly accept it. Of course Time will win in the end. It always does. But I for one am not going without putting up one hell of a fight.
I have been chronicling the details of this theft endlessly in these blogs, to the point that I am sure you are tired of reading about it. I remember a guy I served with on the Ti, whose parents had been killed when their car was hit by a train. It was all he talked about, though they had been dead for many years. There seems to be something in a great many of us who are incapable of letting go of the past (let’s see, who do we know who is a prime example of this?). For us, the past is a huge old tree to which we lash ourselves against the hurricane winds of time. It worked for John Hall and Dorothy Lamour in the 1936 movie “Hurricane;” why can’t it work now?
To recognize a problem is, unfortunately, not to make it automatically go away. I dwell on aging largely because I cannot comprehend why it is happening. It shouldn’t be happening. It can’t be happening. To everyone else, maybe, but not to me! How the hell did I suddenly find myself in this Bates Motel mansion of a body? I constantly have to resist the temptation to grab people—especially young people—by the shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle, shouting “Look at me! This isn’t me! I’m 20 years old, fer chrissakes!”
And even as I in effect criticize my body for increasingly failing me, I feel guilty. It doesn’t deserve it. It’s really been a very nice, eminently serviceable body. Maybe not a Mercedes Benz of a body, but certainly a Toyota Corolla, and it has served me wonderfully well all these years. It’s not fair for me to suddenly disown it, or criticize it. It can’t help what’s happening to it, and I feel terribly sad for it. And just as I bought my 1978 Toyota Corolla—probably the best car I ever owned—off the showroom floor and drove it for 12 years with an absolute minimum of problems, so has my body served me well from the day I was born up until my bout with cancer in 2003. It’s still serving me amazingly well considering all it’s been through, but I can’t help but look at newer models and wish I had one. Ah, we fickle mortals.
You will note, ladies and gentlemen, how in an amazing display of non-linear thought, we have, in one short blog, somehow managed to carom from Time being a body snatcher, through 1960 and 1936 movie references, to comparing bodies to cars. And you will note that at no time did my fingers leave my hand. What can I say? It’s a gift.
But much as I rant about the various cruelties and unfairness of aging, I am reminded of two little bits of wisdom which we all too often ignore: first, life is often described as a roller coaster…and nobody rides free. There is a price to be paid for the luxury of growing older. Second (and you might want to write this one down): The only people who are as young as they used to be are dead.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Controlled Mind
“Beat me! Beat me!” cried the masochist.
“No!” replied the sadist.
Don’t ask where that came from. Like a disproportionately high percentage of my thoughts, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t thinking of masochism or sadism (who does?). It was just there. It seems that whenever I’m not really concentrating on something specific, like brushing my teeth or writing a book, I have very little control over where my mind goes, or why.
I’ve often said I write these blogs to demonstrate that you and I have a lot more in common than you might think. And yet perhaps I’m deluding myself. Maybe it’s just my attempt to not feel quite so isolated from the rest of humanity as I sometimes do. I can’t imagine that your mind can be quite so chaotic. I always picture everyone else (which of course includes you) as being in far more control of their minds and their lives than I, and find evidence of that fact just about everywhere.
To everyone else—to you, as I imagine you—, the mind is a smooth-running machine: thought A to thought B to thought C. To me, it’s a vast pin-ball machine with me being the little silver ball caroming wildly from one thing to another.
I truly admire those people…no doubt you’re one of them…with almost total control over their minds and their lives; who see an objective at a distance of a year, a day, or an hour, and march straight toward it, totally undeterred by the maelstrom of distractions I find endlessly swirling around me.
I pass people on the street and look at them and know they are not like me. I can clearly see that they know what to do in any given situation. They never make stupid mistakes, or say stupid things they wish they hadn’t. They never get upset by petty or silly things. They have controlled minds, and part of me envies them for it, and part of me is terrified by the idea.
I suspect I associate a controlled mind with a lack of freedom. As annoying as my mental pin-ball gane may occasionally be, I also delight in its randomness; in the constant surprises it provides.
