I keep forgetting that when I get all pissed off and tense and it starts affecting my sleep, that I can unload some of the internal stress into a rant, tuck it into a nice little html envelope and send it into blogland and be done with it.
Since I'm not updating any of these blogs with any regularity, something I would have initially reserved for the be appalled blog I'm going to just stick here.
Things that are stuck in my craw:
To "F the President": No, you fuckwit, it's not "Blame" it's accountability, and it's not a "game" it's your fucking job.
To Babs: Was four years in the White House not long enough to teach you how not to say really stupid things in public?
To the black community: Yes, this is a tragedy that affected black Americans WAY more than white. NO question about it. But, do you really think the response was bad because the victims were black, or could it be that the response was bad because the administration was off with their thumbs stuck up their asses in Iraq, that people who needed the most help were the poor, and that the REAL tragedy, and one that is pervasive and should not be ignored, is that the population of poor are growing, and that THE POOR ARE PRIMARILY BLACK? Isn't this the bottom line, not that the administration doesn't care about saving black people? I just think that framing the accusation as "the administration hates black people" is the wrong tack to take because it gives them something to argue about. They LOVE arguing because that, in turn, gives them something with which to distract the public from realizing that they keep giving tax breaks to the rich. Make them own up to the REAL disaster! Make the case that poverty is growing and that the poor are mostly black. They can't argue with this, and because poverty usually plays out in the public in terms of crime and drugs, Katrina is one of the few vehicles that allows the public to be made aware of the poverty and be sympathetic instead of afraid! This is an opportunity! Don't blow it by reacting like a victim, Mr. West! Take control and be an activist!
To the press: You guys have the opportunity of an 8 year presidency right now. The public has their eyes open. There's no way for the administration to spin this and look good. Don't let them stop showing the dead. While I understand protecting the privacy of grief and mourning, at some level it's important for the public to actually have visceral evidence of tragedy. If nothing else will spur them into action, let horror and disgust be the motivator. Hiding the dead serves ONLY to squash that visceral response. That's why Bush won't show the coffins of the dead as they arrive back from Iraq. It's not to protect the families, it's to protect his image and public support for the war. I'm afraid that the ban for Katrina is for a similar purpose. The public doesn't gain anything by having its news sanitized. The news needs to reflect the nasty, pustulating sores of society. Of course, it doesn't need to be sensationalized, just reported on. If seeing the dead turns people's stomachs, well, then, maybe they'll start voting for officials who treat war and the risks of nature a little less glibly. So... KEEP POINTING YOUR GODDAMN FINGERS AND DON'T FUCKING STOP UNTIL THEY'RE ALL GONE!!! Impeached. Resigned. Fired... I don't care. I just want them gone...
To Jon Stewart: Marry me?
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
jeopardy
My son is coming back from camp tomorrow. I haven't seen him in a month, and after he leaves next week, it'll probably be at least another month, he'll have turned 15, and will be allowed to drive in New Mexico. I started looking at his baby pictures (because I just watched a very excellent movie - My Life Without Me - and I got parentally weepy) and was thinking about some of his Zackisms.
One thing I remembered was from maybe 4 years ago when he was 10ish. It was 10pm. Zack, who was supposed to have been asleep 1/2 hour earlier, piped up from his bedroom...
Z: "441,600"
me: "excuse me?"
Z: "441,600... dollars. That's the most anyone can win on Jeopardy."
me: "Go to sleep."
I have no idea if this is right, and frankly, I'm too afraid to check. Now he's almost 15. Soon he will start drinking coffee. The world may not be ready for this.
One thing I remembered was from maybe 4 years ago when he was 10ish. It was 10pm. Zack, who was supposed to have been asleep 1/2 hour earlier, piped up from his bedroom...
Z: "441,600"
me: "excuse me?"
Z: "441,600... dollars. That's the most anyone can win on Jeopardy."
me: "Go to sleep."
I have no idea if this is right, and frankly, I'm too afraid to check. Now he's almost 15. Soon he will start drinking coffee. The world may not be ready for this.
Monday, July 11, 2005
this or that
I don't seem to do anything in moderation. I haven't written in here in MONTHS, haven't been able to write at all, in fact, but suddenly, after 2 cups of coffee and an inability to sleep, every draft post I've picked up I've finished. My only explanation goes back to the introversion thing, now several posts back. I guess I've just let myself get locked up in this lethargy of background processing. It's like the fortune cookie I got years ago (and sealed in a couple of layers of scotch tape and transported from office to office as if my life depended on it, but can now no longer find... sniff...):
"If nothing is pressing, putter around at this or that."
Without the stimulus of excessive work, my brain has just been puttering around, being inefficient at everything, and costing me actual enthusiasm and creativity. I have needed to break the cycle. To just hit the send button and stop overthinking every word I put on paper and let leave my mouth.
So, having cranked out 4 posts in one 2.5 hour period (though I have edited the post times to make it look like it took a 1/2 day because I don't want people to think I'm manic) I have decided that my muse is best taken strong and with a little skim milk.
"If nothing is pressing, putter around at this or that."
Without the stimulus of excessive work, my brain has just been puttering around, being inefficient at everything, and costing me actual enthusiasm and creativity. I have needed to break the cycle. To just hit the send button and stop overthinking every word I put on paper and let leave my mouth.
So, having cranked out 4 posts in one 2.5 hour period (though I have edited the post times to make it look like it took a 1/2 day because I don't want people to think I'm manic) I have decided that my muse is best taken strong and with a little skim milk.
bleeeeeeeeeding
www.strindbergandhelium.com
I'm going to start bleeding today. I'd say "I'll start menstruating today", but aside from it sounding like I was 14 and was about to have a bad day in gym, "menstruating" is one of those impossible words to pronounce, and since I listen in my head when I write, and it's something I always trip over, I just avoid it. It's the combination of the "nstr" consonant block followed immediately by the "ua" dipthong. It's just an awkward word best saved for the awkward time of puberty.
Besides. I'm 40. It's time for me to just fucking bleed, you know?
Too much information. Too bad.
(I have never been all that shy about discussing matters of a personal nature. When I was pregnant with my son, I took a certain pleasure in seeing exactly how far I could push the details of my obstetrician appointments with my fellow grad students. Keep in mind that I was studying astronomy, a field populated by men perhaps not as well-versed in the drama of womanhood as others. I still enjoy saying "mucus plug", or "episiotomy" around certain friends, just for the thrill of the reaction. Hi Elizabeth!)
So, this time last month I was sitting down with some friends, famished, bemoaning a lack of nutritional sodium chloride, (ie, "Please??? doesn't anyone just want some chips?!?") when I added, "I can't wait 'til my period comes so I'm not so damn hungry." My male friends looked at me as if a monkey crawled out of my shirt and sat on my head. "What does that have to do with it?" Leisa, the only other woman at the table, stood by me. "I understood that perfectly. Right before my period I'm starving..." and I added, "...and as soon as it arrives, I could give a shit about food."
The guys just don't buy into even the simple effects of pms. "No way." They refuse to believe that there is a biological cycle that women are subject to, and it amounts to more than just bleeeeeeeding. (Really, you must see the Strindberg and Helium link above to get that.) I'm pretty sure it's because if they admit that something as mundane as hunger can be affected by hormones, then... uh oh... they'll have to acknowledge that the whole emotional bungee jump ride of PMS might just be real.
I admit that on the surface, there's something honorable and anti-narcissistic about stalwartly maintaining that everyone is "just like me". That although we're subject to the whims of our differentiating egos as children, we grow out of thinking we're each the center of the universe and realize that there are other people out there who think and feel just like we do. It's all very Copernican and enlightened to believe that there is nothing unique about our position in the universe. Very seemingly politically correct. But to extrapolate from "nothing unique about our position" to "you can't possibly be different than me" is just silly.
We're about as different as it gets. For example, women, in general, do not understand why men paint themselves bright colors and expose their beer guts in the hope of getting on national TV. Women do not understand why men do not cry at the end of City of Angels (and are not moved to tears even when they play the soundtrack in their car), yet we accept this as part of the odd reality we live in. So, even though you don't understand why once a month we cry, eat, and fuck our way through a week of premenstrual hormones, the least you can do is just accept it.
Failing that, well, just keep your hands away from my french fries.
I'm going to start bleeding today. I'd say "I'll start menstruating today", but aside from it sounding like I was 14 and was about to have a bad day in gym, "menstruating" is one of those impossible words to pronounce, and since I listen in my head when I write, and it's something I always trip over, I just avoid it. It's the combination of the "nstr" consonant block followed immediately by the "ua" dipthong. It's just an awkward word best saved for the awkward time of puberty.
Besides. I'm 40. It's time for me to just fucking bleed, you know?
Too much information. Too bad.
