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| Finally Moving |
| 07.29.04 (11:22 am) [edit] |
Well the time has finally come! After much deliberation and consternation, I have finally found a new home for my little scribblings.
First, thank you all very much for reading an commenting here, it has been a very nice experience. However, I have felt that the weblog, such as it is, needed a cleaner more professional appearance.
The best way I have found to do that is on a host that is running the WordPress weblog system. Wordpress uses full CSS scripting for control of the look of the weblog and it is very impressive what people have done with it. In fact when you log on the new webpage, take a look at the bottom of the navigation bar. There you will see a list of styles. If you don't like the default look I have selected, simply click on one of the listed styles -- and zap! -- the page magically changes appearance. Unfortunately the content will remain the same. So this will be my main site which I will update and work on from now on:
The Crash Pad on Blogthing: http://crashpad.blogthing.com...
And just for your information, I have included several other sites where I will be posting content as well. You can check in on these if you wish. I won't really be working on these sites in quite the same way, just using a default template and such.
Crashes Place on Blogspot: http://crashesplace.blogspot....
The Crashpad on LiveJournal: http://www.livejournal.com/us...
The CrashPad on JournalSpace: http://thecrashpad.journalspa...
The CrashPad on JabBlog: http://crashpad.jablog.com/bl...
If you are looking for a weblog home, I would recommend BlogThing if you want full control over the look and feel of your site. If you are more of a point and click kind of person, JournalSpace has really nice templates and a clean look for a free site. JabBlog is another nice full control site, but does not yet have the community support that WordPress does, so there is not as many templates and such. BlogSpot and LiveJournal are probably two of the larger and most visited services, which is why I will post there as well.
I hope to see you on one of all of my weblog sites real soon now. And as always, thanks for reading!!
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| A Blog Vent |
| 07.13.04 (1:26 pm) [edit] |
Hey Weblog designers and site hosters! I got a little bit tired of tBlog, so I started looking around for a new host for this little compendium of my writings. Now, I know that you are not really making any money off of this and it is probably not right for me to complain, but I will.
There only seems to be two kinds of blogging sites and software out there, ones for complete newbies and ones for html/php/css/etc. wizards. How about one in the middle? Not everyone who keeps a blog is out surfing and when the urge strikes them will stop by their blog with a couple of lines of information, an email to the world if you will. I am sure there are many like me who write things in advance, writing that may need to be saved in several different formats.
One thing that never ceases to amaze me is that, considering that a weblog is HTML, no blogging site I have found has a simple little button on the "New Entry" page: Upload File. If I could upload my HTML or .rtf file I would be as happy as a clam. Opening a text editor, opening the file, cutting and pasting the whole thing, is just a pain. On most pages, I can upload images, but almost never HTML files! In fact it is so bad that an offline LiveJournal client won't even import HTML files. Stupid.
There is a nice on/offline interface for many of the blogging setups and sites, W.Bloggar (www.bloggar.com) which does import HTML files, but you sort of have to trick it into doing it. Not very smart.
Why is this important? It isn't really. But even in straight writing like I do, bolds and italics are nice. My word processor exports HTML -- so why should I put the codes in by hand? Why should I have to cut and paste a whole document??
A weblog is pretty much HTML code -- let me write it once and upload it!!
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| Moving Homes |
| 07.13.04 (1:15 pm) [edit] |
Very soon I will be announcing that this blog will be moving. tBlog was a good place to start, but the control over my blog is limited (you can see how ugly it is!!) and the only entry interface is cut and paste on a text box on the webpage. Not very efficient. So I have been looking for another host and I thought I would share my notes with you, in case you are looking for a blogsite yourself.
Two things about these notes, first they are very rough...they really are my actual notes as I went along. Second they don't cover the entire world of blogging, just looking for a good, free, place to torture people with my little writings. So with that in mind, let's get started.
Before we get started, the first blog tool you must know about is: w.bloggar (www.bloggar.com). This is a Windows 9x/2k/XP front end for many blogging softwares, it allows you to edit and upload posts with a desktop application, rather than cutting and pasting on some text editor box. In fact, it looks exactly like a decent text editor, which it is. Unfortunately, although it supports many types of software, not many of the bigger or free hosts use it. The two big exceptions are Blogger and LiveJournal -- W.Bloggar works great with them. But for sites like Xanga, Pitas, Mindsay and yes, tBlog, you are still in the cut and paste world. The software is supposedly in beta, but it works fine for me.
The contenders:
ExpressBlogs.com
http://www.ExpressBlogs.com/" title="http://www.ExpressBlogs.com/" target="_blank"http://www.ExpressBlogs.com/
ExpressBlogs is an Irish company which is a point in it's favor. It is running b2Evolution which is supposed to be great, but so far I haven't seen it. Can use the w.bloggar interface which is a plus. b2 seems to have no templates or anything built-in like the other blogging systems, or at least EB doesn't have them available. The server seems impossibly slow so far. On the plus side it looks like it hosts images with no problems whatsoever. On the other hand w.bloggar doesn't connect and the interface is horrible, probably out.
BlogDrive.com
Seems to have a 100KB(!!) limit on picture uploads. Not quite what I am looking for! Doesn't work with w.bloggar so it out.
Pitas.com
http://www.pitas.com/" title="http://www.pitas.com/" target="_blank"http://www.pitas.com/
Too stupid for words.
Blogger
www.Blogger.com
I have an account and a blog setup, works with W.Bloggar, so I will keep it for now and update it for additional traffic.
JournalSpace
Seems to a paid/free service does host images, does use w.bloggar, it is live journal based.. Nice look and stats. A definite contender. But then the free trial period (of about 5 minutes) ended and it looks like every other livejournal client.
Bloty Journals
Bloty is a livejournal client and w.bloggar seems to work fine with it...however, no pictures and no delete! I'll look at this one again.
Live Journal
http://www.livejournal.com/" title="http://www.livejournal.com/" target="_blank"http://www.livejournal.com/
I signed up for a real live livejournal. It is a free account and doesn't look good so far, but I can update it from w.bloggar and maybe get some extra traffic. The biggest pain in the butt for livejournal clients is that the interface is maddeningly split. You have control center where you can fire up the editor and such or you can look at your weblog. From within the weblog there is no way to get back to the control center! Trying to delete an entry is madness :-)
Web Crimson
http://www.webcrimson.com" title="http://www.webcrimson.com" target="_blank"http://www.webcrimson.com
The E-zine portion of the site really has a nice layout with article summaries and such, but there doesn't seem to be offsite editing supported and no image support. Maybe not. On the other hand the e-zine layout is much more professional than anything else I have seen, so I might just mess with it.
Free-Conversant
Isn't really a weblog site, but rather sort of a webpage generator, or maybe interactive information portal. It looks very, very powerful and I may move in this direction eventually. I will also think about setting up a website for ProgressWausau or ProgressWisconsin. If I can download a complete set of docs, I will look at them.
DK3
I signed up for free hosting here and got a portal: http://TheCrashPad.portal.dk3...
but get nothing but php errors and such. So far useless.
GreatestJournal
http://www.greatestjournal.com/" title="http://www.greatestjournal.com/" target="_blank"http://www.greatestjournal.co...
Another Livejournal powered site. It is completely free so most of the features are activated. It still is not easy, as the LJ software is so unfriendly. I might update this one since I can through w.bloggar.
jroller
This was actually the most promising site. Host software written in Java. Unfortunately, after I signed up, the site would not let me log in. I'll check back later.
What we have so far:
Blogger
LiveJournal
Greatest Journal -- LJ Client
Bloty -- out
Free Conversant -- a real webpage!
WebCrimson -- cut and paste
Jroller (if I can log in!!) -- maybe out
LiveLog
The also rans...(mostly cause I couldn't use w.bloggar)
http://www.blogeasy.com/" title="http://www.blogeasy.com/" target="_blank"http://www.blogeasy.com/
http://www.20six.co.uk/" title="http://www.20six.co.uk/" target="_blank"http://www.20six.co.uk/ (really close, this one!)
http://www.blogstudio.com/" title="http://www.blogstudio.com/" target="_blank"http://www.blogstudio.com/ (only 100K for free accounts...)
http://www.ujournal.org/" title="http://www.ujournal.org/" target="_blank"http://www.ujournal.org/ (another LJ service)
http://www.livelog.com/" title="http://www.livelog.com/" target="_blank"http://www.livelog.com/ (registered here, very nice look...)
http://www.weblog.co.nz/" title="http://www.weblog.co.nz/" target="_blank"http://www.weblog.co.nz/ (5mb wordpress account, signed up to use wp)
http://www.blogontheweb.com/crashpad/" title="http://www.blogontheweb.com/crashpad/" target="_blank"http://www.blogontheweb.com/c... powered by some microsoft crap, but I have to admit it works good...cut and paste only though
http://blog.interbaseusa.com/" title="http://blog.interbaseusa.com/" target="_blank"http://blog.interbaseusa.com/...
http://journurl.com/" title="http://journurl.com/" target="_blank"http://journurl.com/ Looks promising, uses w.bloggar interface
http://www.ipadder.com/" title="http://www.ipadder.com/" target="_blank"http://www.ipadder.com/ all open source, looks promising, signed up, but now it won't let me log in...
http://www.electricdiary.com/main.aspx" title="http://www.electricdiary.com/main.aspx" target="_blank"http://www.electricdiary.com/... (wouldn't let me sign in!)
http://www.freeonlineblogs.com/" title="http://www.freeonlineblogs.com/" target="_blank"http://www.freeonlineblogs.co...
http://mobynuke.net/" title="http://mobynuke.net/" target="_blank"http://mobynuke.net/ (here and cafelog, I just could not create an account)
http://ilohablog.com/" title="http://ilohablog.com/" target="_blank"http://ilohablog.com/
http://blogpage.com/UserPage/" title="http://blogpage.com/UserPage/" target="_blank"http://blogpage.com/UserPage/... (signed up, but editor did not work)
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| Pledge O'llegiance |
| 07.13.04 (1:04 pm) [edit] |
The Pledge O'llegiance
Once again the Supreme Court used a legal loophole to duck its responsibilities. I am referring here to the Pledge of Allegiance case. According to the Supremes, we can keep "under God"ing, but they are not actually going to say whether it is Constitutional or not. Thanks guys and gals, you're a bunch of swells! Well, I guess we'll have to solve this problem ourselves.