The problem is that each of us goes through life locked within ourselves, filtering everything through our own experiences, and reacting according to them because we can only observe others. We cannot be them. We live among five billion other people, yet only have one true point of reference—our own. And we almost never stop to realize that each one of those five billion is also living individually within themselves. So all five billion of us assumes that it is a matter of “me” being here and everyone else being there, sharing some secret bonds “me” cannot understand.
The lack of a controlled mind is one of the reasons this particular “me” gets so little constructive done. I seem incapable of preventing my mind from coming up with out-of-nowhere thoughts. (A case in point: my mind just flashed to a stack of celebrity rag magazines I had the misfortune to thumb through at my part time job, and set me to wondering how or why actresses and models …female models…seem to think that posing with one hand on a hip makes them irresistibly sexy/seductive? Surely there must be a reason, or they wouldn’t do it. A man posed like that would be considered…well, you know. It must be one of those “you’ve got to be straight to understand” things. There are a lot of those.) And, to quote Linda Ellerbee, so it goes.
So, since you have a controlled mind and I do not, I guess we’re not as much alike as I thought.
Or are we?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
“No!” replied the sadist.
Don’t ask where that came from. Like a disproportionately high percentage of my thoughts, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t thinking of masochism or sadism (who does?). It was just there. It seems that whenever I’m not really concentrating on something specific, like brushing my teeth or writing a book, I have very little control over where my mind goes, or why.
I’ve often said I write these blogs to demonstrate that you and I have a lot more in common than you might think. And yet perhaps I’m deluding myself. Maybe it’s just my attempt to not feel quite so isolated from the rest of humanity as I sometimes do. I can’t imagine that your mind can be quite so chaotic. I always picture everyone else (which of course includes you) as being in far more control of their minds and their lives than I, and find evidence of that fact just about everywhere.
To everyone else—to you, as I imagine you—, the mind is a smooth-running machine: thought A to thought B to thought C. To me, it’s a vast pin-ball machine with me being the little silver ball caroming wildly from one thing to another.
I truly admire those people…no doubt you’re one of them…with almost total control over their minds and their lives; who see an objective at a distance of a year, a day, or an hour, and march straight toward it, totally undeterred by the maelstrom of distractions I find endlessly swirling around me.
I pass people on the street and look at them and know they are not like me. I can clearly see that they know what to do in any given situation. They never make stupid mistakes, or say stupid things they wish they hadn’t. They never get upset by petty or silly things. They have controlled minds, and part of me envies them for it, and part of me is terrified by the idea.
I suspect I associate a controlled mind with a lack of freedom. As annoying as my mental pin-ball gane may occasionally be, I also delight in its randomness; in the constant surprises it provides.
The problem is that each of us goes through life locked within ourselves, filtering everything through our own experiences, and reacting according to them because we can only observe others. We cannot be them. We live among five billion other people, yet only have one true point of reference—our own. And we almost never stop to realize that each one of those five billion is also living individually within themselves. So all five billion of us assumes that it is a matter of “me” being here and everyone else being there, sharing some secret bonds “me” cannot understand.
The lack of a controlled mind is one of the reasons this particular “me” gets so little constructive done. I seem incapable of preventing my mind from coming up with out-of-nowhere thoughts. (A case in point: my mind just flashed to a stack of celebrity rag magazines I had the misfortune to thumb through at my part time job, and set me to wondering how or why actresses and models …female models…seem to think that posing with one hand on a hip makes them irresistibly sexy/seductive? Surely there must be a reason, or they wouldn’t do it. A man posed like that would be considered…well, you know. It must be one of those “you’ve got to be straight to understand” things. There are a lot of those.) And, to quote Linda Ellerbee, so it goes.
So, since you have a controlled mind and I do not, I guess we’re not as much alike as I thought.