(I have never been all that shy about discussing matters of a personal nature. When I was pregnant with my son, I took a certain pleasure in seeing exactly how far I could push the details of my obstetrician appointments with my fellow grad students. Keep in mind that I was studying astronomy, a field populated by men perhaps not as well-versed in the drama of womanhood as others. I still enjoy saying "mucus plug", or "episiotomy" around certain friends, just for the thrill of the reaction. Hi Elizabeth!)
So, this time last month I was sitting down with some friends, famished, bemoaning a lack of nutritional sodium chloride, (ie, "Please??? doesn't anyone just want some chips?!?") when I added, "I can't wait 'til my period comes so I'm not so damn hungry." My male friends looked at me as if a monkey crawled out of my shirt and sat on my head. "What does that have to do with it?" Leisa, the only other woman at the table, stood by me. "I understood that perfectly. Right before my period I'm starving..." and I added, "...and as soon as it arrives, I could give a shit about food."
The guys just don't buy into even the simple effects of pms. "No way." They refuse to believe that there is a biological cycle that women are subject to, and it amounts to more than just bleeeeeeeding. (Really, you must see the Strindberg and Helium link above to get that.) I'm pretty sure it's because if they admit that something as mundane as hunger can be affected by hormones, then... uh oh... they'll have to acknowledge that the whole emotional bungee jump ride of PMS might just be real.
I admit that on the surface, there's something honorable and anti-narcissistic about stalwartly maintaining that everyone is "just like me". That although we're subject to the whims of our differentiating egos as children, we grow out of thinking we're each the center of the universe and realize that there are other people out there who think and feel just like we do. It's all very Copernican and enlightened to believe that there is nothing unique about our position in the universe. Very seemingly politically correct. But to extrapolate from "nothing unique about our position" to "you can't possibly be different than me" is just silly.
We're about as different as it gets. For example, women, in general, do not understand why men paint themselves bright colors and expose their beer guts in the hope of getting on national TV. Women do not understand why men do not cry at the end of City of Angels (and are not moved to tears even when they play the soundtrack in their car), yet we accept this as part of the odd reality we live in. So, even though you don't understand why once a month we cry, eat, and fuck our way through a week of premenstrual hormones, the least you can do is just accept it.
Failing that, well, just keep your hands away from my french fries.
sales
Speaking of sales people, I'm sure it has not been overlooked by anyone likely to be reading these pages, that on average, the people in the sales and marketing departments of your average, say, software company, are sexier (in the GQ/Cosmo way) and use more hair product than, for instance, those in the development or IT departments. On average! (...and yes, I realize that most people reading these pages are in said development and IT departments, but you guys are sexy in the "I can use 'profligate' in a sentence" way, so calm down...)
What do we think? Any ideas on which is cause and which is effect? Do the beautiful people develop that kind of outgoing personality because they've been fawned over all their lives, and have learned how to get people to do things for them, or do sales departments only hire people who clients will want to spend time in close proximity, then teach them how to sell?
(For what it's worth, with respect to the previous entry's claim that I think so hard about reactions to what I write that I often lock up before I publish it/send it, well, that all goes in the shitter when I've had so much caffeine or alcohol that the impulse side of me takes over. And, yes, I'm totally wired right now. We are unedited and potentially offensive...)
What do we think? Any ideas on which is cause and which is effect? Do the beautiful people develop that kind of outgoing personality because they've been fawned over all their lives, and have learned how to get people to do things for them, or do sales departments only hire people who clients will want to spend time in close proximity, then teach them how to sell?
(For what it's worth, with respect to the previous entry's claim that I think so hard about reactions to what I write that I often lock up before I publish it/send it, well, that all goes in the shitter when I've had so much caffeine or alcohol that the impulse side of me takes over. And, yes, I'm totally wired right now. We are unedited and potentially offensive...)
Sunday, July 10, 2005
the pathology of introversion
If I knew the code to open the Task Manager for my brain, it would show up on my desktop perpetually lit at 100%, like it had spyware all over it. Most of these processes would be background stuff, but sometimes one might be something useful. Like, say I'm trying to figure out what kind of career doesn't require another degree but might make use of my desire to spend all day researching things and then writing about them. If I suddenly decide to take some time out to play a game of Zuma, my brain will still happily cycle in the background, occasionally interrupting my consciousness, looking for a bit of data to fill in some gap, like making me google "private investigator licensing requirements". Eventually it will spit out the answer (investigative reporter? you think?), regardless of what consciousness it might be interrupting. Even if I've moved on from Zuma and have decided to sweep. Or organize my fonts.
It does this constantly. My brain is a speed junkie, and if it can't find the good shit, it'll rummage through the cupboards and find the brain equivalent of outdated, ephedrine-laden diet pills or some dusty vivarin to keep it going. If I don't have it working on anything important, (like when my freelance business is slow), then there's no telling what it's going to chew on.
While I was busy thinking about this, my brain, being bored and not having enough to do, started mulling over another theory. I don't know how other people work, but as I am very conscious of my actions, and hyper-responsible for any possible repercussions I may set off, I don't, in general, do anything without working through a variety of possible reactions and choosing the best possible course. If I'd like to say something to someone, I will go through it in my head, and play both roles of the interaction in as many permutations as time allows. When I write email that requires diplomacy, I sometimes will edit for hours just to make sure I neither offend or instigate with my words.
Now, you might already have put these two volatile brain activities together and made the same discovery that I did. When my brain is both undertaxed and preparing for a human interaction, it sometimes just locks up for hours. With nothing else to do but calculate an endless variety of possible outcomes to an endless variety of possible inputs, it will crank away like that computer in Wargames without a Ctrl-Alt-Del in sight. Phone calls I might make go no further than my sitting in a trance with my finger hovering over "call". Emails I might send sit on my desktop in a state of perpetual editation [sic]. The dark side of being thoughtful is apparently being paralyzed.
And, as you might imagine, this becomes even more troubling when I am suddenly thrust out of my comfy 24x7 one-person life and pressed into a real-time conversation with someone. It might, in fact, explain my introversion, and why it gets worse when my work is slow. (It also might go a long way towards explaining why some of the most extroverted people I know - sales guys - don't seem to be troubled by an excess of thinking... hm...)
Anyway, the fact that my brain has spent so much time hypothesizing tells you how bad things are. I need more to occupy my time, and evidently, I really need to get out of my house. Looks like it's time once again for the palliative job search.
sigh.
It does this constantly. My brain is a speed junkie, and if it can't find the good shit, it'll rummage through the cupboards and find the brain equivalent of outdated, ephedrine-laden diet pills or some dusty vivarin to keep it going. If I don't have it working on anything important, (like when my freelance business is slow), then there's no telling what it's going to chew on.
While I was busy thinking about this, my brain, being bored and not having enough to do, started mulling over another theory. I don't know how other people work, but as I am very conscious of my actions, and hyper-responsible for any possible repercussions I may set off, I don't, in general, do anything without working through a variety of possible reactions and choosing the best possible course. If I'd like to say something to someone, I will go through it in my head, and play both roles of the interaction in as many permutations as time allows. When I write email that requires diplomacy, I sometimes will edit for hours just to make sure I neither offend or instigate with my words.
Now, you might already have put these two volatile brain activities together and made the same discovery that I did. When my brain is both undertaxed and preparing for a human interaction, it sometimes just locks up for hours. With nothing else to do but calculate an endless variety of possible outcomes to an endless variety of possible inputs, it will crank away like that computer in Wargames without a Ctrl-Alt-Del in sight. Phone calls I might make go no further than my sitting in a trance with my finger hovering over "call". Emails I might send sit on my desktop in a state of perpetual editation [sic]. The dark side of being thoughtful is apparently being paralyzed.
And, as you might imagine, this becomes even more troubling when I am suddenly thrust out of my comfy 24x7 one-person life and pressed into a real-time conversation with someone. It might, in fact, explain my introversion, and why it gets worse when my work is slow. (It also might go a long way towards explaining why some of the most extroverted people I know - sales guys - don't seem to be troubled by an excess of thinking... hm...)
Anyway, the fact that my brain has spent so much time hypothesizing tells you how bad things are. I need more to occupy my time, and evidently, I really need to get out of my house. Looks like it's time once again for the palliative job search.
sigh.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
pooooooooooooooooope!!!!
Well, the pope died. No surprises there, but the whole process has nonetheless been kind of sad, even for a non-practicing Jew/born-again atheist like me. Partly because ol' JP wasn't a bad guy, and it's hard to watch a nice old man get older and more frail, particularly when he wields wicked-awesome global power. Partly because I remember being 13 and watching his white smoke fart up a Vatican chimney, and because it happened when I was 13 and the center of the universe, he's sort of been "my" pope. But, it's mostly sad because "Is the pope Polish?" had such a fine lyrical quality to it. It just seems so hard to believe it's no longer a functional tautology. Next thing you know, bears will be asking for the restroom keys at the Klondike Kwik-E Mart. Then what?