First let's take a quick look at the Pledge and its history. The Pledge was originally written in 1892 by Baptist Minister and socialist author Francis Bellamy. It was originally published in Youth's Companion -- sort of a Reader's Digest for kids. President Benjamin Harrison issued a proclamation in favor of the Pledge in October 1892, to honor of the 400th anniversary of Columbus's arrival in the Americas. Slightly edited from its original, the pledge was officially recognized by Congress in 1945. After a campaign by the Catholic Knights of Columbus, Congress itself wielded the red editorial pen and added "under God" in 1954. This, of course, was designed to keep the Godless communists at bay, but it is also where the controversy really began.
Now we have conservative Republican types zealously defending the work of a socialist author. Certainly those defenders are well aware that "under God" was added by a Congress that was under the sway of rampant McCarthyism and cold war hysteria. Whatever else you might say, it is fairly clear that adding "under God" to the pledge had more to do with politics than religion. Which you might think would appease liberal critics of the pledge just a bit.
To be honest about it, there other things I don't understand about the defenders of the pledge. First of all, these defenders of personal liberty want the state to force your kids to say the Pledge -- even if you object! Did I miss something here? Usually the idea that the state occaisionally needs to force people to do something for the common good is a liberal notion. Where are are these defenders coming from, anyway? And speaking of philosophical inconsistency, how many defenders do you think would still be there if the Pledge read "under Allah"? Or even "under The Great Spirit"? "Jehovah"? Well, there is nothing like a purely philosophical position that depends solely on the facts at hand.
One edit to the Pledge that Bellamy considered, but ultimately rejected -- mostly for political considerations -- was using the word "equality" in the pledge. "Equality" was dropped because he could see that equality was something that schools across the country, particularly in the south, were decidely lacking, so the Pledge might not be widely accepted. It sure would be interesting to see who would be lining up on which side if the Pledge yearned for "equality" rather than "liberty", under God or not.
Another concern I wonder if the defenders of the Pledge think about, is whether or not rote recitation of a simple sentence is actually beneficial. To some, the Pledge can become the very definition of lip service. Others may find themselves moved by the ceremony and tradition, even if that ceremony is not very deeply rooted in our history. Myself, whenever I considered the words of the Pledge, I always wondered why "to the flag?" Was "the republic for which it stands" simply an afterthought? Whether the Pledge is stirring or boring for most people, I can't say. But when Martin Luther King wanted to sum up the goals and aspirations of the civil rights movement, he did not choose words that are on children's lips every day -- "liberty and justice for all" -- as appropriate as those words might have been.
No, when Dr. King was asking that the country live up to its promises to all of her people, he went straight to the historical record of our country, and cited the Declaration of Independence. King was in good company, Abraham Lincoln did the same thing in his Gettysburg address. While the Declaration is an interesting and wonderful document, it spends most of it's words detailing why the old government had to go. Not much of a basis for a pledge of allegiance. So, instead, let us turn to the guiding document of our republic, the Constitution.
The preamble of the Constitution is as stirring as Jefferson's "we hold these truths to be self-evident" bit. Perhaps, there has never been a more perfect expression of what democracy is about than the first three words the Founders used to establish our government: "We the people." There's a reason they put it in really big letters at the top. Sometimes we seem to forget that "We the people of the United States" are really in charge here. Just look at our low voting rates. Maybe we can change that, and maybe a new pledge would help.
Submitted for your approval, with a nod to my Irish heritage and with great humility, I hereby present the rough draft of the Pledge O'llegiance:
"We the people -- in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice and promote the general welfare -- promise to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so that government of the people, by the people and for the people shall not perish. To this we pledge our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor"
I can almost hear an "Amen" at the end. Who says that the sacred and the secular can never meet? Say it out loud a few times and see if you don't feel a little more connected to your country, a little more in charge. Maybe you might even feel like voting or calling your representatives rather than shooting off firecrackers. If you don't feel that way, that's OK, it's just a starting point. If Bellamy -- and Jefferson -- can be edited, surely this humble attempt at a new pledge can be too. Relying on the best that our history has given us makes much more sense than arguing over some old magazine piece.
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| Oh My God, They're Everywhere! |
| 06.22.04 (10:27 am) [edit] |
I just love it when the right-wingers feel the need to call into real talk shows like the ones on Wisconsin Public Radio. It is even better when one of the God Squad calls in, even if they are scary. Very scary.
A recent show was discussing a poll that showed that a majority of people think that our country is headed in the wrong direction. Not exactly a controversial subject, or even news. I was a bit taken aback however, when a women called in all flustered and wanted to know how the country could be headed in the wrong direction when the previous President was "getting blowjobs in the Oval Office"? And this from a God Squadder! I swear I am not making this up. The woman went on to assert that the result of this depraved behavior was that this form of sexual activity was now the most popular among high school students. In fact, she went on, "students don't consider that to be sex" at all! My God, where to even begin?
First of all, wasn't Howard Stern fined for using phrases less delicate than "blowjob?" Even the media jackals preferred the at once more genteel and more descriptive "oral sex" at the height of Monicamania. You gotta love a phrase that is at once more graphic and more polite. Sometimes English is so wonderful! The only problem with "oral sex" (the phrase, not the act...) is that it swings both ways. The word that should have been used is the more techical "fellatio." Obviously she wasn't a Catholic God-squadder: otherwise she would have known her Latin.
But laying aside the woman's crude language, did Bill Clinton cause an outbreak of oral sex among teenagers? I rather doubt it, but to be quite frank (as if this isn't frank enough already) it is impossible to tell. Trying to determine the sexual behaviors of ordinary people is notoriously difficult. People for the most part do not talk much about their sexual behavior and when they do, they tend to lie like cheap rugs. Even the major surveys which have tried to get a handle on people's sexual activity (Kinsey, Masters and Johnson) have been derided because of poor sampling or the biases of the authors. The bottom line is, other than counting children, we have no good way of determining how many times anyone does anything behind closed doors.
For example, in researching this essay I found an author who stated that "oral sex" was pretty much unknown in his high school. He went to high school in the 60's in England. Maybe he is right. Or maybe he just wasn't getting any. Personally, I went to high school in the 70's in the US; first on the liberal east coast, then finishing in the more conservative west. In both places -- yes even at the Catholic schools I attended -- students were sexually active. Stop the presses! And even then, many students engaged in heavy petting and oral sex. And do you know what we called those students? Every Friday night for a date! No, just kidding there. We called them "technical virgins." Perhaps Bill Clinton learned this defense in high school rather than teaching teens anything new.
Now I am not condoning sexual activity in high school, nor am I condeming it. It just is. Let's face it, in earlier times, 15 and 16 year olds were getting married. Then 18 looked about right, now 22 or even 25 seems like the right age to marry. That's a long time with a lot of hormones flowing around the bloodstream. We have as much chance of stamping out teen sexuality as we do teen drinking. That is to say, zero.
If you can't get rid of a behavior that potentially has negative consequences, you at least have to limit the damage. And as we saw it then, and I would argue it is still true, there is a certain logic to "technical virginity." First and foremost, it does reduce pregnancy! Sexually transmitted diseases might still be possible, but people can be careful. And you still have that "special gift" for your wedding night. OK, Miss God Squad might freak out with this analysis, but she is the one who said "blowjob," not me.
And while Miss God Squad is having her conniption fit, there is one other minor detail that I feel needs to be corrected. There is no way, I repeat, no way, that oral sex is the most common form of sexual activity among teens. What is? OK, everyone say it with me -- "masturbation!" Let's face it, oral sex is a team sport and in high school, teams usually only play once or twice a week. But they can practice everyday! OK, maybe several times a day. OK, maybe after every class period. Especially the ones where the rows face each other and you can look up the girls...ooops, was that out loud?
So, are teens more sexually immoral than those of 50 years ago? Maybe, but I doubt it. In the golden age of the 50's it has been said that 25% percent of brides were already pregnant. I am going to guess that another 25% were darn lucky. Perhaps some of the remaining half were "technical virgins." And, as you may have noticed, the word "fellatio" is Latin. Yes, the Romans -- and the Greeks -- figured out how to do this. Apparently quite frequently considering the number of authors who mention it. In fact It would not surprise me in the slightest if at some point Adam said to Eve "Please do it! I ate the apple for you!"
Those clever French, who were similarly blamed for an outbreak of fellatio in the US after World War II, say "The more things change, the more they stay the same." And when it comes to sex, they are probably more right than ever. While I will admit that the information age may affect them number of people who engage in some behavior or another, it does not affect whether or not humankind will discover a new behavior. People have pretty much discovered every sexual thrill (or perversion, you decide) already. And once discovered they will be practiced -- perhaps some more frequently than others. Why can't sex have fads like clothing or music?
The sexual behavior of the people of this country is safely in their own hand, so stop blaming Bill Clinton already.
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| Making Much Ado About Time |
| 05.24.04 (2:38 pm) [edit] |
"To the virgins," my ass
Why should only they make much of time?
What about the rest of us?
Are not our moments precious as well?
Even if death's sonorous clock
Were not constantly tick, tick, ticking
Our moments would still be in jeopardy
From the constantly shifting sands of life
People are always on the move
Friendships grow and wane, are found and lost
Vast distances come between lovers and friends
Spring's sweet warmth is replaced by Winter's chill
So make much of time, my non-virginal friends!