Or are we?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Cheating
Have you seen the commercial where the frizzy-haired blonde goes through the checkout lane, looks at her receipt in amazement, then runs from the store with her packages, yelling “Start the car! Start the car!” to her befuddled husband. She jumps into the car, they drive off, and she whoops with glee. Why? Because she thinks the store undercharged her. What a role model! Shouldn’t she have said something to the clerk? Don’t be silly! There’s nothing like cheating someone to really make your day, I always say. And if you run into anyone foolish enough to think cheating is wrong, just point them to that ad.
And I love the series of ads featuring various couples standing in their front yard saying “We owed the government $417,312 (or $20,000, or $6,918) in back taxes, but thanks to Screwem & Sons, we paid only $3.20.” Way to go, folks. How in the hell did you manage to get so far behind in the first place? Ever consider cutting back on your spending? (What? When you can in effect cheat your way out of your responsibilities? Nonsense!)
I know, I know…we all cheat in some way or another. We all fudge a bit on our taxes. Few people are noble enough to be totally honest in matters where to do so will cost us more money than we think is right or fair. There’s no harm in it, really. Is there? Anyone who rigidly obeys every law…many of which are ridiculous to begin with…is looked upon with mild scorn.
Being misleading is a form of cheating, and is, to be honest, the foundation of the advertising industry. We’re totally used to the fact that only one tenth of one percent of what we’re promised in ads actually fully lives up to that promise. (The photos fast food chains use for their “Double-Triple-Piled-High Burger bear absolutely no resemblance to what you’re handed if you’re foolish enough to go and order one.) The art of advertising photography is completely built on misleading prospective buyers. Ice cream is really lard, milk is watered-down Elmer’s glue, coffee is tea, and those little bubbles of freshness along the inner rim of the cup are created by using soap. The explanation that many foodstuffs do not photograph well…real coffee photographs like crankcase sludge…and that real ice-cream would melt under the heat of the lamps necessary to light it makes sense. But it’s still cheating.
Seen or heard those ads which say: “Emerging science suggests that Blexaplus-D may help reduce the signs of aging” or whatever. Now, that’s not cheating. They’re telling you the partial truth, but in a way which equals cheating. Look at it again. “Emerging (not established) science suggests (doesn’t say for sure) that Blexaplus-D may (not will) help (not completely do the job) reduce (not eliminate) the signs of aging (not aging itself).” Wonderful. I’ll take ten bottles/jars/tubs/tubes, please.
Loan companies engage in an oblique form of cheating those in debt. It’s cheating by omission, in not revealing what admittedly should be obvious but is not to those who don’t bother to think before acting. They’re more than happy to lend you money to pay off overdue bills, but they neglect to mention that not only will the bills you got behind on keep on coming each month, but you will have the additional burden of paying off the loan. Well, I’m sure you can take out another loan to pay off the original loan. It’s a vicious circle.
And each day we must carefully tiptoe our way through a maze of double standards, hypocrasy, contradictions, half-truths and outright lies. Is it any wonder we have a hard time coping?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
And I love the series of ads featuring various couples standing in their front yard saying “We owed the government $417,312 (or $20,000, or $6,918) in back taxes, but thanks to Screwem & Sons, we paid only $3.20.” Way to go, folks. How in the hell did you manage to get so far behind in the first place? Ever consider cutting back on your spending? (What? When you can in effect cheat your way out of your responsibilities? Nonsense!)
I know, I know…we all cheat in some way or another. We all fudge a bit on our taxes. Few people are noble enough to be totally honest in matters where to do so will cost us more money than we think is right or fair. There’s no harm in it, really. Is there? Anyone who rigidly obeys every law…many of which are ridiculous to begin with…is looked upon with mild scorn.
Being misleading is a form of cheating, and is, to be honest, the foundation of the advertising industry. We’re totally used to the fact that only one tenth of one percent of what we’re promised in ads actually fully lives up to that promise. (The photos fast food chains use for their “Double-Triple-Piled-High Burger bear absolutely no resemblance to what you’re handed if you’re foolish enough to go and order one.) The art of advertising photography is completely built on misleading prospective buyers. Ice cream is really lard, milk is watered-down Elmer’s glue, coffee is tea, and those little bubbles of freshness along the inner rim of the cup are created by using soap. The explanation that many foodstuffs do not photograph well…real coffee photographs like crankcase sludge…and that real ice-cream would melt under the heat of the lamps necessary to light it makes sense. But it’s still cheating.