I was having problems sleeping tonight, so I sought out the Ambien of online news - I started browsing the bios of the top ranked Cardinals in line for the throne. I have to admit, having had zero interest in the papacy during my pre-adolescence, and having only limited political interest ever since, I seem to have let JP define the role for me in its entirety. I am at the point where I can simply not imagine there being a pope from Colombia. Particularly from that well known little Archdiocese of Medellin. (Tho' "Does the pope smoke dope?" has a ring to it...) I will admit that I'm quite fond of the idea of a third-world pope from, say, Africa, or Honduras. Distributing political power this way seems a little more equitable to whatever socialist leanings I may have, but it still feels somehow wrong.
I'm also not sure about this age thing. As far as my brain is concerned, the pope is old and crooked and little and white-haired. "Date-worthy" should not be a papal attribute. Yet, while browsing the bios, I stopped at not one, but two separate pictures and said to myself, "hm... not bad..." Someone please smack me. This is the New York Times, not People! I don't typically go through the Business section shopping for hotties, so what am I doing on the pope beat thinking "Well, the Honduran guy's pretty dishy. The Austrian looks a little accountant-y, but I'd have a drink with him..." With the very notable exception of Gabriel Byrne playing a priest in Stigmata, holy men are typically Not My Type. What's the deal? The only thing I could defend myself with is that compared to JP, these guys are (relatively) young and virile. And, they both have the chance to become one of the most powerful men in the world. Power is always sexy. Even in a celibate body. Right?
As sort of an aside, I feel compelled to note that the French guy looks a little like Kerry. While I like the idea of having a "Freedom Pope" I don't see him standing a really good chance. I say this because he was born to Jewish parents, and I bet he gets picked apart for flip-flopping.
Anyway, I'm going to go to sleep now. I should have gone to bed earlier, but I couldn't ignore my first motivation to write in months. I think, maybe, I've just missed having an electoral process to bitch about...
I was having problems sleeping tonight, so I sought out the Ambien of online news - I started browsing the bios of the top ranked Cardinals in line for the throne. I have to admit, having had zero interest in the papacy during my pre-adolescence, and having only limited political interest ever since, I seem to have let JP define the role for me in its entirety. I am at the point where I can simply not imagine there being a pope from Colombia. Particularly from that well known little Archdiocese of Medellin. (Tho' "Does the pope smoke dope?" has a ring to it...) I will admit that I'm quite fond of the idea of a third-world pope from, say, Africa, or Honduras. Distributing political power this way seems a little more equitable to whatever socialist leanings I may have, but it still feels somehow wrong.
I'm also not sure about this age thing. As far as my brain is concerned, the pope is old and crooked and little and white-haired. "Date-worthy" should not be a papal attribute. Yet, while browsing the bios, I stopped at not one, but two separate pictures and said to myself, "hm... not bad..." Someone please smack me. This is the New York Times, not People! I don't typically go through the Business section shopping for hotties, so what am I doing on the pope beat thinking "Well, the Honduran guy's pretty dishy. The Austrian looks a little accountant-y, but I'd have a drink with him..." With the very notable exception of Gabriel Byrne playing a priest in Stigmata, holy men are typically Not My Type. What's the deal? The only thing I could defend myself with is that compared to JP, these guys are (relatively) young and virile. And, they both have the chance to become one of the most powerful men in the world. Power is always sexy. Even in a celibate body. Right?
As sort of an aside, I feel compelled to note that the French guy looks a little like Kerry. While I like the idea of having a "Freedom Pope" I don't see him standing a really good chance. I say this because he was born to Jewish parents, and I bet he gets picked apart for flip-flopping.
Anyway, I'm going to go to sleep now. I should have gone to bed earlier, but I couldn't ignore my first motivation to write in months. I think, maybe, I've just missed having an electoral process to bitch about...
Friday, February 18, 2005
storytelling 101
My son called me the other night. This was approximately my conversation with him.
Z: Hi mom. I broke my hand.
Me: What? How?
Z: I slammed into a parked car.
Zack tells stories backwards, and only if you pull them out of him.
Me: Ok, what exactly were you doing when you slammed into the parked car?
Z: Thinking about a girl in my physics class. I wasn't really paying attention.
Me: No. WHAT WERE YOU DOING?!?!?
Z: Riding my bike. But, it was parked illegally.
Me: AAAA!! So, you don't have to watch out for cars that are parked illegally?
Z: I think she likes me.
Oh, lord. Hormones are worse than alcohol. Teenaged boys should not be allowed to operate vehicles of any sort. I still don't get how you break your hand hitting a parked truck.
Z: Yeah. So, the tailgate bent the front fork of my by 60 degr----
Me: Wait a minute. You hit the BACK of a truck? Full on?!?? And somehow a parked truck RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU escaped your attention?!??!
Z: Well, I told you it was parked illegally. At least I don't have to pay anything. She said I was different than the other boys in the class.
Me: Well, that's good. That's quite a complement from a 16 year old girl.
She's a junior. he's just a freshman. this *does* impress me. But, c'mon, the truck was PARKED.
Z: Yeah, and I landed in the bed.
Me: WAIT WAIT WAIT... You hit it so hard you FLIPPED YOUR BIKE OVER ATAILGATE AND INTO THE BED OF A TRUCK!?!??!?
Z: Yeah. The tailgate's pushed in like 6 inches.
Me: [pause. reviewing my mental image...] Was anyone taking video of this?
I'm sure I would be feeling more maternal and less amused if I had to spend the day in the emergency room with him, but this image is priceless.
Me: ...'cos I'm thinkin' that America's Funniest home videos would pay for it... So, I should be amazed that you only broke your hand, right?
Z: You should be amazed that I flipped over a tailgate.
Me: Yes, well, should I be amazed that you didn't break lots of things?
Z: Uh, yep.
I love my son more than anything. But, there are times when I'm glad his hormone riddled body now lives with his dad.
And, for god's sake, someone teach the boy how to tell a story...
Z: Hi mom. I broke my hand.
Me: What? How?
Z: I slammed into a parked car.
Zack tells stories backwards, and only if you pull them out of him.
Me: Ok, what exactly were you doing when you slammed into the parked car?
Z: Thinking about a girl in my physics class. I wasn't really paying attention.
Me: No. WHAT WERE YOU DOING?!?!?
Z: Riding my bike. But, it was parked illegally.
Me: AAAA!! So, you don't have to watch out for cars that are parked illegally?
Z: I think she likes me.
Oh, lord. Hormones are worse than alcohol. Teenaged boys should not be allowed to operate vehicles of any sort. I still don't get how you break your hand hitting a parked truck.
Z: Yeah. So, the tailgate bent the front fork of my by 60 degr----
Me: Wait a minute. You hit the BACK of a truck? Full on?!?? And somehow a parked truck RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU escaped your attention?!??!
Z: Well, I told you it was parked illegally. At least I don't have to pay anything. She said I was different than the other boys in the class.
Me: Well, that's good. That's quite a complement from a 16 year old girl.
She's a junior. he's just a freshman. this *does* impress me. But, c'mon, the truck was PARKED.
Z: Yeah, and I landed in the bed.
Me: WAIT WAIT WAIT... You hit it so hard you FLIPPED YOUR BIKE OVER A
Z: Yeah. The tailgate's pushed in like 6 inches.
Me: [pause. reviewing my mental image...] Was anyone taking video of this?
I'm sure I would be feeling more maternal and less amused if I had to spend the day in the emergency room with him, but this image is priceless.
Me: ...'cos I'm thinkin' that America's Funniest home videos would pay for it... So, I should be amazed that you only broke your hand, right?
Z: You should be amazed that I flipped over a tailgate.
Me: Yes, well, should I be amazed that you didn't break lots of things?
Z: Uh, yep.
I love my son more than anything. But, there are times when I'm glad his hormone riddled body now lives with his dad.
And, for god's sake, someone teach the boy how to tell a story...
Thursday, December 16, 2004
purple morning
It's 5:30am. I am up for some unspecific reason, possibly related to my sudden, and jarring, lack of sleepiness. For the second morning in a row, my eyes are gluey with irritation, and in trying to pinpoint a cause for my morning optic goopiness, I discovered that my brain's metaphoric center is communicating in a manner that's so beyond purple, it's damn near ultraviolet.
An example:
"My only conclusion was that my eye irritation was caused by the space heater, which was slowly sucking in every speck of dust in the air, funneling it through the glowing spring of the heating element, and sending a jet-stream of micro charcoal briquets hurtling at my unsuspecting corneas."
The purple grew as I realized that "this was perhaps the only time I would ever miss my second ex-husband, a vacuumer so devoted that it made me wonder if perhaps the DSM-IV shouldn't add another tell to the classic triad of sociopathy. You know, bed-wetting, animal torture, pyromania, and obsessively manic vacuuming."