Clasp the hand of gladness while it is near
Revel in the joy that today might bring
Seize the day! Seize the night as well
Leaving just enough to provide for tomorrow
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| Absence |
| 05.17.04 (2:39 pm) [edit] |
They say that absence
makes the heart grow fonder
Who the hell are "they"?
And what do "they" know anyway?
I say we run "them" out of town
And let "their" black hearts grow fonder
Instead of mindless "them"
Let the voice of one: Marlowe, ring clear
Who, renouncing absence, wisely prescribed
"Come live with me and be my love"
"And we will all the pleasures prove"
That tenderness, touch and talk can bring
Who cares what "they" think or say
Stay, sit close, and feel how fondness grows
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| The Other Donald Goes to Iraq |
| 05.16.04 (1:06 pm) [edit] |
Well, Donald Rumsfeld held his nose and flew off to Iraq. Somehow he managed to leave Iraq before he had to inhale again. Not a bad trick, Don. Of course he learned this from the President, who also managed to fly in and out without inhaling. This quickie fly-in was, of course, to show solidarity with the troops -- whose tours of duty were extended by Rummy once he got back to his cushy office. BushCo really loves this swell PR stuff. They seem to keep hoping Lincoln was wrong. Or at least that fooling enough people for a few months will actually win them an election.
Of course, the reason Unca Donald had to head off to Iraq was for some major damage control around this whole prisoner "abuse" scandal. "Abuse," "torture," call it what you will, but most of the media keeps sticking by their storyline. Unca Donald, of course, had his story straight before he even left for Iraq. It was all Huey, Dewey and Louie's fault and it had absolutely nothing to do with him. Leave those little scamps alone for a minute and next thing you know they are violating the Geneva Convention. There's no way that could reflect on Unca Donald. Or Uncle Screwup McDuck in the Oval office.
Yep, just a few bad egg soldiers running around inside a prison far from any actual combat, with no brass anywhere in sight. I guess the officers in charge of this operation had more important things to do than supervise the soldiers under their command. All the way up to Rummy, folks had more important things to do than to check out whether or not we were committing war crimes, inflaming the Muslim world or even comitting murder. Sergeants running around completely unsupervised -- apparently this is not your father's army.
So Unca Donald hot-tailed it right over to Iraq, just as soon as this became a PR problem. Unfortunately, he just sat in his office when he first heard what Huey, Dewey and Louie were up to. Actually, he did go over to meet with Uncle Screwup back in February, right there at the tax cut money vaults. We won't know exactly what happened at that meeting and what action was taken until Great-Uncle Dickey says it is OK to talk about it. Did you ever notice that no one in this administration takes any fatherhood responsibility?
When Uncle Screwup McDuck heard about this whole mess he attacked it with the kind of hard hitting action he took when he read the Daily Briefing entitled "al Queda determined to strike America." That is to say, he got a puzzled look on his face and asked "And what does this have to do with me?" Apparently Great-Uncle Dickey told him that it didn't have anything to do with him, so Uncle Screwup could just sit back and dream about throwing some more big tax cut moneybags to the boys at Enron. Seems no one has told Uncle Screwup that, pretty much, Enron no longer exists. Some people say that Bush's train of thought is a bit slow, but I pretty much picture two smashed and burning engines, just collided, with box cars scattered across the countryside.
Back in February when this thing was hush-hush, the only action that was deemed necessary was a do-nothing study. But then all those ugly pictures came back from Foto-Mat and somehow landed on the front page. Who knew that Huey, Dewey and Louie could afford digital cameras? As soon as word actually got out, Unca Donald sprung into action. Of course, the only kind of action BushCo really understands is a PR blitz. The PR smokescreen has consisted mostly of blaming HD&L and repeating ad nauseum the idea that these actions in no way represent America. Now, it may be that those little urchins did this all on their own, we'll see when the investigations and trials are over with. And while I believe that what happened does not represent what is good about America, I am not sure it does not represent the current Bush & Company America.
Uncas Donald and Screwup McDuck have certainly denounced what happened as unAmerican, but if you read between the lines there's still an ugly undercurrent. What they seem to be saying is that this torture is unAmerican. That the boys just went too far. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the "well, some torture is OK, when it is done to terrorists and all." Now Rummy and Bush haven't said this directly, but you can certainly hear it in the media echo chamber often enough. It is abundantly clear that BushCo has no problems with scooping up bunches of people, putting them in orange jumpsuits and, ummmm, pressuring them, yes that's the phrase, to talk. Even if there is no way the "detainees" could actually know anything. So some forms of torture, or near torture as they might say, actually are kinda American right now. So much for the better angels of our nature.
Personally, I agree with Rummy. Treating prisoners of war contrary to the Geneva Convetion is unAmerican. Committing war crimes is unAmerican. Setting up a system that appears to condone and even permit this kind of activity is unAmerican. Not doing something about it immediately is unAmerican. Waiting until you get caught is unAmerican. The person in charge when all this unAmerican activity was going on should go. Unca Donald oughta hit the pavement. Now. And in November, we Americans can tell Screwup McDuck to join him. The better angels of our nature demand no less.
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| River of Words |
| 05.13.04 (11:59 am) [edit] |
Some days it is a roar
A mighty Niagra, rushing mightily
Crashing, tumbling and surging
Shaping the rocks below
Other days it is a brook
Babbling and sparkling in the sun
Flowing peacefully through a glade
With barely a gurgle
Today I listen in vain for a trickle
The rocks are left dry
A sun-bleached vacant arroyo
Awaiting the next flood
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| Ghost in the Machine |
| 05.11.04 (12:30 pm) [edit] |
I love being a ghost
As a ghost, I can walk through walls,
Magically appearing when least expected
And vanishing on a whim
Sometimes being a ghost has great charms
My ghostly fingers can reach out and touch
With ghostly arms held out for comfort
A friendly ghost, I mean no harm
Though even a ghost can sometimes stumble
Sometimes being a ghost can be all too real
A ghost is not bound by his past
A ghost is free to create his present
A ghost can pretend he has a future
Sometimes a ghost can create a brand new world
I love being a ghost
Free from space and time
The only thing I fear is materializing
For that's when the troubles really begin
Sometimes a ghost is best just being a ghost
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| Surely You're Joking, Mr. Collins |
| 05.11.04 (8:37 am) [edit] |
Sometimes an observation, a thought or a theory can literally change the world. Some idea can change how you look at things, and when that happens the world is entirely different than before. Richard Feynman was a master at changing the world in just such a way.
Richard Feynman was a theoretical physicist. He won a Nobel prize for his work on "Feynman Diagrams", but it is generally conceded that he could have won several more Nobels, as he made many other important contributions in various areas of physics. He was briefly famous among the general public for his role in the investigation of the disaster of the space shuttle Challenger. When people were wondering where the modern day Einstein was, many in the physics community would have pointed to Feynman.
It can seem at times that the gap between a Feynman or an Einstein and the rest of us is huge. Sometimes it doesn't even seem like a gap, but rather that the genius among us is of another species. Some sort of space alien dropped among us, with superhuman powers of observation and a thought process that seems to come straight from God himself. Leave it to Feynman to shatter this worldview and create a new one.
I found this insight in an interesting book, Feynman's Rainbow, by Leonard Mlodinow. The book describes a time in Mlodinow's life when he was searching his way in the field of theoretical physics, and lands in an office just a few doors down from Feynman. Being professionally lost, Mlodinow seeks out Feynman, and many others, to try and get some idea of where to go next and how to survive in the rarified air of the field of theoretical physics.
One day he and Feynman are talking and Mlodinow expresses admiration for what he sees as the superhuman thought processes of an Einstein -- or a Feynman. But Feynman will have none of it. "I don't see that what we do is so different from other people," Feynman begins. "We just look at nature and try to extract the patterns that are there." He goes on to describe how anyone might figure out where Aunt Minnie might be if she is not home by knowing something about her schedule and habits. "Same thing," Feynman concluded.
As Feynman himself entitled his autobiography, you might be tempted to say, "Surely you're joking, Mr. Feynman." Mlodinow says almost as much in the conversation, continuing to insist that there must be a gulf between ordinary people and Feynman. But again, Feynman would have none of it. The only difference he could come up with was that he had the luxury (and let's be honest, the tenacity) to think about the same problem over and over again. Thinking about one problem for days, weeks or even years was all he did, according to Feynman. "It's really a form of insanity," Feynman concluded in a flourish of typical self-deprecation. And at that moment the light went on.
Feynman had re-write disease. If something bothered him, he just couldn't leave it alone. Suddenly I saw Einstein, thinking over and over and over again about what would happen if his bike could travel at the speed of light. Like a dog gnawing on a bone, turning the problem over and over again, gnawing and chewing until finally it cracked. Feynman had done it: seeing a universal law that connected Einstein to the likes of me. We were all human after all. As usual, Mr. Feynman was not joking at all.
Now, don't get me wrong, I realize I am no Einstein. While Einstein and Feynman were working on the fundamental principles of the universe, I am working on how to apologize to my friend, why baseball is so darn interesting and how to make better spaghetti sauce. However, it is very comforting to think that my mind works according to the same fundamental principles as Einstein's. You, me, Einstein and Feynman, using facts and evidence, turning it over and over to explain and possibly improve our world. Dogs gnawing on a big ole bone.
So where does Billy Collins come into all of this? He is not a physicist, but a poet. Poets and physicists are supposed to be polar opposites in the academic world, but lately their worlds have eerily overlapped. That is not the connection, though. In the same way that Feynman made me feel, for just a moment, that anyone could be the next Einstein, Collins makes me feel that anyone can be a poet.
Now, I am no expert in poetry. I know nothing about it and almost never read it. Most poetry just makes me feel stupid, because I know the author must be trying to say something, but I have no earthly idea of what it might be. Most poetry bounces off my eyeballs as if it were written in ancient Greek. My bad (as they now say) I am sure, but still there is no communication happening. Then I picked up Billy Collins.