Seen or heard those ads which say: “Emerging science suggests that Blexaplus-D may help reduce the signs of aging” or whatever. Now, that’s not cheating. They’re telling you the partial truth, but in a way which equals cheating. Look at it again. “Emerging (not established) science suggests (doesn’t say for sure) that Blexaplus-D may (not will) help (not completely do the job) reduce (not eliminate) the signs of aging (not aging itself).” Wonderful. I’ll take ten bottles/jars/tubs/tubes, please.
Loan companies engage in an oblique form of cheating those in debt. It’s cheating by omission, in not revealing what admittedly should be obvious but is not to those who don’t bother to think before acting. They’re more than happy to lend you money to pay off overdue bills, but they neglect to mention that not only will the bills you got behind on keep on coming each month, but you will have the additional burden of paying off the loan. Well, I’m sure you can take out another loan to pay off the original loan. It’s a vicious circle.
And each day we must carefully tiptoe our way through a maze of double standards, hypocrasy, contradictions, half-truths and outright lies. Is it any wonder we have a hard time coping?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Pieces
People are fond of referring to life as being a puzzle. I do it frequently myself. My mind, seemingly wired to think in analogies, zeroed in on that one this morning, and I reached the conclusion that each of us is like a single piece in the gigantic jigsaw puzzle of life. The problem is, we can’t see the whole picture. I visualize myself as being somewhere in the upper right-hand corner, probably a piece of the sky with maybe just the tiniest hint of…something…along the bottom. I’m not vain enough to think I’m a corner piece, and I know I’m not a part of the border: some part of me would have to be straight for that. So since I’ve always thought of myself as not really being part of the mainstream, I’m just content to hover above it all by just being a part of the sky. Though I do wish I knew what that tiny element of…something…was.
While I have no idea what the picture is—an Edward Hopper would be nice—it is undoubtedly not a simple one. A Van Gogh, maybe, or a Winslow Homer, or a Bruegel, or a Bosch. My primary concern is that it made some sort of sense, but my somewhat cynical side says it is more likely a Jason Pollock, or one of those maddening stacks of pencils.
The more I think about the analogy of everyone being a piece in the jigsaw puzzle of life, the more I like it. Every one of us is, after all, different from everyone else: different size, different shape, different color, and each has our own unique place in the puzzle. For those people—probably the majority—who naturally feel part of some larger group—circles of friends and family and organizations, and nationalities and ethnicities—the concept of being a piece of a much larger puzzle probably does not resonate as loudly as it might with the disenfranchised. For those who feel alone, isolated, unwanted, and disconnected from the rest of humanity to realize that they are each a piece of a gigantic puzzle which would not be complete without them might bring them some comfort. It’s not so important for us to know exactly where in the puzzle we fit, or what our individual piece represents, as it is to realize that we do have meaning and purpose, even though we might not know specifically what it is.
Our ability to question—to wonder what the picture is on the box in which all the puzzle’s pieces come—is one of the primary advantages over all other creatures on this planet, yet our ability to ask far outdistances our ability to find answers.
While I am a confirmed Agnostic, I do have to admit that logic dictates that this giant puzzle didn’t just evolve out of nowhere, and that a certain perverse sense of humor is involved in presenting Mankind with so very many questions and so very few answers. Being part of a picture we cannot see is one of these little perversities.
But in the end, our questions about the puzzle of life boils down to the situation of a dog chasing a car: what would he do if he caught it?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
While I have no idea what the picture is—an Edward Hopper would be nice—it is undoubtedly not a simple one. A Van Gogh, maybe, or a Winslow Homer, or a Bruegel, or a Bosch. My primary concern is that it made some sort of sense, but my somewhat cynical side says it is more likely a Jason Pollock, or one of those maddening stacks of pencils.