My mind quickly bled out of the visible spectrum. "To truly do the dust-clogged carpet justice, though, it would have to be lifted at a corner, pulled from its barbed border with a satisfying zip, and thrown over a clothesline where it could be beaten mercilessly by an alabaster skinned southern woman, whose exertion in the oppressive heat of the afternoon provoked a glow of pink to her cheeks and beads of sweat to her forehead, only to be wiped away by a delicately bony wrist - a move so evocative that it caused more than one 13 year old boy to bring his baseball glove defensively to the front of his shorts."
To be fair, I'm not sure that my brain actually woke up like this. Sure, it may have been interrupted during REM sleep, a veritable petri-dish of metaphor creation, but I think it was just susceptible to the first thing it read when it realized it wasn't going back to sleep quickly:
Subject: Contemporary path to diminish mass!
My pills is an innovative grease-adhere accessory which
removes fat from the nourishment we gorge!
Devised with the strong grease-sticking fiber,
the blend of all-biological multipliers...
Subject: Identical specific --- bitty cost!
Ask for pharmaceuticals straight from
FDA approved factory-owner in Bharat.
Conserve up to 95% on indian specific.
and, of course, my favorite:
Subject: Bask the living with Someone Increment Hormone
After the 25 years, your body tardily desists executes
a significant hormone known as Somebody Increment Internal Secretion.
The step-down of it, which regulates levels of another internal secretions
in the organic structure is immediately liable for all of the largest
general markings of eld, such as furrows, light hair,
abated power, and vitiated sexual function.
After the effort of translating "Somebody Increment Internal Secretion" into "Human Growth Hormone" you could hardly blame my brain from drifting off into its early morning thesaurus-like meanderings.
But, for what it's worth, I also got junk mail from the Spay-Neuter Assistance Program this morning. I, for one, am glad that my brain didn't choose to go off on a rant about "Cancun hosts a Spay Camp for Thanksgiving"...
(Ok, just one: I think it would have been a much funnier headline if it was "Spring Break" instead of "Thanksgiving", but that's just me...)
I'm going back to bed.
An example:
"My only conclusion was that my eye irritation was caused by the space heater, which was slowly sucking in every speck of dust in the air, funneling it through the glowing spring of the heating element, and sending a jet-stream of micro charcoal briquets hurtling at my unsuspecting corneas."
The purple grew as I realized that "this was perhaps the only time I would ever miss my second ex-husband, a vacuumer so devoted that it made me wonder if perhaps the DSM-IV shouldn't add another tell to the classic triad of sociopathy. You know, bed-wetting, animal torture, pyromania, and obsessively manic vacuuming."
My mind quickly bled out of the visible spectrum. "To truly do the dust-clogged carpet justice, though, it would have to be lifted at a corner, pulled from its barbed border with a satisfying zip, and thrown over a clothesline where it could be beaten mercilessly by an alabaster skinned southern woman, whose exertion in the oppressive heat of the afternoon provoked a glow of pink to her cheeks and beads of sweat to her forehead, only to be wiped away by a delicately bony wrist - a move so evocative that it caused more than one 13 year old boy to bring his baseball glove defensively to the front of his shorts."
To be fair, I'm not sure that my brain actually woke up like this. Sure, it may have been interrupted during REM sleep, a veritable petri-dish of metaphor creation, but I think it was just susceptible to the first thing it read when it realized it wasn't going back to sleep quickly:
Subject: Contemporary path to diminish mass!
My pills is an innovative grease-adhere accessory which
removes fat from the nourishment we gorge!
Devised with the strong grease-sticking fiber,
the blend of all-biological multipliers...
Subject: Identical specific --- bitty cost!
Ask for pharmaceuticals straight from
FDA approved factory-owner in Bharat.
Conserve up to 95% on indian specific.
and, of course, my favorite:
Subject: Bask the living with Someone Increment Hormone
After the 25 years, your body tardily desists executes
a significant hormone known as Somebody Increment Internal Secretion.
The step-down of it, which regulates levels of another internal secretions
in the organic structure is immediately liable for all of the largest
general markings of eld, such as furrows, light hair,
abated power, and vitiated sexual function.
After the effort of translating "Somebody Increment Internal Secretion" into "Human Growth Hormone" you could hardly blame my brain from drifting off into its early morning thesaurus-like meanderings.
But, for what it's worth, I also got junk mail from the Spay-Neuter Assistance Program this morning. I, for one, am glad that my brain didn't choose to go off on a rant about "Cancun hosts a Spay Camp for Thanksgiving"...
(Ok, just one: I think it would have been a much funnier headline if it was "Spring Break" instead of "Thanksgiving", but that's just me...)
I'm going back to bed.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
quantum card
If I said that I once had a cat named Schroedinger, dressed my son as Captain Entropy for his first Halloween, and have sung in a group called the Lager Rhythms, it would probably come as no surprise that I am sometimes hard-pressed to find an appreciative audience for my conversation - particularly among customer service representatives.
I had another chance to prove this just the other day. Having charged my way through the periodic table, I apparently broke out into the realm of 20th century financial physics. The opportunity on my lap was a chance to upgrade my Platinum MasterCard to – get this – a Quantum Card.
The 1-800 number put me through to Chad, an enthusiastic, but otherwise canonical, customer service guy. Chad was not prepared for me.
“A Quantum Card? But I wasn’t finished with the elements yet! I’ve got Platinum and Titanium, but what about the Ytterbium Card? Where did my Molybdenum Card go? How about the poor, neglected Vanadium Card?”
Chad tried. “Well, ma’am, the Quantum card offers many benefits that…”
But I was on a roll. “And, really, don’t you think jumping straight to a Quantum Card is a pretty big transition? I’m not sure I have the energy for it.”
“Well, ma’am, all I need from you is your address and mother’s mai-…” He still wasn’t quite working with me.
“So, with a Quantum card, am I only allowed to spend whole dollars?”
“Ma’am?”
“Or, am I restricted to very tiny purchases?”
“Well, no, like with any other credit card… Um. Wait. I don’t think I understa-…”
“Don’t worry about it, Chad. Let’s just get me all signed me up. I clearly won’t know what the benefits and restrictions are until I see the darn thing anyway.”
“Um. Ok. So, can I have your address now?”
Poor Chad.
While I’m certainly overjoyed that I’ve reached the level of financial stability where my credit rating demands a Nobel nomenclature, I’m still left pondering one of the great mysteries of modern science: What, if anything, comes after the Quantum Card?
For what it’s worth to the credit companies, I’ve come up with some ideas:
o The Heisenberg Card: Don’t give this card to your spouse. You can know where he’s spending, or how much he’s spending, but not both.
o Big Bang Card: Don’t give this card to your spouse either. Initial spending tends to be fast and furious and there’s no obvious credit limit. On the bright side, the background APR sticks around 3% regardless of inflation.
o Pauli Exclusion Card: This card will not tolerate the presence of another MasterCard in your wallet, but will coexist with Visa, Discover or American Express.
o Ideal Gas Card: If your running balance always fills your available credit limit, this is the card for you. It’s also good for Premium Unleaded.
o Zeno’s Paradox Card – This card requires advanced cash management skills, as you’ll need to pay off exactly one half of your remaining balance each month.
I suspect that cards such as the Dark Matter Card and the Black Hole Card would be too much trouble to implement, simply because they’d be too hard to find in your wallet. The Entropy Card and Brownian Motion Card would have their own problems as well, mostly in just trying to get them to swipe through the machines properly. But even so, this list is just the beginning of what I consider to be a great leap in credit card science.
So, while I’m waiting to get my Grand Unified Theory Card, I’ll stay excited about my Quantum Card. I just wish there were some out-of-work physicists they could hire to man the customer service lines. I desperately need a better audience than Chad.
(I'm looking for a nice place to send this one. Anyone got any ideas? Smithsonian "Last Page" turned it down... It seemed so *right* for them, too...)
I had another chance to prove this just the other day. Having charged my way through the periodic table, I apparently broke out into the realm of 20th century financial physics. The opportunity on my lap was a chance to upgrade my Platinum MasterCard to – get this – a Quantum Card.
The 1-800 number put me through to Chad, an enthusiastic, but otherwise canonical, customer service guy. Chad was not prepared for me.
“A Quantum Card? But I wasn’t finished with the elements yet! I’ve got Platinum and Titanium, but what about the Ytterbium Card? Where did my Molybdenum Card go? How about the poor, neglected Vanadium Card?”
Chad tried. “Well, ma’am, the Quantum card offers many benefits that…”
But I was on a roll. “And, really, don’t you think jumping straight to a Quantum Card is a pretty big transition? I’m not sure I have the energy for it.”
“Well, ma’am, all I need from you is your address and mother’s mai-…” He still wasn’t quite working with me.
“So, with a Quantum card, am I only allowed to spend whole dollars?”
“Ma’am?”
“Or, am I restricted to very tiny purchases?”