Now, Billy Collins might be a terrible poet. But he is published and he is the Poet Laureate of the United States. Hopefully it was Laura that had more to do with selecting him, rather than George. Anyway, someone thinks his writings are valuable and that they are in fact poetry. Reading Mr. Collins's work I had a startling revelation. Poems are just words. Whoa! Whoda thunk it? Poetry just words -- what a concept! Collins uses words to paint pictures, describe scenes and feelings. His images are earthy and of common experiences. Just words. But those words are beautiful, concise and at times achingly perfect. Words that were chosen, discarded, moved, erased, trashed, rearranged, buffed and shined, and then gently lowered into place. Sort of like a dog gnawing on a bone.
So you could be a poet. Or a physicist. Or damn near anything you want, if you just keep gnawing.
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| Cloud Chamber |
| 05.10.04 (9:47 am) [edit] |
You fear that I might see you as an onion
That each new discovery, each thought uncovered
Will peel back another layer
Until nothing remains but the paper dry skin
Though earthy and organic, versatile and tangy
The humble onion is not where my thoughts lie
It is the cloud chamber of science
Of particles like protons and quarks
That oddly springs to mind
In the cloud chamber bits of matter are whirled together
They collide and bounce and sometimes shatter
The chamber can discover unending patterns
And perhaps the mystery of the infinite might be revealed
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| Uncle Charlie is in the House |
| 05.10.04 (9:43 am) [edit] |
You know, right now the world is just too damn depressing to write anything even remotely amusing about world events. So I'll turn once again to the great American pastime, baseball.
Baseball is by far the hardest of the major professional sports. I am not going to belabor or argue the point. It just is. OK, one logical argument. Every year ESPN televises the basketball and football draft days. People hang on every word. Nobody cares about the baseball draft. This is because the chances of a rookie making an impact in their first year of professional ball is about nil. You have to learn baseball. Because it is so damn hard. If you want to boil it down, one thing makes baseball the hardest sport: the curveball. Yep, one lousy stinking pitch makes the whole game.
Baseball is a fascinating sport because of its balance. There is a balance between the pitcher and the batter. It is not a perfect balance, as the batter fails about 60 percent of the time. But the sucess rate is just enough make for a dramatic tension that rises and falls throughout each game. If pitchers are too successful, then games are boring. Zero to zero ties are not generally considered exciting. If batters are too successful, the tension goes out and games simply becomes an exercise to see if the last batter can score one more run to win. The curveball is a major factor in creating this balance. But how is it, you might ask, that the lowly curveball creates the dramatic tension that is baseball?
The first pitch of baseball was and is, the fastball. It is pretty much just a regular throw, but very, very hard. Major league fastballs are often over 90 mph. At that speed, the batter has less than a tenth of a second to decide whether or not to swing and where. Remarkably, however, major league batters can do just that. We are talking superhuman eye-hand coordination here. If the relatively straight fastball were the only pitch that could be thrown, no matter how fast, Major Leaguers would have a field day. Instead of failing 60 percent of the time, they would probably start succeeding at a 70 percent or higher rate. If they know or guess that a fastball is coming, any good hitter can knock that pitch a long, long way. We are talking fifteen or twenty home runs a game. Enter the curveball.
Fortunately for pitchers, the curveball changes everything. Where the fastball is straight, the curveball, well, curves. Instead of coming straight in, the curve moves down and away from the batter. But this is not it's most devastating feature. When the pitcher throws a curve, he releases the ball in the exact spot where he would if he was throwing a fastball right at the batter's head. So, in that tenth of a second, the batter has decide if he is going to die by being hit in the head, or if it is a curveball. It really is like that. Next time you watch a baseball game on TV, watch when they show the batter from the pitcher's point of view, watch the batter's feet. When the curve comes, you can see lesser batters flinch. Sometimes they will even duck out of the way of a pitch that ends up in the dirt. The curve does change everything.
Armed with a curveball, the advantage swings dramatically back to the pitcher. Now that any pitch could be either a curve or a fastball keeps hitters off balance. Almost no amount of eye-hand coordination can make up for the fact that the batter now is thinking "what pitch will he throw now?" A curveball makes a fastball seem even faster, as the batter spends part of his precious tenth of a second identifying the pitch. Greg Maddux, master curveball pitcher, gave up half as many runs per game as Nolan Ryan, the hardest throwing pitcher in baseball history.
Fortunately for the balance of the game of baseball, the curveball contains the seeds of its own destruction. There are two levels where the curveball actually works against the pitcher, one during each at-bat and one that takes place over the course of the season.
The curveball is notoriously difficult to throw well. It often does not go exactly where it is supposed to. In the same way that the batter now wonders which pitch might be coming, most pitchers have to think about when to best employ the curveball. This task of deciding which pitch to throw is so difficult that the catcher helps the pitcher with the decision. I am not making this up. The difficulty in throwing a curve also leads to the phenomenon of the "hanging curveball." Essentially a "hanger" is a curveball that doesn't curve. Hangers often end up as homers. Nobody said this game was easy.
Because of the difficulties in throwing it well, the curve does not make pitchers invincible. Even worse, the curve also makes pitchers unavailable. Throwing a curveball requires an unnatural arm motion. Hold your hand out like you are shaking hands. Now make a throwing motion with your thumb on top, so you end up in the hand shake position. That's a curveball. And your arm probably hurts. Using that arm motion and throwing as hard as you can puts tremendous stress on the shoulder and elbow. That stress keeps pitchers from pitching every day. In fact, most pitchers need three or four days to recover from each game. So the curve creates a need for more pitchers who pitch less often. A great pitcher now wins 20 games in a season, but in the early days of baseball a great pitcher might win 40 or 50 games and pitch almost every inning of every one of those games. Because of the curve, a great pitcher can dominate a game, but not an entire season.
Therein lies the balance of baseball. The batter doesn't know which pitch to expect, leaving him slightly off balance. The pitcher has to carefully consider which pitch to throw, with the possibility that a slight error in execution will lead to disaster. And the pitcher who was unhittable today will be on the bench tomorrow. It may look like everyone on a baseball diamond is just chewing and spitting, but believe me, they are thinking all the time. Mostly about when the curve might be coming.
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| The Gift |
| 05.04.04 (11:34 am) [edit] |
I hate baseball. Guys are always trying to draw major life lessons from a boys game. Only a moron would do that. Baseball movies are even worse. Imagine wasting all that good celluloid to draw a major life lesson from a fictional depiction of a boys game. Bull Durham falls into this category. OK, OK, I know all my pop culture references are 20 years out of date, I've been in a cave, all right?
In Bull Durham noted block of wood Kevin Costner plays Crash Davis, a career minor league catcher who is brought in to shepard one "Nuke" LaLoosh, a hot prospect pitcher. Nuke is a bonus baby, with a million dollar arm, unfortunately accompanied by a "five cent brain." But Crash and everyone else, can recognize the truth, LaLoosh has a gift. Nuke didn't choose his gift, and maybe he doesn't even deserve it, but he has a gift. A gift that takes him to the Major Leagues -- "The Show" in baseball parlance.
My friend has a gift. A major league gift that has taken her to the show. It's a different show, as her gift is the opposite of Nuke's. She has a million dollar brain. She might also have a five cent arm, I don't know, never seen her throw. But the gift is obvious. If life were baseball, we could put the radar gun on her and see that she throws 95 mph fastballs. Or even more appropriately, add everything up and look at that .327 lifetime average in awe. Yes, she has a gift and it has taken her to the show.
Unfortunately, once you get to the show the gift isn't as obvious. Everyone else pretty much has it too. Even worse, it is just assumed that you have it. Every day, you got pitchers launching 95 mph fastballs at you, combined with exploding sliders and curveballs that look like they are coming right at your head before breaking in for a strike. It's brutal. Those curveballs sent alot of guys back to the clubhouse to write home for money. It gets even worse when the thrill of simply making the show wears off. It can wear you down when you realize that you have to be inch perfect every day, every inning, every at-bat to make your mark on the game. Sometimes it seems that every ball hit has eyes for you, trying to make you look bad in front of the home fans. Every pitcher cranks it up a notch just when you come to the plate. Might even make you wonder where your gift went.
Like Crash, I can see how it is. Like him, I was up in the show for a cup of coffee. A few days in the big leagues, a late season body to fill out the roster. Don't look for me in the Encyclopedia, I never got off the bench. But I saw, and I think I understand a bit. And like Crash, sometimes it is hard to deal with the fact that my gifts are minor league, that I will always be in the coaches' box, or even worse, the press box. But we don't get to choose our gifts, only to try and make the most of them.
You, my friend, have a gift. With hard work and yes, a little luck, you are going to make it. You'll be in the show a long time, and have career numbers anyone would envy. There is absolutely no doubt. The scouts saw it, the manager saw it, hell, even I can see it. It may not seem like it now, but soon you'll be standing at the plate and while staring down the pitcher you'll be saying the immortal words of Crash Davis in your head: "C'mon Meat, throw me that weak-ass shit. Bring me the deuce. Bring it." OK, your thoughts will certainly be more elegant, but it will be something along those lines. And when the curve comes, you'll knock the cover off the ball. You got the gift.
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| Writing Fool |
| 05.03.04 (12:56 pm) [edit] |
To the tune of "Dancing Fool"
With apologies to Frank Zappa.
Well, maybe not apologies exactly, after all, the original song was a parody of disco. So this is a parody of a parody, whatever that might be. Perhaps I could ask Al Yankovic (yeah right, like I hang around with Weird Al...) Well, perhaps this is actually more of a complete copyright violation. But hey, with only 150 people having ever looked at this blog, not much chance of anyone telling Frank. Well, no chance at all of course, he's dead.
Maybe I should call up Dweezil and Moon...yeah right like I have people like that in my Rolodex. Ummm...what was I saying here? Oh yeah, apologies to Frank. Sorry Frank. And now, without further ado, "Writin' Fool."