The more I think about the analogy of everyone being a piece in the jigsaw puzzle of life, the more I like it. Every one of us is, after all, different from everyone else: different size, different shape, different color, and each has our own unique place in the puzzle. For those people—probably the majority—who naturally feel part of some larger group—circles of friends and family and organizations, and nationalities and ethnicities—the concept of being a piece of a much larger puzzle probably does not resonate as loudly as it might with the disenfranchised. For those who feel alone, isolated, unwanted, and disconnected from the rest of humanity to realize that they are each a piece of a gigantic puzzle which would not be complete without them might bring them some comfort. It’s not so important for us to know exactly where in the puzzle we fit, or what our individual piece represents, as it is to realize that we do have meaning and purpose, even though we might not know specifically what it is.
Our ability to question—to wonder what the picture is on the box in which all the puzzle’s pieces come—is one of the primary advantages over all other creatures on this planet, yet our ability to ask far outdistances our ability to find answers.
While I am a confirmed Agnostic, I do have to admit that logic dictates that this giant puzzle didn’t just evolve out of nowhere, and that a certain perverse sense of humor is involved in presenting Mankind with so very many questions and so very few answers. Being part of a picture we cannot see is one of these little perversities.
But in the end, our questions about the puzzle of life boils down to the situation of a dog chasing a car: what would he do if he caught it?
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Blank Pages & Telephone Poles
I enjoy blank-page days, when there is nothing that absolutely has to be done, no specific obligations to be filled, nowhere I have to be at a certain time. I’m writing this on such a day…a pensively overcast day during which snow is promised but is unlikely to be delivered. Even if it is, the prospect of the forecast 3-6 inches pales beside memories of snowfalls in northern Wisconsin which can easily bury a car to its hood. (One winter shortly before I left, a row of garages fronting the highway were completely buried under the combination of accumulated snowfall and drifts pushed up by passing snow plows.)
And very much like blanketing snowfalls, the beauty of blank page days doesn’t last very long. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, man seems incapable of leaving a blank sheet of paper or blank computer monitor blank. Just as we seem to have a compulsive need to get out there and leave our footprints in the snow, we seem driven to fill up any pristine white space with words with black squiggles and strokes to show we’ve been there. A blank-page day seldom stays blank very long, and having crammed as much into it as possible, we turn to the next blank page to repeat the process.
Looking back upon the reams and reams of my own once-blank-page days, now far more black than white, I sometimes wonder how many of them I would go back and either rewrite or erase if I could. Quite a few, I’m sure, and with far more rewrites than erasures. But unfortunately, time is a one-way street and we only move through it in one direction…physically, at least. (You may have noticed my fondness for metaphors and similes, which I tend to treat as ingredients in a tossed salad.)
The classic cliche of the forest and the trees is, however, apt here. We seem incapable of things clearly until they are past and cannot be changed. Perspective requires distance, which the state of “now” does not allow. The fact is, as—duck! Here comes another—that on the train of time, all seats face backward. Days, like telephone poles, fly past the window, and can only be seen in detail in the time between their passing by and their rapid retreat into the past.
It would be nice if we could take more time, with each blank page, to consider more carefully what we’re going to write on it, and the way we write it. But we don’t. And inevitably, as we look back on what we’ve written from the perspective of two or three intervening days or years, we too often tend to shake our heads and think “Now what in hell led me to say that?”…or “Why did I say it that way?”
We rush through our days as though we were being pursued, and then spend far too much precious time backtracking and either regretting what we’ve done or trying to redo them. A friend used to joke: “I always have to take you everywhere twice…the second time to apologize.” All too true, I fear. It’s the same way I feel about “Born Again” Christians: if they did it right the first time, once would be enough.