“Well, no, like with any other credit card… Um. Wait. I don’t think I understa-…”
“Don’t worry about it, Chad. Let’s just get me all signed me up. I clearly won’t know what the benefits and restrictions are until I see the darn thing anyway.”
“Um. Ok. So, can I have your address now?”
Poor Chad.
While I’m certainly overjoyed that I’ve reached the level of financial stability where my credit rating demands a Nobel nomenclature, I’m still left pondering one of the great mysteries of modern science: What, if anything, comes after the Quantum Card?
For what it’s worth to the credit companies, I’ve come up with some ideas:
o The Heisenberg Card: Don’t give this card to your spouse. You can know where he’s spending, or how much he’s spending, but not both.
o Big Bang Card: Don’t give this card to your spouse either. Initial spending tends to be fast and furious and there’s no obvious credit limit. On the bright side, the background APR sticks around 3% regardless of inflation.
o Pauli Exclusion Card: This card will not tolerate the presence of another MasterCard in your wallet, but will coexist with Visa, Discover or American Express.
o Ideal Gas Card: If your running balance always fills your available credit limit, this is the card for you. It’s also good for Premium Unleaded.
o Zeno’s Paradox Card – This card requires advanced cash management skills, as you’ll need to pay off exactly one half of your remaining balance each month.
I suspect that cards such as the Dark Matter Card and the Black Hole Card would be too much trouble to implement, simply because they’d be too hard to find in your wallet. The Entropy Card and Brownian Motion Card would have their own problems as well, mostly in just trying to get them to swipe through the machines properly. But even so, this list is just the beginning of what I consider to be a great leap in credit card science.
So, while I’m waiting to get my Grand Unified Theory Card, I’ll stay excited about my Quantum Card. I just wish there were some out-of-work physicists they could hire to man the customer service lines. I desperately need a better audience than Chad.
(I'm looking for a nice place to send this one. Anyone got any ideas? Smithsonian "Last Page" turned it down... It seemed so *right* for them, too...)
Thursday, November 04, 2004
you're kidding me, right?
I have been waiting for this day for months. When I can stop thinking about what might happen, and start thinking about what will happen. This, however, is not the scenario I had in mind...
I have lots to say on the subject. Right now I happen to have a few too many Miller Lites in me to express it even remotely well, so I'll let my 14 year old son have a say for a minute, since he's not old enough to either drink or vote. Sadly, in the latter case...
'Twill be a dark day when the strength of this nation falters.
That day has come at last and it is indeed dark.
As I search for a Quote that accurately describes this tragic downfall
I find a word
"how?"
As for the people that made this apocalypse a reality
They do not know the likely punishment they are to get,
But it will come and come hard as it should.
And we will accept it with all due grace
Though none may be due
My boy makes me proud. Love you kiddo...
I have lots to say on the subject. Right now I happen to have a few too many Miller Lites in me to express it even remotely well, so I'll let my 14 year old son have a say for a minute, since he's not old enough to either drink or vote. Sadly, in the latter case...
'Twill be a dark day when the strength of this nation falters.
That day has come at last and it is indeed dark.
As I search for a Quote that accurately describes this tragic downfall
I find a word
"how?"
As for the people that made this apocalypse a reality
They do not know the likely punishment they are to get,
But it will come and come hard as it should.
And we will accept it with all due grace
Though none may be due
My boy makes me proud. Love you kiddo...
Sunday, October 31, 2004
yogi yogurt yurt
I was in Whole Foods today buying, I don't know, sprouts or something, and there was this guy behind me in the checkout line who looked SO much like the stereotypical yogi/mountaintop guru - wizened Indian features, long graying stringy hair, long long long long white beard, skinnier than Kate Moss. In his basket he had a small head of lettuce, some parsley and something else that would leave a rabbit hungry. Probably plain yogurt, or a radish. He had the most contented peaceful smile on his face, like he understood the mysteries of the universe, but he looked so out of place in the huge market. Then he reached across the conveyor belt and grabbed the biggest, most expensive hunk of chocolate I've ever seen. Fucker probably went to Starbucks afterwards...
What a disappointment...
What a disappointment...
a penchant for bubble wrap
I remember when I was 4 years old. Like most kids my age, I was starting to ask questions about where I came from. Unlike most kids my age, though, the answer I got was not “you came from your mommy’s tummy”, but rather “mommy and daddy chose you, so you’re special.” My brother, I knew, came from my mommy’s tummy, but me, I got chosen. The word was “adopted”, but “chosen” seemed an adequate explanation at the time. In fact, I bought it hook, line, and sinker. What did I know from biology? I was 4 and I was chosen. End of story.
The problem with early memories is that they become a part of your personal myth, and once there, they don’t ever really leave. While most children’s personal myths are built on a pretty strong cause-and-effect relationship between their parents and their existence, my myth swam in a sort of creation limbo. Arising from having been “chosen”, the creation part of my personal myth skips the whole manufacturing process and starts off way in the consumer end of things. My birth wasn’t biological; it was administrative. There is no room in my myth for actually being born. Of course I grew up knowing that sex was the actual cause of babies. And logically I know that I was the result of a special sperm/ova mambo, and that I emerged from some woman’s womb all wet and whiny like everyone else. But, well below the radar of my own rationale floats this feeling, this undercurrent of myth, which I suppose, if pressed, I would claim has me emerging out of a shipping box. I was not born. I simply arrived. Now that I think about it, it might, in fact, explain my penchant for bubble wrap…
I love my adoptive family. Yes we’re dysfunctional like all good families are, and yes we have our differences and arguments, but I love my family. I have been well provided for, I have been educated to excess, I have been loved. What more can a child ask for?
But then there’s that nagging box issue.
Like most things in my personal myth, the “Federal Express - signed, sealed, delivered” birth process doesn’t hound me on a day-to-day basis. I work, I play, I raise children, I live, and I love without nearly ever dwelling on the fact that I know absolutely nothing about my birth. But, every once in a while, it does poke up into my consciousness:
Stranger: “Your son’s so cute, does he look like your side of the family?”
Me: “??”
Friend: “You have such beautiful straight, blonde hair. You must be Scandinavian.”
Me: “??”
Teacher: “Tell the class where your family is from.”Me: “Well, uh, the people I grew up with came from Russia, but, uh…”
Teacher: “Don’t you know where you came from?”
Me: “??”
Doc: “So, do you have a history of heart disease?”
Me: “History?”
History. That really sums it up. I have no history. Though it’s not something I do all the time, on the off chance I think of my life in terms of the history of all mankind, I’m honestly left with the image of my ancestry as nothing more than that box. In a drawing, the box would be represented by an X, and labeled “Start here”. Time only moves forward from the box, not backward. It’s important to understand that this is neither a bad image nor a good image. The “UPS guy as creator” personal myth does not negatively affect my psyche in any overt way. Having no history has always felt, just, normal.
But what happens when a history-free person suddenly realizes that she has a history? That she didn’t just come out of a box? When suddenly the faded lines of an ancestry pop up on that little drawing on the worn little piece of paper where none were before? If having no history feels normal, and has felt normal her whole life, how does suddenly having a history feel?
When I tell this story to non-adoptees, they look at me like they’re waiting for something important that I’ve left out. “So? You have a history. Big deal. You’ve always known you’ve had one, why are you acting so surprised?”
To keep myself from shrieking, I tell them a little story.
One morning as you dry off after your shower, you scratch at that annoying little flap of skin under your arm that’s always bothered you. It’s bothering you so much now that you pick at it, and in doing so you loosen it enough to be able to lift it up. Cautiously, you pull on it harder. A feather pokes out. Several others follow. “What the…? Where did this…?” How could it be that for 37 years you haven’t noticed this? What is this? Oh my god…it’s a wing. Or wings!??! Frantically you reach around to the other side, scrabble around that other always-tender area, and… sure enough, you have a pair.
Dreamlike, you pull on them, one at a time, and they stretch to an astonishing span. They don’t unfold easily, but rather reluctantly, like opening an old baseball mitt that’s been lying in the attic after decades of disuse. You feel with a twang the muscles attached to them fight back against the settling of time, but you still feel them! They really are your muscles! Though you can feel them, you don’t know how to control them.
Thoughts start to zip around your head like electrons in orbit: Can I fly? How does it work? Will I be able to swoop? Glide? Who will teach me? Will I just sort of know how? Where on earth am I going to buy shirts now? Do I really want people to know? What will I do if I can’t ever use them? Why didn’t I discover this sooner? Am I too late? Why me? Am I a freak? Are there more people like me?
Then come the emotions: an overwhelming, uncontrollable and unimaginable grief for the possible loss of something you never even knew you had, a feeling of joy at this thrilling discovery, a trembling fear that a suddenly unclear future would cloud a happy, if relatively uneventful past.