Actually, it really would help if you have heard the song. Recently would be nice. OK, it wasn't a Top 40 hit or anything, and it was recorded some 20 years or so ago. Damn. Well, you could run out and buy a copy of "Strictly Commercial" one of Frank's greatest hits albums. The three or four additional units that would be sold might make up for the copyright violation. I think Dweezil could live with that. So, here now, I present "Writin' Fool."
Well, since you now have the CD, after listening to it, maybe you could load "Dancing Fool on to your computer and use a program like Audacity or something to take out the vocals. Then you could sing the new words along with the music. It would really heighten the effect. Oh god, that would be so cool. No, it's OK, I've got time. Really, it will be worth it, I'll wait.
OK, now we're ready...
Writin' Fool
I don't know much about writin'
That's why I got this blog
None of my ideas make sense together
And I'm always goin' on too long
My word are always dyin'
And I just keep on tryin'
And I'll keep posting every night
Hopin' that soon I'll get it right
I'm a writin' foooooooooool, I am writin' fool!
Hear me bleat, it ain't so sweet and I can't complete!
I'm a writin' fooooooooooool!
If you think my writin's messed up,
You should see my mail.
Overwrought and full of shit,
my friend will need a pail.
When you see me comin'
Better run and hide
Or you'll get hit when I commit
My social suicide!
I'm a writin' Foooooooooool! I'm a writin' fool.
The words go on and I'm so wrrrrrrrrrong. The words go and I'm so wrong, the words go on and I'm so wrong.
I'll never get it together now
That's the way this business goes
My pages, the publisher's throwing them out
And the editor's door is closed
I am really sucking
That's what you'd probably say
So click your little mouse, and surf your little web
While I write the night away!
I'm a writin' Foooooooooool! I'm a writin' fool.
I may be totally wrong and, I may be totally wrong and I may be totally wrong and I am fooooooooool.
Meanwhile in the Disco Chat Lounge we see this on a lovely young lady's screen...
HG Hey, darlin' can I bother you for a chat?
HG Looking for a clever wordsmith? Here he is.
HG Wait a minute, I've got it, you're an intellectual.
HG Hunh? You're Canadian? Oh, love your rales.
HG You must be a looney.
HG Your ISP or mine?
Hehehehehehe......yesssssssssssssssssssssss ssss.
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| Errata |
| 04.30.04 (7:33 pm) [edit] |
In the interest of journalistic integrity, two errors in a previous posting to this weblog need to be corrected. In that post, Mr. John Doyle of the Toronto Globe and Mail was referred to as the "television columnist" of the paper. Mr. Doyle is, in fact the "Entertainment" columnist. Also, the column seemed to suggest that Mr. Doyle's comments about Fox news could not be taken as humorous as he is a Canadian. This reporter has learned that Mr. Doyle was, in fact, born in the Republic of Ireland, therefore it is entirely possible that he was, in fact, making jokes (and riotously funny ones at that) at the expense of Bill O'Reilly and Fox news.
This weblog deeply regrets these errors.
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| Dick Speaks |
| 04.28.04 (8:27 pm) [edit] |
Chickenhawk-little Dick, somehow got out of his cage again. For some reason the Bushites can't seem to keep him penned up. You would think it would be easy: the guy's ancient and has heart disease. But Chickenhawk-little Dick the man with the golden sneer got out somehow. And when he did, for some reason he thought he was Winston Churchill. I guess Napoleon is already taken.
Yeah, Chickenhawk-little Dick tooled on down to Fulton Missouri, to make a "major policy speech." It was there at Westminster College that Winston Churchill warned the world that totalitarianism was not dead. That while World War II had succeeded in it's immediate task, new dictators were rising to enslave a large chunk of humanity.
There Dick was, at the very podium where Winston "Savior of Western Civilization" Churchill gave his famous "Iron Curtain" speech. It was obvious that Dick hoped some of the great man's aura would reflect on him. But Dick looked shrunken and shriveled as he tried to get into Churchill's suit and to shoulder that legacy. But oh, did Dick try. Frankly, I am surprised that he didn't pull out a three foot long cigar. I am not as surprised that he didn't raise his stubby little fingers in the famous "V" salute, people might have thought it was a peace sign.
That's right, Chickenhawk-little Dick mounted Churchill's podium, told Churchillian jokes and generally tried to wrap himself in the mantle of the great man. Let's hear how the chickenhawk-in-chief put it himself: "Churchill delivered what he called the most important speech of his career, applying the wisdom gained over a lifetime to the greatest challenge of the age." Yessir, Chickenhawk-little Dick tried to step into the big man's shoes. Ooops, them feet's too small, Dick!
Seemingly conscious of his feet swimming around in those big shoes, Chickenhawk-little Dick sought to send a warning to the world as well. About a danger far worse than worldwide communism, the enslavement of entire peoples, and the possibility of world wide conflagration. Yes, a danger far worse than any of those. I can only be referring to, of course, John Kerry.
That's right, Chickenhawk-little Dick warned the world that if Kerry is elected, civilization will end, Churchill's legacy will be destroyed, and Chickenhawk-little Dick and his sidekick, Napoleon Junior will be out of jobs. Well, he tried to gussy it up a little, but that was pretty much the gist of it.
That's right, John Kerry, the decorated war veteran, and sober middle of the road Senator is simply incapable of keeping America safe. Why is that you ask? Well, Dick and Junior feel that when the Pentagon bellies up to the taxpayer foodbar, they should mound up twelve trays with food. Kerry sometimes, under the right circumstances feels that ten trays is plenty, and that both Buffalo wings and barbecue wings may not be entirely necessary.
Chickenhawk-little Dick knows we need all the Bradley fighting vehicles, MX missiles, Apache helicopters, Phoenix missiles, F-15s, F-14s, Blackhawks and Predators we can lay our hands on. All that fancy hardware sure kept us safe from the bozos with boxcutters. And just look what good it is doing us in Iraq -- winning hearts and minds all over the place. So bring it on Dick exhorts, and some of that star wars stuff too! Anything less and the sky is falling!
Oh yes, Chickenhawk-little Dick was Fultonating in fine form warning us of the horrors to come. Man, he had that sneer working so hard he almost forgot he was Churchill and started channeling Elvis! "Don't nobody step on our Patriot Act!" "Down at the end of lonely street is a bank of Patriot missiles" "Kerry ain't nothin' but a Saddam lover" Yeah, shake that leg, Dick!
Unfortunately for Winston Chickenhawk, the good people of the Show Me state could see how far short of Churchill, the statesman and visionary, the Dickmeister had fallen. Rumor has it that the president of Westminster College was so dumbfounded by the lame, moronic and partisan nature of the speech that before it ended he got on his cellphone to call Kerry to apologize and offer him equal time. He also rang up all of the descendants of Churchill and apologized to them as well. Called Tony Blair and the Queen, just for good measure. He also recorded a public service announcement for the BBC, which is playing every half hour for the next three weeks.
So there was the latest Tricky Dick looking like a four year-old trying on his daddy's suit. With his leg a-twtiching and lip trembling. Churchill's legacy dropped down around his ankles and Dick tripped over it coming off the stage. Napoleon Junior thought Dick did a great job of course, and tried to pin a medal on him, but by that time the suit was empty.
By then the couple of the more conscious White House handlers had scooped up Chickenhawk-little Dick and tranquilized him enough to keep his leg from twitching. They shipped back to the bunker where the shadow government operates from -- well, the other shadow government anyway -- until he escapes again. I just wonder just who he'll think he is next time.
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| Fox Funny? Only in Canada |
| 04.28.04 (8:18 am) [edit] |
Before I really get started, let me express my admiration for the wonderful people of Canada. To me, Canada is like Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, except that everyone there is Mr. Rogers. Canadians are consistently the nicest, most considerate people I have ever met. Worldwide, Canadians are admired for their thoughtfulness and civic mindedness. Perhaps no country is more universally respected. But, sadly, Canadians just are not funny.
I'm sorry I had to say it, but it's true. There is no distictive Canadian sense of humor, or at least none that has managed to escape the Great White North. Even the British, whose epic lack of a sense of humor is mocked even by Belgians, have managed to give to the world Monty Python, Peter Sellars, and Douglas Adams. I racked my brain for funny Canadians and only came up with Red Green, Celine Dion and Paul Shaffer. And as a serious musician, Shaffer doesn't really count. And, well, Red Green is more of a cult phenomenon.
I mention this as background for the little spat that erupted when the TV columnist for the Toronto Globe and Mail, one John Doyle, mentioned that he was looking forward to Fox News coming to cable systems in Canada. In fact what he said exactly was this: "Beauty. Bring it on, I say." So far, so good. Mr. Doyle then goes on to say, "The Fox News Channel is a kind of live theatre of the airwaves, with right-wing pundits playing journalists in an ongoing soap opera." Now coming from Dublin or London, that kind of statement might be considered ironic or satiric. But Mr. Doyle is Canadian, so it must be, as it is, a simple statement of fact. Mr. Doyle also wanted to know if "this Bill O'Reilly fella is as stupendously pompous and preening as he appears to be." Again, just a simple question. A calm seeking of the facts, Canadian style.
Then, of course, Fox had to get in to the act, lead by the warhorse, Bubba O'Reilly. Now, ole Bill has the same relationship to hard cold facts that Canadians have to comedy, that is to say, none. He immediately attacked Mr. Doyle, and the "the far-left Toronto Globe and Mail." Bill ranted on with his usual stream of invective mixed with total disregard for even the outlines of reality as the rest of us experience it. He ended with "Hey you pinheads up there, I may be pompous, but at least I'm honest." Now that's funny!
Now, Canadians may not have much of a sense of humor, but their sober analysis gives them a leg up on most Americans. Of course, "Bill O'Reilly" isn't real. He is simply a character on the Fox News Channel, which also isn't real. "O'Reilly" is a performance artist spinning Dada-esque monologues for the amusement of his audience -- hence the total disregard for any factual material. And Mr. Doyle understands this. Before Fox even reaches his TV set, he applied his razor sharp Canadian mind to Fox and saw through the whole thing. Snap! Just like that.