But we are seldom allowed—or allow ourselves—the time, opportunity, or the luxury, when faced with a new blank-page day, of preparing what we will write in advance. Life just comes upon us and zips past us by far too rapidly, like the telephone poles outside the train window. But it is to the credit of the human spirit that, even as we know we will not do so, we face each new blank-page day with the hope of writing something great, or at least of posting an interesting note on the passing poles.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
And very much like blanketing snowfalls, the beauty of blank page days doesn’t last very long. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, man seems incapable of leaving a blank sheet of paper or blank computer monitor blank. Just as we seem to have a compulsive need to get out there and leave our footprints in the snow, we seem driven to fill up any pristine white space with words with black squiggles and strokes to show we’ve been there. A blank-page day seldom stays blank very long, and having crammed as much into it as possible, we turn to the next blank page to repeat the process.
Looking back upon the reams and reams of my own once-blank-page days, now far more black than white, I sometimes wonder how many of them I would go back and either rewrite or erase if I could. Quite a few, I’m sure, and with far more rewrites than erasures. But unfortunately, time is a one-way street and we only move through it in one direction…physically, at least. (You may have noticed my fondness for metaphors and similes, which I tend to treat as ingredients in a tossed salad.)
The classic cliche of the forest and the trees is, however, apt here. We seem incapable of things clearly until they are past and cannot be changed. Perspective requires distance, which the state of “now” does not allow. The fact is, as—duck! Here comes another—that on the train of time, all seats face backward. Days, like telephone poles, fly past the window, and can only be seen in detail in the time between their passing by and their rapid retreat into the past.
It would be nice if we could take more time, with each blank page, to consider more carefully what we’re going to write on it, and the way we write it. But we don’t. And inevitably, as we look back on what we’ve written from the perspective of two or three intervening days or years, we too often tend to shake our heads and think “Now what in hell led me to say that?”…or “Why did I say it that way?”
We rush through our days as though we were being pursued, and then spend far too much precious time backtracking and either regretting what we’ve done or trying to redo them. A friend used to joke: “I always have to take you everywhere twice…the second time to apologize.” All too true, I fear. It’s the same way I feel about “Born Again” Christians: if they did it right the first time, once would be enough.
But we are seldom allowed—or allow ourselves—the time, opportunity, or the luxury, when faced with a new blank-page day, of preparing what we will write in advance. Life just comes upon us and zips past us by far too rapidly, like the telephone poles outside the train window. But it is to the credit of the human spirit that, even as we know we will not do so, we face each new blank-page day with the hope of writing something great, or at least of posting an interesting note on the passing poles.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back…and bring a friend.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Remember Logic?
How is it that only you and I remember logic, and common sense?
Admittedly,I sometimes have a hard time differentiating between the two. Apparently there is one, since so many people deride logic, though few argue against common sense. Bewailing their loss seems to be one of the topics to which I return often, but I think that is due to my sincere concern that in our world, logic/common sense are following the path to extinction like the wooly mammoth and the dodo, and only by constantly sounding the alarm may we keep it at bay. But I'm not optimistic.
I just hit the “delete” button on the 359 or so spam messages received since last I checked (fifteen minutes ago?), and while I have trained myself never to even look at the subject lines, I couldn’t help note the top one: “Can you work today? Earn $225…” Please, Lord, who on the face of the earth with the intelligence to be able to read those words can possibly, possibly believe that someone will pay someone else (whom they don’t know from Adam) $225 a day, unless they’re looking for someone to rob a bank? Is anyone…anyone… naive (and I am being charitable in my choice of words, here) enough not to realize that this same message is appearing on millions of computers across the world, and to wonder what kind of work might be involved, and why they would need to go on the internet to find someone willing to work for $225 a day? Just open the door and yell…you’ll have more people than you know what to do with.
And yet every one of the billions and billions of spam messages is based completely on the lack of logic or common sense.
Advertising in general tends to be based on this same assumption: that no one will ask questions. Oxy-Clean can remove every stain known to man? Okay. The guy who touts the crap by screaming at the top of his lungs wouldn’t lie, would he? I mean, he’s obviously excited by the product’s wonders. I’ll just go along with him. (And if I act NOW I can double my order for the same price!)