The past! You remember with a rush all those flying dreams you used to have and how you never understood them, but they always left you aching for something. You remember always believing as a child that you could fly, but with a sharp pain you remember no one else believing you, and then hollowly, you remember how one day you stopped believing yourself. You suddenly understand those childish dreams, and you weep for the child who gave up believing.
In your epiphany, you sit down. A cool chill flows over your skin. A peculiar clarity settles in and you feel like you could understand anything in this one moment. There really is a reason you feel and think the way you do. Maybe you never understood it before, but you’re filled with hope that now, maybe, you’ve got a chance to figure it all out…
Growing up adopted, without a history, is like growing up without wings. You may feel like you’re missing something, but since nothing you do as an adult depends on having wings, you’ve managed so far without them. It’s not bad, it’s not good; it’s just how it is. How can you miss something you never really had?
A few years ago, though, things changed. Back then, as part of my search for my birth parents, I requested my “non-identifying” information from the agency that handled my adoption. This was advertised to be all the information they had on my birth family except for names and addresses. I didn’t expect much. Eye and hair color, height and weight, general physical health of my birth mother. Maybe they’d have written down her religious background, and if I was lucky some bit of her heritage.
It arrived in the mail a week or so later, and what I got shook my world. When I read the THREE PAGES of history I received, my reaction was as basic and visceral as if I’d I discovered I had a set of wings this whole time. HISTORY!! I had a HISTORY!!! AND IT SEEMS I ALWAYS DID!!
My blonde hair and blue eyes weren’t just features listed on the side of my box, like shoe size and color labels adorning a box of Nike’s. Those features were imported directly and legitimately from Sweden! My 5’1” height turns out not to be completely caused by some undercover smoking during my formative years, but was rather doomed from the start with a 5’3” birthmother, a 5’7” birthfather, a 5’4” grandmother, a 5’8” grandfather, a 5’1” other grandmother, a 5’4” other grandfather, and I won’t go into the great-grandparents, but let’s just say that I had bad news for my son about his basketball career.
It turns out that the fact that I enjoy singing isn’t completely random, but might instead be related to the news that my birth mother’s entire family has musical talent, and most of them sang (in choirs! I bet they ate Wonder Bread, too!) The educational earnestness displayed by my 9 years of grad school (I wasn’t slow, ok? That was two different degrees, two different schools…) goes back a long way in my ancestry. Both maternal grandparents had masters’ degrees, one in engineering, and one in teaching. At least 3 great-grandparents had college degrees, one was an English professor and one was my 5’2” blonde/blue great-grandmother who would have been 22 at the turn of the century! (You go, girl!). Not only did I suddenly feel genetically excused for my academic addiction of chasing science and engineering degrees that I would eventually never finish, but I felt a surge of strength for my conviction to take on this completely orthogonal career of writing! At the age of 37 I waded into a huge gene pool of role models!!
Then there’s my birthfather. Born of tiny blond-haired, blue-eyed, Jewish parents in 1946 Germany, he has a story that immediately prompts more questions than I’d already collected on my own. No longer was it just “what do they look like, and where are they from?” but rather it was “Were they camp survivors? Had they been hidden? Did they manage to slide under the radar because of their fair coloring? How many Jews were left in Germany in 1946?” Though being raised Jewish meant that I’d been fed a huge amount of Holocaust history throughout my life, I suddenly had a connection to it. It’s always had meaning for me, but now it has meaning for me. I don’t just want to learn about the era, I want to learn about the people. More specifically, these people. My ancestors.
My wings were suddenly and truly aching to fly, but not only were they atrophied and weak, I didn't know if I’d ever make them work! I knew my history existed, but it wasn't within my reach! I felt like I’d been given the first chapter of a riveting book, and didn't know where to find the rest! I apologize for all the exclamation marks but my every thought was wound so tight it flew out as if from a catapult! I can’t remember when I’d ever been that excited about anything and that frustrated about not being able to get it!
Though it seems like I should have had enough history to keep me satisfied for awhile, it wasn't enough at all. All I really had were these few clues. A tease. No names, no locations. I wanted more. I still want more. But the courts in my birth-state have determined that I’m not allowed to be given the names of my birthparents. I’m not allowed to see my original birth certificate. I’m not allowed to look into the court records that finalized my adoption. Though it might seem like it would, this doesn’t make me angry. Frustrated, yes, but not angry. I do understand that the court is in a difficult ethical position. It has to weigh a child’s right to elemental information about himself with the birthparents' right to privacy, and the adoptive parents' right to feel confident that the child they’ve come to love won’t be taken from them months later by birthparents who’ve changed their minds. Of course, there is one member of this little legal group that goes into court that fateful day without representation, and she is the adult who the child grows up to be. The courts make their decisions in the “best interest of the child”, but as an adult, I would rather have the ability to decide what's in my own best interest, and in that, the courts have tied my hands.
So, how far would I fly if I could use these newly discovered wings to their potential? Would I fly over my birthfamily’s heads and watch what they were doing and learn about them from a distance? Would I perch in their trees and listen to their lives up close? Would I peck at them every time they came out the door demanding their attention, waiting to be fed and expecting their welcome? Would I caw to all their neighbors and relatives to announce my arrival? Though “the best interest of the child” is the catch-phrase most often bandied about at the time of the adoption, it’s most often the fear of invasion, exposure of secrets, and the disruption of the other party’s life that prevents the courts from overturning old decisions and opening records for adult adoptees. Yes, anecdotal evidence is often cited of adoptees who would harass birthfamilies, but they are, in fact, in the minority.
When I started my search, I was only looking for information. Medical history, ancestry, ethnicity, genetic predispositions… Now that I’ve had a taste of the history, I want the stories. I don’t want to disrupt or invade, but I admit that I would like to meet these people. I have two uncles and a birthfather who all reached majority in the mid-sixties. Did they get called up to fight in Viet Nam? Did they survive? Did my birthmother finish school? Do I have half-siblings out there? Cousins? What are they all doing now? To get my records opened, I would have to petition the courts and prove that I had a “need” to know, but I don’t have a need to know. I will survive as I have always done without this knowledge. But I do have a desire. It’s a deep-core, elemental desire to learn the stories of the people I came from.
Time will tell. I’ll keep looking, and maybe they’re looking too. Meanwhile, though, I’m just glad I’m putting a dent in that personal myth of mine. I’m glad I no longer have to believe that I appeared out of nowhere in a shipping container marked “fragile”. On the other hand, I don't think I'll ever get over my penchant for bubble wrap.
(Thanks to Leisa for reminding me about this piece that has also never really seen the light of day...)
Monday, October 18, 2004
experiencing operating difficulties
Communication is a fairly sensitive system. Developing a language that is understood by all, learning to deliver that language understandably, and interpreting the reception of the language consistently. Already that's a lot of delicate balance required.
And, then there's the nuance:
Like, the email written with the half-jest, whole-earnest jibe, followed by a ;) to imply "I'm just teasing, but I would really like you to reconsider how 'cute' it is to piss off every waitress you come in contact with..."
Or, the verbal assault by your boss which is followed with the abuser's creed, "No one can make you feel shamed..." implying that he can say anything he wants, and is above reproach for your resulting feelings, so deal with it, he's the boss.
Or, the half punch on the arm delivered by a sixth grade boy to a sixth grade girl... ahh... we all know what that means...
I *get* all that stuff. Over time, you learn to interpret the nuance. You learn that communication follows more than one path, and it takes practice to learn how to express yourself in a way that's globally understood, and to gather information from more than just the spoken or written words.
Which makes me wonder, WHAT EXACTLY IS WILLIAM SAFIRE SMOKING? He's old enough to have figured all this stuff out, isn't he? He's the original Mr. Language Person, forgodssake! HOW, then, HOW can he have listened to Edwards and Kerry talk about Cheney's daughter and have gotten *this* out of it:
The memoir about the Kerry-Edwards campaign that will be the best seller will reveal the debate rehearsal aimed at focusing national attention on the fact that Vice President Cheney has a daughter who is a lesbian.
That this twice-delivered low blow was deliberate is indisputable. The first shot was taken by John Edwards, seizing a moderator's opening to smarmily compliment the Cheneys for loving their openly gay daughter, Mary. The vice president thanked him and yielded the remaining 80 seconds of his time; obviously it was not a diversion he was willing to prolong.
I'm thinkin' here that Occam's Razor might be useful to apply. I have a hard time imagining the Kerry Edwards prep-squad really wanting to focus the national attention on Cheney's lesbian daughter. I mean, it seems to me to be a much more important message, and a far bigger lever arm, to try to push home messages, oh, like, THEY LIED ABOUT WHY THEY WENT INTO IRAQ!!!!! Edwards wasn't smarmy, and Cheney yielded his time because he didn't want to get into an area that he and the president disagree.