Fox is allegedly a news operation, but the person running it is one the the most virulently partisan political operatives to come out of the Republican party -- and has no journalism experience. The talking hairdos they have hired run on the political spectrum from Reagan Republicans to somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. So when Mr. Doyle says: "The Fox News slogan is 'Fair and Balanced,' which it obviously isn't. It's a tip-off that you're not supposed to take it seriously. The slogan is a joke, a raspberry blown at every other news channel. It's tongue-in-cheek..." you can't possibly laugh, it's just a fact.
Yes, Mr. Doyle has seen through the whole enterprise. So much so that Fox had to send him hundreds of emails which looked as though they came from all over the United States. Emails which were full of invective, lame insults and incorrectly spelled expletives. Those boys at Fox just won't quit! No expense is too much to carry out their joke. You just know that in several years, Matt Groening and the other creators of the Simpsons are going to be writing a book about the brillant "News Channel" they created to pull the wool over the eyes of the unwashed.
But Mr. Doyle threatens to spoil the joke. He has recognized Fox News as "the most hilarious thing on American TV since Seinfeld." But then he goes to far and wonders "if, like Seinfeld, it's about nothing." Mr. Doyle, please! Don't spoil the fun. It's like telling people that American Idol is rigged! Please, Mr. Doyle, let us have our illusions for the sake of entertainment.
Canadians may not have much comedic inclination, but they get it. Get it right and get it fast. "Bill O'Reilly" hates that.
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| Dreams and the Field Thereof |
| 04.26.04 (12:16 pm) [edit] |
I have this friend. We talk frequently and when we do, we agree on many things. This is as it should be between friends. Perhaps the defining phrase of frienship itself is "I know what you mean." Or the telegraph version, "Me too." So I find it interesting and perhaps a bit disconcerting when we disagree, especially when the disagreement seems total.
One of my favorite movies is Field of Dreams. In fact, I often say that it is my second favorite movie of all time. However, whenever I mention this film or quote a line from it, my friend immediately points a finger to her open mouth and with tongue hanging out makes a universal gesture of cinematic disdain. It pains me to so violently disagree with a friend, but in the face of, well, such a face, it seems futile to discuss it further. But discuss I must.
First, let me point out that while I disagree with my friend, I can understand her point of view. In my more cynical moments I can see that Field of Dreams is sappy, hokey and emotionally manipulative. For me, the main plot of Ray Kinsella trying to reach a rapprochement with his father actually doesn't resonate too deeply with me as I love my Dad, always have and always will. So, if that is true, why do I tear up during the opening credits? The answer, my dear friend, lies in three supporting characters and the performances that brought them to life.
The first of these is the reclusive writer, Terrance Mann, played by James Earl Jones. Jones gives a wonderful performance ranging from his anger and outrage when first approached by the possibly deranged Ray Kinsella, to his childlike joy at being asked to go "out" with the players. Jones gets most of the movie's good lines and knocks them for homeruns. If the hair on the back of your neck isn't standing at attention when he extols baseball's place in American culture, you don't understand America or baseball. It's a tour de force. At the end of that speech he also gets to deliver one of the most devastating critiques of modern American culture ever. He explains to Ray that people will come to see the baseball field, and they will hand over twenty bucks to do so because "it is money they have, and peace they lack." Cut! Wrap! Print! Just nine words to accurately sum up where we stand as a people. And when James Earl Jones says it, it almost sounds like the Almighty himself.
Jones may get the great lines, but it is Burt Lancaster who puts the lump in my throat. Lancaster plays the elderly Doc Graham, so elderly in fact that when Kinsella and Mann turn up in his home town of Chisolm, Minnesota, he has been dead six years. After talking to just about the whole town, all our two heroes can come up with is that Doc Graham was a great guy. Like Will Rogers with a black bag, Graham never met anyone he didn't like, or didn't help in some way. Always there, always generous with his time and money, Doc was the soul and conscience of his town.
Finally, the magic intervenes and Ray Kinsella gets to meet Doc Graham on a moonlit night. What the former baseball player, "Moonlight" Graham, has to say grounds the entire movie. Yes, he loved baseball, his lifelong dream. Yes, he only played for five minutes in the major leagues. After a beautiful speach describing the beauty of the game and his aching desire to play it, he tells Ray that he would not do his life over to be a baseball star. As Ray tries to understand how a man can come so close to his dream and not attain it, Graham lets him know what life is really about. "Ray," he says plainly "if I had only gotten to be a doctor for 5 minutes, that would have been a tragedy."
For me, the emotional climax of the movie is when "Moonlight" comes off the Field and morphs into Doc Graham to save Ray's daughter Karen. Once again, Graham gives up a boy's game for his higher calling. I can't help but wince that I have never felt a calling so strongly or one as noble. As Doc Graham leaves the field, the players compliment him in the understated way that men playing games have, and I always find myself whispering with them "Wayda be Doc."
Even as Doc Graham shows once again what is really important, and it ain't baseball, he doesn't make the movie. The character that makes the movie is Ray's wife Annie. Without Annie, there would be no Field of Dreams. Without hearing the voice, without seeing the vision, it is Annie who believes. She believes in the dream even more than Ray does, because she believes in Ray even more than he can.
Every person deserves an Annie in their life. It is Annie's unflinching devotion to Ray and his dream that gives Ray the courage to continue. Not only her belief, but her encouragement and support are key to the realization of Ray's dream. Where would Ray be without her telling him to do it? Who takes care of the family while he is off chasing phantoms? If you have an Annie in your life, consider yourself blessed, your dreams are within reach.
At the end of the movie, Ray's father asks if he is in heaven. Ray replies in his corny way, "No, it's Iowa." But this time he is not satisfied with such an obvious truth. Ray asks what heaven is, and he is informed that "heaven is the place where dreams come true." When Ray answers "maybe this is heaven, then" the camera cuts to Annie and Karen sitting on the front porch. Heaven, then, is in Annie's arms, for it is there that the dreams came true. If you have found your Annie, fall into their arms, whomsoever they may be, and let them make your dreams come true.
And that Charlie Brown, is what the movie is all about.
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| Review: Need For the Bike by Paul Fournel |
| 04.22.04 (8:02 pm) [edit] |
If you are a serious cyclist, and you know if you are, then you want this book. Trust me. It says everything there is to know about the "real" cyclist in prose that reads like poetry. Go get it -- now.
Now that the "real" cyclists have left I can talk to the rest of you. If you are the significant other of a cyclist you need this book. This book reveals more about the thinking of cyclists than any other I have ever read. Trust me. Reading this book is perhaps the best way to get inside the head, to look behind the curtain of someone who is cycling obsessed. If you already know your significant other has a serious cycling problem, then go get this book -- now. If you are not sure, here are some warning signs of advanced bicycling disease.
One note of caution, I can only describe the male of the species Cyclist moronicus. Although I have met and talked to several serious females of the sport, my understanding of female behavior and motivation ranks slightly below my fluency in ancient Sanskrit. So it will be the more common male C. moronicus described here.
Clothing: A typical male thinks that $15 is alot to spend on a pair of dress pants, cyclists think even that is too much. But a cyclist will gladly fork over $120 for a pair of black lycra shorts. Black lycra shorts with suspenders built-in. Black lycra shorts with suspenders whose legs come to the top of the knee. Certainly an attractive look for a middle-aged man.
Generally, cyclists will launch into a rant at the mere mention of Exxon-Mobil, Microsoft or any other large corporation. But we will gladly pay $60 and more for a shirt (excuse me, I mean "jersey", of course) which amounts to a slab of gaudy polyester fabric slathered with advertising. Advertising for such well known and totally cool companies as Banesto and Credite Agricole. With pockets in the back. I'll spare you the discussion of shoes.
Diet: Mention "Atkins" to a cyclist and they will start twitching and foaming at the mouth. A "real" cyclist's diet consists of between 75 and 95 percent carbohydrates. More, if they can get them. If your significant other comes back from the grocery store with 96 boxes of spaghetti noodles, three cans of tomato sauce and a crate of bananas, he probably is a cyclist. Especially if he says this is just to hold him for a couple of days, until he can "do some real shopping." I once read an interview with a semi-pro cyclist who said he put orange juice instead of milk on his Froot Loops at breakfast. "I need the carbs," he explained. I am not making this up.
General Health: Fortunately for the simple mind of C. moronicus his state of health boils down to one number: Resting Pulse Rate. Cycling is one of the most aerobically demanding sports and even moderate cycling will give you the cardiovascular system of an bull elephant. Even a fat, lazy, slob such as myself can achieve a resting pulse in the low 40s (around 70 is normal). Once achieved the number becomes an obsession. A five beat per minute rise over this abnormally low reading can convince a cyclist to spend the day in bed fearing either the onset of illness or the dreaded "over-training syndrome."
Cyclist's Tan: The tan is absolutely distinctive and diagnostic. A cyclist gets a deep dark tan from spending so many hours outdoors. Unfortunately the tan has a, well, unusual pattern. The tan extends from 4 inches below the shoulder to the wrist, from just above the knee to the ankle and the back of the neck. Everything else is almost bleached white. You do not want to see a cyclist in a swimsuit. Not that they would be caught dead in one, unless they are competing in a triathalon to "get some extra miles."
Scheduling How is it that a guy who has trouble getting his eyes open for a nine o'clock meeting in February, is out the door at 5:30 a.m. in May? Then when you get home, you see his car in the driveway. You worry: is he sick? He hasn't been home early in months. As you open your car door he rolls in on his bike. "Didn't I hear you go out this morning?" you ask. Looking like a catburglar in the beam of a flashlight, he'll mumble something like "Ummm, yeah, well, I just felt like I needed a few extra miles..."