Politics and religion are two egregious examples where lack of logic and common sense is king. Currently making the cyber rounds are a number of photos of Barack Obama with beleaguered Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich—irrefutable proof evidence of some sort of sinister if unspecified conspiracy or other. It never seems to occur to the people who promote this garbage that as a senator from the state of Illinois, Obama might…just might, I say…have had occasion to be in the same room or at the same event as the governor of the state he represents, and by some remote possibility, to actually be photographed with him? Nonsense. It’s undeniable proof that something pretty fishy is going on, and that Obama is tarred with the same brush as Blagojevich.
Fundamentalists routinely (I almost said “religiously”) engage in “selective interpretation” of the Bible, using only those passages which suit their purposes and totally ignoring others. “Homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord” has been trampled into the ground by spittle-lipped zealots, who totally ignore bans on eating shellfish, casting the first stone, loving thy neighbor as thyself, etc.
The Jews control the world! Gee, then why did six million of them die in WWII? The “homosexual agenda”....I’ve never, ever figured that one out. Homosexuals lust after young boys! Ah, I see. And do you, as a heterosexual, lust after young girls? Could you explain the difference to me, please? Guns don’t kill people: people kill people. Love that one.
I understand a few colleges offer courses in logic, but none in common sense. Perhaps they should. Before it’s too late.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and if you like these rambling, tell a friend.
Admittedly,I sometimes have a hard time differentiating between the two. Apparently there is one, since so many people deride logic, though few argue against common sense. Bewailing their loss seems to be one of the topics to which I return often, but I think that is due to my sincere concern that in our world, logic/common sense are following the path to extinction like the wooly mammoth and the dodo, and only by constantly sounding the alarm may we keep it at bay. But I'm not optimistic.
I just hit the “delete” button on the 359 or so spam messages received since last I checked (fifteen minutes ago?), and while I have trained myself never to even look at the subject lines, I couldn’t help note the top one: “Can you work today? Earn $225…” Please, Lord, who on the face of the earth with the intelligence to be able to read those words can possibly, possibly believe that someone will pay someone else (whom they don’t know from Adam) $225 a day, unless they’re looking for someone to rob a bank? Is anyone…anyone… naive (and I am being charitable in my choice of words, here) enough not to realize that this same message is appearing on millions of computers across the world, and to wonder what kind of work might be involved, and why they would need to go on the internet to find someone willing to work for $225 a day? Just open the door and yell…you’ll have more people than you know what to do with.
And yet every one of the billions and billions of spam messages is based completely on the lack of logic or common sense.
Advertising in general tends to be based on this same assumption: that no one will ask questions. Oxy-Clean can remove every stain known to man? Okay. The guy who touts the crap by screaming at the top of his lungs wouldn’t lie, would he? I mean, he’s obviously excited by the product’s wonders. I’ll just go along with him. (And if I act NOW I can double my order for the same price!)
Politics and religion are two egregious examples where lack of logic and common sense is king. Currently making the cyber rounds are a number of photos of Barack Obama with beleaguered Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich—irrefutable proof evidence of some sort of sinister if unspecified conspiracy or other. It never seems to occur to the people who promote this garbage that as a senator from the state of Illinois, Obama might…just might, I say…have had occasion to be in the same room or at the same event as the governor of the state he represents, and by some remote possibility, to actually be photographed with him? Nonsense. It’s undeniable proof that something pretty fishy is going on, and that Obama is tarred with the same brush as Blagojevich.
Fundamentalists routinely (I almost said “religiously”) engage in “selective interpretation” of the Bible, using only those passages which suit their purposes and totally ignoring others. “Homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord” has been trampled into the ground by spittle-lipped zealots, who totally ignore bans on eating shellfish, casting the first stone, loving thy neighbor as thyself, etc.
The Jews control the world! Gee, then why did six million of them die in WWII? The “homosexual agenda”....I’ve never, ever figured that one out. Homosexuals lust after young boys! Ah, I see. And do you, as a heterosexual, lust after young girls? Could you explain the difference to me, please? Guns don’t kill people: people kill people. Love that one.
I understand a few colleges offer courses in logic, but none in common sense. Perhaps they should. Before it’s too late.
New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back, and if you like these rambling, tell a friend.
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