And something people have failed to point out here, it's not like Mary Cheney got outed by the dems. I refuse to believe as Safire would have me that until that night, only some tiny percent of the American public was aware of her sexual orientation. In fact, if Mr. Safire believes that illuminating the American public to publicly documented facts is a heinous tactic worthy of public stoning, then perhaps he should re-evaluate his role as a journalist.
Duh.
In any case, the problem is that we have human beings in politics. As humans, we all tend to communicate in a variety of ways, and because receiving communication is a fairly subjective process, the results of which are as pliable as statistics, anything that is said in the public arena is going to be twisted and turned, nuanced and deconstructed, tweaked and taken out of context until it's as informationally nutritional as potted meat food product, or processed cheez, or high fructose corn syrup.
So, the lesson to be learned is don't listen to anyone else. If you didn't watch the debates, go find them online somewhere and watch them yourself. Ok, so maybe you don't have to watch the last two, 'cos, good lord folks, say something new, but the first for the P and VP were both ok.
And take the news with a grain of salt. Even the media that leans towards my side (liberal, in case you can't tell) is not worthy of believing outright. check out a variety of news sources. Y'know, for what it's worth, Matt Drudge's site has a complete selection of news sources, including wire services, liberal columnists, and international news media (except aljazeera...). It's a great place to dig around for stuff.
Now, it's time for me to get back to this blog thing. I need to communicate more...
And, then there's the nuance:
Like, the email written with the half-jest, whole-earnest jibe, followed by a ;) to imply "I'm just teasing, but I would really like you to reconsider how 'cute' it is to piss off every waitress you come in contact with..."
Or, the verbal assault by your boss which is followed with the abuser's creed, "No one can make you feel shamed..." implying that he can say anything he wants, and is above reproach for your resulting feelings, so deal with it, he's the boss.
Or, the half punch on the arm delivered by a sixth grade boy to a sixth grade girl... ahh... we all know what that means...
I *get* all that stuff. Over time, you learn to interpret the nuance. You learn that communication follows more than one path, and it takes practice to learn how to express yourself in a way that's globally understood, and to gather information from more than just the spoken or written words.
Which makes me wonder, WHAT EXACTLY IS WILLIAM SAFIRE SMOKING? He's old enough to have figured all this stuff out, isn't he? He's the original Mr. Language Person, forgodssake! HOW, then, HOW can he have listened to Edwards and Kerry talk about Cheney's daughter and have gotten *this* out of it:
The memoir about the Kerry-Edwards campaign that will be the best seller will reveal the debate rehearsal aimed at focusing national attention on the fact that Vice President Cheney has a daughter who is a lesbian.
That this twice-delivered low blow was deliberate is indisputable. The first shot was taken by John Edwards, seizing a moderator's opening to smarmily compliment the Cheneys for loving their openly gay daughter, Mary. The vice president thanked him and yielded the remaining 80 seconds of his time; obviously it was not a diversion he was willing to prolong.
I'm thinkin' here that Occam's Razor might be useful to apply. I have a hard time imagining the Kerry Edwards prep-squad really wanting to focus the national attention on Cheney's lesbian daughter. I mean, it seems to me to be a much more important message, and a far bigger lever arm, to try to push home messages, oh, like, THEY LIED ABOUT WHY THEY WENT INTO IRAQ!!!!! Edwards wasn't smarmy, and Cheney yielded his time because he didn't want to get into an area that he and the president disagree.
And something people have failed to point out here, it's not like Mary Cheney got outed by the dems. I refuse to believe as Safire would have me that until that night, only some tiny percent of the American public was aware of her sexual orientation. In fact, if Mr. Safire believes that illuminating the American public to publicly documented facts is a heinous tactic worthy of public stoning, then perhaps he should re-evaluate his role as a journalist.
Duh.
In any case, the problem is that we have human beings in politics. As humans, we all tend to communicate in a variety of ways, and because receiving communication is a fairly subjective process, the results of which are as pliable as statistics, anything that is said in the public arena is going to be twisted and turned, nuanced and deconstructed, tweaked and taken out of context until it's as informationally nutritional as potted meat food product, or processed cheez, or high fructose corn syrup.
So, the lesson to be learned is don't listen to anyone else. If you didn't watch the debates, go find them online somewhere and watch them yourself. Ok, so maybe you don't have to watch the last two, 'cos, good lord folks, say something new, but the first for the P and VP were both ok.
And take the news with a grain of salt. Even the media that leans towards my side (liberal, in case you can't tell) is not worthy of believing outright. check out a variety of news sources. Y'know, for what it's worth, Matt Drudge's site has a complete selection of news sources, including wire services, liberal columnists, and international news media (except aljazeera...). It's a great place to dig around for stuff.
Now, it's time for me to get back to this blog thing. I need to communicate more...
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
reading
I haven't written here in a few days, and I'm trying to figure out why. Usually I'm spinning with desire to share my each and every thought "aloud" with anyone who will "listen", but I'm sort of feeling quiet and mellow - I mean, heck, I'm almost not even nervous about the election. I've also been sick, which may have something to do with it. But, that seems like a lame ass excuse.
I think, really, what's done me in is that I finished that novel I wrote about the other day. This sounds just as lame, but reading literature I wish I had written blocks me up. I start feeling lazy, like, hell, someone else will write it for me. It's not that I think I'm not worthy, or not as good, it's just that, cool, now I get to play computer games more...
I figure something in the next few days will inspire me to vent. Meanwhile, I'm off reading. At least, reading *good* stuff. No more Anne Lamott. No Arundati Roy. But, bring that Clive Cussler crap on! WHOO HOO!!! Gimme some vampire porn! Yeah, baby!
I think, really, what's done me in is that I finished that novel I wrote about the other day. This sounds just as lame, but reading literature I wish I had written blocks me up. I start feeling lazy, like, hell, someone else will write it for me. It's not that I think I'm not worthy, or not as good, it's just that, cool, now I get to play computer games more...
I figure something in the next few days will inspire me to vent. Meanwhile, I'm off reading. At least, reading *good* stuff. No more Anne Lamott. No Arundati Roy. But, bring that Clive Cussler crap on! WHOO HOO!!! Gimme some vampire porn! Yeah, baby!
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
public louse
In some weird twist of the cosmic aether, talk of head lice has invaded my privacy twice in the span of 15 hours. I figured I was done with that when my son moved in with his father and I was no longer connected to the world of public schools.
The first was in a discussion with my friends last night (one of whom spent 5 hours picking nits from her son's public school head) . The second was a science article in the NYT which I could not help but read. It was actually pretty interesting: Using lice to determine when humans shed their body hair and put on clothes.
ANYWAY, the reason it deserves a blog entry is because, once again, I am impressed with the near poetry the author reaches for in the following passage:
"And the pubic louse dwells in the coarse hairs of the groin, a cramped habitat but one that affords a convenient opportunity for switching abodes whenever the host is intimately occupied with a partner."
Ring Ring...
"Hi mom. Yeah, I'm sort of intimately occupied. Can I call you back?"
I love that...
The first was in a discussion with my friends last night (one of whom spent 5 hours picking nits from her son's public school head) . The second was a science article in the NYT which I could not help but read. It was actually pretty interesting: Using lice to determine when humans shed their body hair and put on clothes.
ANYWAY, the reason it deserves a blog entry is because, once again, I am impressed with the near poetry the author reaches for in the following passage:
"And the pubic louse dwells in the coarse hairs of the groin, a cramped habitat but one that affords a convenient opportunity for switching abodes whenever the host is intimately occupied with a partner."
Ring Ring...
"Hi mom. Yeah, I'm sort of intimately occupied. Can I call you back?"
I love that...
Sunday, October 03, 2004
freedom update
In case anyone was wondering, now that I'm living alone for the first time in my whole life, I have been:
- eating mostly frozen or pre-prepared foods
- sometimes eating them in bed
- leaving my laundry in a pile after it's been washed
- watching CSI or Law & Order repeats almost endlessly
- playing computer games AT THE SAME TIME AS WATCHING TV
- acquiring mounds of plastic bottles and aluminum cans because I have TOTALLY forgotten when the recycling goes out
How good am I at predictions? Check here.
So much for freedom...
post-debate junk
As I wrote back in July (or maybe August. I'm too lazy to check.) somehow I got put on a republican mailing list, and I haven't removed myself because sometimes the emails are just darned entertaining. At 5:30am, the morning after the debate, I got an email from Ken Mehlman, Bush's campaign manager. I'm pretty sure his team spent the entire 8 hours after the debate creating this piece of work, but, as usual, probably due to lack of sleep, they left out some important bits. Again, I'll be happy to edit it back to credibility with my additions in yellow. I *am* leaving in the links they they supply, in case anyone wants to "edify" themselves with the details of the Bush campaign.