Following the Pros Try reading these names to your significant other, don't worry about the pronounciation, he'll correct you: Cippolini, Ullrich, Indurain, Merckx and Hinault. He'll probably reel off about a hundred more. He'll probably start with one name I left out: Armstrong. Even non-cyclists know of Lance Armstrong, but if you want to double check to see how sick he is, just say "What was it with Lance on Sestriere?" (If your cyclist is not handy as you read this I will briefly relate the story. At the 1999 Tour de France, Armstrong was making a comeback, a comeback literally from the door of death itself. Just two years earlier he had been diagnosed with cancer, which had metastisized to his lungs and brain. Now he was leading the world's greatest bicycling race, but it was early. Climbing the mountain leading to the ski resort at Sestriere, Armstrong suddenly accelerated and left behind not only his rivals, but seemingly the laws of gravity itself. He not only hit a home run, but the ball tore through the roof of a domed stadium. A real cyclist seeing this doesn't stand up and cheer, but rather sits with mouth agape in silent awe, wondering if maybe, if you look hard enough, you can see the angels, or alien spaceship -- you make the call -- that carried him to the peak that day. Back to the story in progress.)
If your significant other exhibits two or more of the above signs and symptoms, you already know you are in trouble. Fournel's beautiful little book Need for the Bike will let you know more about the disease and maybe even help you to understand your pitiful cyclist. The books fits in the palm of you hand like a hymnal and in 150 pages Fournel expounds extremely lucidly about all the mysteries of the bike.
Fournel's work is translated wonderfully from the French by Alan Stoekl, who writes in the introduction "... Fournel presents a world, a very personal one, whose axis is the bicycle. It is world of communication, of connection where all people and things pass by way of the bike." We are walking on hallowed ground here, believe me.
The book is a series of short essays ranging from one to three pages in length on a wide variety of subjects about and related to cycling. Although written in prose, the words are dripping with meaning, symbolism and feeling. The sensation of reading it is much closer to poetry. As Dylan once sang "Every one of them words rang true and flowed like burning coals, pouring off of every page like they were written in my soul." Not grammatical perhaps, but you get the point.
There is no cyclist alive who did not feel as Fournel writes in "Light Weight:"
Sitting on the seat, not carrying the weight of one's body, makes bike riding something like swimming, something like flying. The saddle carries you along, like water, like air: it's the saddle, but also the frame, and the tires and the compressed air in the tires that give you wings.
The difference between bike and flight is that the bike is possible and flight isn't, yet. Every bike fanatic's journey begins there.
Once started Fournel explores so many aspects of cycling it is hard to encapsulate. On every page there is a moment where the response can only be "yes, exactly" Every cyclist who has ridden more than a couple of times a week has felt this way:
In the morning I'm completely stiff, a rusty old wreck; I have trouble getting down the stairs. Without strength or desire I get on my bike, and pedal like an old robot. Ten kilometers later, that's all gone. I feel fine. I feel even better than the day before...
Yes. Exactly.
Every cyclist who has ridden for several years, especially years beyond their thirties has felt this way as well:
Getting old with the bike means gaining endurance and wisdom. It's having the ability to go further more calmly, to train better, and, in general, get more out of it. Therefore I've entrusted my bike with the mission of notifying me of my aging. It's doing nicely.
I'll only quote one more nugget from this rich vein, there are many, many more between the covers of this slim volume:
Riding is absurd -- climbing to descend, going in circles, behind this mountain there's another, why hurry? ...Riding is absurd like peeling vegetables, skiing, thinking deeply or living.
Fournel says that thinking this thought on the bike is a sure sign of fatigue, but in my easy chair, I know and understand.
Yes, if you have a cyclist sicko in your life you need this book. Read it and you will understand them a bit, no, much more. Or better yet, get the book and read it out loud to your partner. Yes, out loud. Just one or two essays a night. Hearing your voice expounding and explaining the mysteries and majesties of cycling will work a deeper magic. Giving voice to these elegantly stated deep truths will make your partner feel that you really understand The Need For The Bike. And maybe you will.
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| M'ugly Bike |
| 04.20.04 (5:45 pm) [edit] |
I have an ugly bike and a beautiful bicycle. They are both in my garage waiting for me.
I bought the ugly bike first. It was my first bike as an adult. It is black. Not jet black and sleek. The paint is flat and now chipped in many places. A spot or two of dark orange rust have erupted. Small flecks of gray show where stones have chipped the paint. My ugly bike was made in a factory, but not for a mass market. Tens of thousands like it were made, but not millions.
A few years later I bought the beautiful bicycle. It was made in Italy, in a small shop where people still assemble steel tubing into bicycles by hand. It was not custom made, but hundreds of bicycles are made there, not thousands. My beautiful bicycle is blue. Not just blue, but cerulean blue. The color of very deep water on a clear day. I bought a small sleeve to protect the chainstay from chips.
My ugly bike is not a road bike. It looks like a wimpy mountain bike. It has smooth wide tires, as opposed to the aggressive nobbies of real mountain bikes. It came with a plain straight handlebar, but I replaced it with a curving monstrosity that comes to a single point, making the bike look like a cyclops. The saddle is covered with nylon, now torn. Even the chain and chainrings are black, with bits of gray wear showing through.
My beautiful bicycle is a thoroughbred road machine. The handlebars curve down in the classic ram's horn shape, and are covered with a thick, soft blue tape. The tape is held in place by shiny chrome buttons which fit in the handlebar ends. The front fork curves gently as it cradles the thin, strong front wheel. An impossibly small number of shiny spokes levitate the rim of the wheel. Even when greased, the chain is silver and glides almost silently around a sculpted chainring.
My ugly bike creaks and groans when I ride it. No amount of adjusting can keep the chain from rubbing the derailleur. If you listen carefully you can almost hear the ghostly echo of a boy running with a stick along a picket fence. The brakes chuff and hum when you apply them hard. Changing gears is awkward, twisting handgrips like revving a motorcycle. The sound is worse, beginning with a "click" from the shifter and ending with the "clunk" of the chain falling in place.
My beautiful bicycle is graceful in a way that I am not. On the road, the wind is louder than the tires and the tires louder than the chain. Changing gears requires the flick of a finger, less effort than it takes to redirect a pencil on the page. Gear changes are instantaneous, with the chain "snicking" into place without hesitation. Hitting the brakes is like pulling the reins on a smart horse, quickly and surely the bike stops itself without disturbing the rider.
My ugly bike is a cantankerous ride. The smallest gear is too small and leads to my feet uselessly spinning the pedals. Even its biggest gear is too small, leaving me to coast down large hills. A comfortable position is hard to find, with no good place to put my hands. There is no position that allows me to stretch my back just right. I lean too far forward on the saddle. Even with the correct saddle height my legs feel cramped and pedalling never seems smooth.
My beautiful bike is a joy to ride. The first time I rode it, I thought it was nice, but was afraid I had wasted my money. It fit better, yes, but pedallng on the flats seemed the same. Then the road turned upward. Each pedal stroke snapped the back wheel around as if an extra lever were doing the work. Full power was transferred from my back and buttocks directly to the pavement. I felt as though the law of gravity had been altered just for me. On the downhill, I found the biggest gear. I still felt a reassuring pressure on my legs as I pedalled downhill. The bicycle didn't wobble in the slightest as the speedometer approached 40 miles an hour -- too fast for my heart.
Now it is spring. After a long winter I stand in my garage looking at my two machines. I will clean them and grease them and prepare them for the days and nights that lie ahead. As I look ahead, I remember. Remembering those days and miles they have given me.
I remember the day I bought my ugly bike. It was like being a kid again. Sitting on the saddle, but feeling the wind lash my face was like flying. I remember the first time I went ten miles. Ten whole miles! The hours alone on the backroads, thinking that I was a Tour contender. The first time I rode with a group and got dropped like a rock. The first time I bonked, feeling that I couldn't turn the crank one more time, even though I was miles from home.
I remember the first time I crested the hill at the front of the group. The first time I had to wait for the rest of my comrades to make it to the water stop. The first time I rode in the rain. In the snow. The first time I rode all day, 12 full hours all the way across Indiana. The first time I rode for charity, the first time I actually raced someone. The most important firsts of all came on that bike as well. The first time I pulled my daughter in her trailer, the first time she rode beside me on her own bike.
All those firsts and many, many miles on that ugly bike. I now consider how the lower gears will be easier on my winter softened legs. I think how the upright position will be easier on my stiff, neglected back. Even as I look longingly at my beautiful machine, it is my ugly bike I am throwing my right leg over. It is my ugly bike that glides down the driveway to the street. It is the pressure of the pedals of the ugly bike that bite into my legs as the hill looms in front me. It is my ugly bike that brings back that feeling, that glow of good health that riding brings. The clearing of the mental cobwebs, the invigoration of the spirit.
All traces of winter depression disappear as the pedals turn and then turn some more. The road stretches to infinity just beyond my front tire. The first bead of sweat forms on my brow, only to be evaporated by the fresh breeze. My bike and I are flying in the winds of spring, laden with potential. I look down and admire the machine that carries me, the one that multiplies my efforts into supple forward motion. I just can't believe it. I can't believe I called my best friend "ugly." It must have been Winter talking.
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| Pox Americana Marches On |
| 04.18.04 (7:41 pm) [edit] |
It is becoming clear that perhaps, just maybe, there were a few flaws in the plan. In Afghanistan, warlords have taken over as much as a third of the country, and the Taliban and Al Queda are described as "resurgent." In Iraq, well, don't get me started. Suffice to say those ain't flowers they're throwing in Fallujah. It's kinda ugly out there, with no end in sight. But amazingly enough the boys at BushCo are in fact planning yet another operation! Through documents obtained by the 9/11 Commission, inside information sources (OK, source, one lousy stinking source, if you want real journalism try Knight-Ridder) and a few wild guesses, I believe I have identified the target of the next invasion: Canada. That's right, let it sink in: Canada. The evidence is circumstantial, but strong.
Involvement in 9/11: There is no direct evidence linking Canada to 9/11, just like Iraq. But then again, why was Canadian airspace closed after the attacks? What did Chretien know and when did he know it? And when did he tell Bush? And when will Bush tell us? And does Bush actually know who the current Prime Minister of Canada is? If so, when will he tell us? And where was the New York Times during all of this? So many unanswered questions.
Weapons of Mass Destruction Who has more weapons of mass destruction, Iraq or Canada? 'Nuff said.
Terrorists Everyone knows that the lax standards of Canada leads to infiltration by terrorists. There is the now famous case of the terrorist who was arrested in Washington state. It is not as well known that a number of groups that threaten our way of life are active north of the border. Secret documents (not documents I have seen or read, of course, give me a break here) show that cells of the ever dangerous group, Non-Extremists for Gradual Change in Sweden are rampant in Canada, along with Responsible Citizens for Sensible Plastic Recycling. When will they crack down on these groups?
Drugs It is clear that Canada is becoming a major drug supplier to America. Why just last week in McDonalds, right there where children could see it, I saw a brochure for a Canadian Drug Club -- with chartered buses! No crack house was ever this blatant. Even the Taliban at least tried to pretend they were not in the drug business. But not Canadians.
Targets After the 9/11 attacks Donald Rumsfeld mentioned that attacking Iraq would make sense because they had "better targets." (Parable time: Man walks into a dentist's office and says, "Doc, help me, I think I'm a moth!" Dentist says, "You don't need a dentist you need a psychiatrist, why did you come in here?" Man says, "Because your light was on" Back to the story in progress) Better targets? My goodness Canada is full of beautiful, clean, crime free cities (how unAmerican!). Targets galore, eh?. Rummy must be drooling just thinking about it.
Vital Resources In the buildup to the Iraq attack, the administration kept saying "Noooooo, it is not about the oil. We, ummmmmm, never gave a thought to the the fact that they sit on the second largest oil reserve in the world." Yeah, right, and I'm Eleanore Roosevelt. Let's see, after the fighting in Afghanistan ended, things were relatively peaceful and to rebuild that war torn country Bush pledged a portion of his bottle cap collection and a rusty '63 Buick. In Iraq they haven't even stopped shooting at us and we have already started tossing around billion dollar "reconstruction" contracts. Not about the oil my ear. But be that as it may, ever tried to drink heavy crude? Not very nice on the throat. Canada has 20 percent of the world's fresh water supply. That's right, one out of every five glasses of water has a maple leaf on the side. And what are those pigs doing with it up there? Just trying to keep it clean, maybe canoeing on it once in a while. Such selfish greed! Well, pretty soon, we'll be putting that water to good use, filling swimming pools in Phoenix pal, you can count on that!
Remember you heard it hear first. Soon all this and more will be on the front page of every paper and 24/7 on Faux News as the war machine cranks up again, this time to distract from Iraq. Soon the drums of war will start beating, louder and louder before they reach a crescendo, timed perfectly for, I don't know, an election maybe? And this time, rather than marching in the streets with my "Inspections Not Invasion" sign, I'll be signing up. That's right I will take my pacifist little self right down to the recruiting station to sign up for the 82nd Airborne. I feel strongly about this, because there are medical students to rescue.
That's right, in the middle of the god-foresaken prairie of Canada huddles a group of shell-shocked students, just like in Grenada. The tortures they have endured are legendary. First of all they are in Saskatoon -- Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Try saying that three times fast. Bet you can't even spell it without looking it up. Imagine their pain. Further, my source tells me that the medical students there are "trapped in a monastary from hell." (Well, that is not exactly what she said, but does this look like the Washington Post?) The godless heathens even force the students to work on Sunday! Further, after many years of endless torment they are then forced to provide medical care to those who need it, not just those who can afford it! Socialized medicine! Oh the horrors! Their plight has so touched my heart that I have set aside my abhorrance to military solutions and my tremendous fear of heights to parachute in and rescue them. Should be good for a laugh anyway.
If I am not accepted for that mission, I do have another plan. If we took a mere $10 billion (a fraction of the $80 billion downpayment in Iraq!) we could send 200,000 families on a secret mission. Each family would be given $50,000 seed money to move to Canada, and begin the process of "Americanizing" the Canadians. I can guaruntee a very low casualty count on both sides and it is very likely that many of these "troops" will, in fact, be greeted with flowers. Or at least doughnuts.
Now, I will admit, in a way that those in Washington are unwilling, that my plan has no exit strategy. We are talking quagmire wiht a capital "Q." It may not help recruiting to say this, but our "troops" could be there for five, ten or fifty years. Maybe longer with full access that good healthcare they have up there. Now, even with this little hitch in the recruiting pitch, I am sure that if Bush is not re-defeated and is selected as President for four more years, we will have no problem with people volunteering for this mission. Even without the seed money I'd be first in line. Beats the hell out of parachuting in.
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| The S-Word |
| 04.07.04 (11:29 am) [edit] |
It has been reported that Wisconsin Public Radio has recently bleeped the "S-word" from two of their programs. One was even a re-run that wasn't bleeped the first time. Jeez louise! What the heck is this fricking country coming to when we can't even use even one gosh darn Anglo-Saxon word on the radio? Good gravy, it isn't as though WPR was being fecking obscene. Come on people, it's just a word.
All of this is because of the filthy dastards at the FCC, who, upon seeing one piece of body jewlery lost their freaking minds. And every gosh darned programming planner got themselves all fupped duck as well as they rushed to "clean up the airwaves." What a load of bullcrud. Then a bunch of regressive Senators, who don't know from shinola, introduced a bill to outlaw the seven dirty words -- you know the ones. Can you imagine a bigger bunch of dipsticks?
These sons of biscuits wouldn't know a freaking obscenity if it bit them on the behind. For some inexplicable reason these bloody minded dastards of moral rectitude insist on looking for obscenity on TV and radio. It ain't there you freaking morons! Look out the gosh darned window and see the real obscenity.
How about starting with the fact that millions of people can't see a fricking doctor when they need one, because their freaking poverty level paying jobs don't have any gosh darn benefits. Infant mortality among the poor is still at third world levels, even though we spend more fricking money on our goll darned healthcare "system" than any other freaking country in the world. Now that's obscene.
How about the fact that we just about spend more on our military than the rest of the world spends on theirs -- combined! That's right more freaking taxpayer money goes to the sons of biscuits at the Pentagon than the whole rest of the freaking world spends! No wonder our lameash foreign policy amounts to "If you son of a biscuit suicide terrorists don't knock it off, we'll kill you all and obliterate your freaking countries." Sounds bassackwards to me.
I could go on and on, but there is one more example that gripes me most of all. Right there in the Oval Office, sits the biggest freaking pile of festering bullcrud that I have ever seen. No, I am not talking about the President, but rather his hypocrisy. This son of a biscuit signed over 130 death warrants in Texas, continues to doom poor children through lack of health care, and unnecessarily unleashed the dogs of war. After all of that, the freaking dastard has the stupid audacity to call himself "pro-life." And a good number of people in this country believe him. They must have sheepdip for brains.
With the country awash in this kind obscenity the FCC is worried about someone uttering the "S-word"? What a bunch of schmucks.
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| Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda |
| 04.06.04 (1:30 pm) [edit] |
I'll admit it, I have re-write disease. I always want one more chance to say what I should have said. Or could have said, but didn't.
Like many writers I fear the blank page. Will I express my thoughts clearly? Will anyone understand or appreciate what I am trying to say? Thoughts that seem so elegant and organized inside my head, come out so ragged on the page. Constantly my typing fingers seem to disappoint my thinking brain. But the words do come out, some good, many not so good and then the real work -- and re-write disease -- begins.
Rewriting, reworking and editing. Can this word be changed? Does this sentence say what I really mean? Can I leave this sentence out? Why doesn't this paragraph sound like it did in my head? There must be a better way of saying this. And on and on it goes. It can be an obsession. Even after publication, sometimes I hate to read my writing, because even then I think, "oh, that is not quite right..." Some writers hate to have their words changed by an editor -- I usually slap my forehead and think "Oh that's better! Why didn't I come up with that?"
Unfortunately, life is pretty much a first draft. Well, maybe more like a weblog, in that some things can be edited. But for the most part once you open your mouth, it's published. It's over and done with, on to the next scene. Or it is for most people. People with re-write disease want another shot. As the conversation replays in my head later, I fill in all the things I should have said. Sometimes I think of clever witticisms, jokes and puns that would have been perfect. The French call this the "spirit of the staircase," the perfect bon mot that occurs just as you reach the top of the stairs.
Of course, if it stopped there it wouldn't be a disease. Not only do I want to liven up my own discourse, I have to re-write the whole scene. First I replace the things I did say with those I should have said. Of course, those changed responses would have changed what the other person said. Soon I am re-writing their dialogue as well. Pretty soon the whole conversation and the emerging re-write are streaming through my mind -- an unstoppable train of words.
Hurtful things I said are morphed into helpful, well meaning advice. Angry words are formed into logical arguments. Distant, disconnected thoughts are focused. Awkward silences transformed into knowing glances. Arguments are not so much won or lost, but are found to be problems to be solved. And they are always solved to everyone's satisfaction.
In my re-writes I say "I love you" much more often. "How can I help?" more easily comes to my lips. I just smile and say "Thanks." There is a lot more hugging. In the re-writes there is no need for the regrets of the first draft. Hopefully, my first drafts are getting better, and I always appreciate those that give me chance to do at least a partial re-write.
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| From the Archives |
| 04.05.04 (12:26 pm) [edit] |
Being that my brain has been under quite a bit of duress and any sort of logical thinking has really been out of the question, I figured maybe I would go into the archives to try and keep up some semblance of a blog. I was hoping to find something both witty and deep, but being as how I was only looking at things I have written, I found the following two pieces (of what, you can decide.)
Hopefully I can get back to at least the normal level of weak boring output you are accustomed to here and there will be no need to dredge up the older boring material.
Thanks for reading!
Bill
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