Dear Laurie,
Over the next few days, at the office, at your children's football or soccer games, and in your homes, people will be talking about last night's debate. Here are some important facts to keep in mind as you're talking with friends and neighbors about the exchange. Please try not to think for yourself. It's hard work for the president to think about foreign policy, but he makes that sacrifice so you won't have to. Under no circumstances should you doubt what the president says. The God who recognizes political boundaries and blesses only America would not be pleased.
President Bush spoke clearly and from the heart last night about the path forward - not necessarily toward victory and security, but definitely pigheaded in its unwaveringness - in the War on Terror. The President spoke candidly about the difficulties facing our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan as these countries prepare for their first free elections designed to elect the people whom we have chosen for them. The terrorists will continue to fight these steps toward freedom because they fear the optimism and hope of democracy. Remember, to a terrorist, Optimism and Hope are terrifying. They fear the prospects for their ideology of hate in a free and democratic Middle East. They LOVE hate. Hate produces endorphins and their terrorist brains have become addicted to it. They are different than you and me. They don't want to be free. WHATEVER could they complain about if they were truly free? [ed note: honestly, this paragraph was crazy enough without me adding to it...]
President Bush detailed a path forward in the War on Terror - a plan that will ensure that America fights the enemy in Iraq and Afghanistan - not in America's cities. If you don't remember the details of that path, let me reassure you that President Bush explained them clearly. Your memory must be going. These are not the droids you're looking for.
John Kerry failed the one test he had to pass last night: he failed to close the credibility gap he has with the American people as his record of troubling contradiction and vacillation spiraled down to incoherence. If you watch the video again, you'll even notice John Kerry, there on the right, looking distracted and irritated. Bumbling answers to direct questions and repeating the same pat soundbites totally out of context over and over again. Right there on there right.
People have a clear choice between President Bush's clarity and strength to fight and win the War on Terror even though he's fighting it in Iraq, and John Kerry's attacks and reversals - born out of being deceived by the cold political calculation of my bosses, who between them have not a single vision for winning the War on Terror. People saw for themselves last night where John Kerry would lead our military, our allies and the world in the War on Terror - down a bumpy road paved with thoughtful consideration, strength and a plan to involve the rest of the world, instead of indecision, vacillation and cynicism like we keep saying. John Kerry has a record of wavering in the face of real challenges, like separating fact from fiction in the intelligence information distilled to congress by our administration.
Truth and optimism are not competing ideals. The War on Terror is difficult - there will be good days and bad days, but no matter how much your over-educated liberal friends tell you otherwise, keep thinking that the war is essential to our safety at home and victory is the only option. I wish I could tell you that President Bush would lead us there with certainty, but I can only say that YOU should never listen to anyone who might suggest otherwise. They are traitors and speaking freely is UNAMERICAN. Tell them so. Hold your hands up to your ears and sing "la la la la la la la la, I can't hear you, you unpatriotic, anti-Christian, flag-burning, liberal elitist, terrorist-lover."
Sincerely,
Ken Mehlman
Dear Laurie,
Over the next few days, at the office, at your children's football or soccer games, and in your homes, people will be talking about last night's debate. Here are some important facts to keep in mind as you're talking with friends and neighbors about the exchange. Please try not to think for yourself. It's hard work for the president to think about foreign policy, but he makes that sacrifice so you won't have to. Under no circumstances should you doubt what the president says. The God who recognizes political boundaries and blesses only America would not be pleased.
President Bush spoke clearly and from the heart last night about the path forward - not necessarily toward victory and security, but definitely pigheaded in its unwaveringness - in the War on Terror. The President spoke candidly about the difficulties facing our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan as these countries prepare for their first free elections designed to elect the people whom we have chosen for them. The terrorists will continue to fight these steps toward freedom because they fear the optimism and hope of democracy. Remember, to a terrorist, Optimism and Hope are terrifying. They fear the prospects for their ideology of hate in a free and democratic Middle East. They LOVE hate. Hate produces endorphins and their terrorist brains have become addicted to it. They are different than you and me. They don't want to be free. WHATEVER could they complain about if they were truly free? [ed note: honestly, this paragraph was crazy enough without me adding to it...]
President Bush detailed a path forward in the War on Terror - a plan that will ensure that America fights the enemy in Iraq and Afghanistan - not in America's cities. If you don't remember the details of that path, let me reassure you that President Bush explained them clearly. Your memory must be going. These are not the droids you're looking for.
John Kerry failed the one test he had to pass last night: he failed to close the credibility gap he has with the American people as his record of troubling contradiction and vacillation spiraled down to incoherence. If you watch the video again, you'll even notice John Kerry, there on the right, looking distracted and irritated. Bumbling answers to direct questions and repeating the same pat soundbites totally out of context over and over again. Right there on there right.
People have a clear choice between President Bush's clarity and strength to fight and win the War on Terror even though he's fighting it in Iraq, and John Kerry's attacks and reversals - born out of being deceived by the cold political calculation of my bosses, who between them have not a single vision for winning the War on Terror. People saw for themselves last night where John Kerry would lead our military, our allies and the world in the War on Terror - down a bumpy road paved with thoughtful consideration, strength and a plan to involve the rest of the world, instead of indecision, vacillation and cynicism like we keep saying. John Kerry has a record of wavering in the face of real challenges, like separating fact from fiction in the intelligence information distilled to congress by our administration.
Truth and optimism are not competing ideals. The War on Terror is difficult - there will be good days and bad days, but no matter how much your over-educated liberal friends tell you otherwise, keep thinking that the war is essential to our safety at home and victory is the only option. I wish I could tell you that President Bush would lead us there with certainty, but I can only say that YOU should never listen to anyone who might suggest otherwise. They are traitors and speaking freely is UNAMERICAN. Tell them so. Hold your hands up to your ears and sing "la la la la la la la la, I can't hear you, you unpatriotic, anti-Christian, flag-burning, liberal elitist, terrorist-lover."
Sincerely,
Ken Mehlman
Saturday, October 02, 2004
someone you wouldn't mind being
I'm reading a book by Anne Lamott right now. Joe Jones. It's the only one of hers I hadn't read, and it was the first one she wrote. It'd been out of print for awhile, but someone finally came to their senses and republished it a few years ago.
I'm only 35 pages into the book, and I've already marked 4 quotes. It happens that 3 of them either were intended to be epitaphs, or could easily be epitaphs.
Joe had been lying down in his mother's lanai all day, in the mood Louise calls the "His Dog Loved Him, But She Died."
"Do you know what Hitchcock wanted written on his tombstone?" she asked him one time. "'This is what we DO to bad little boys.'"
and
-- this is what I'm calling my biography, Louise: It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But the quote that has gotten to me most so far (mostly because it seems so simple and obvious and something I have not always done...)
Really, she thinks to herself, you ought to be in love with someone you wouldn't mind being.
I'm only 35 pages into the book, and I've already marked 4 quotes. It happens that 3 of them either were intended to be epitaphs, or could easily be epitaphs.
Joe had been lying down in his mother's lanai all day, in the mood Louise calls the "His Dog Loved Him, But She Died."
"Do you know what Hitchcock wanted written on his tombstone?" she asked him one time. "'This is what we DO to bad little boys.'"
and
-- this is what I'm calling my biography, Louise: It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But the quote that has gotten to me most so far (mostly because it seems so simple and obvious and something I have not always done...)
Really, she thinks to herself, you ought to be in love with someone you wouldn't mind being.
Friday, October 01, 2004
meta
I've been avoiding the news lately because it's more appalling than usual, almost painful to read, but after last night's debate, I wanted to catch up on the commentary. Sadly, even though it would be possible to say without bias that Bush behaved like a sullen teenager whose Ritalin wore off early, most journalists tried very hard to be balanced and kind. I did find one gem in a NYT article that pretty much has nothing to do with the debate itself. But it appealed to me in a meta-meta-meta-news kind of way...
Before and during the presidential debate raged a debate about the debate, as members of the throng advanced clever arguments about what the candidates needed to do. Respectable types took to the airwaves to argue that the preoccupation with this parallel discussion was a diversion from matters of more moment. They were having a debate about the debate about the debate.
Mr. Bush's aides argued that the debate was make-or-break for Mr. Kerry, and that he had to do more than merely win. "The instant polls could say Kerry won the debate, but unless he has a connection at the visceral level it does not matter," said Matthew Dowd, a top strategist for Mr. Bush.
Told of the Bush claims, Joel Johnson, a top aide to Mr. Kerry, responded, "If they're saying we absolutely have to win, that means we don't have to win, to win."
I love spun meta-news. It takes journalism into dimensional regimes physicists and philosophers can only dream of.
Before and during the presidential debate raged a debate about the debate, as members of the throng advanced clever arguments about what the candidates needed to do. Respectable types took to the airwaves to argue that the preoccupation with this parallel discussion was a diversion from matters of more moment. They were having a debate about the debate about the debate.
Mr. Bush's aides argued that the debate was make-or-break for Mr. Kerry, and that he had to do more than merely win. "The instant polls could say Kerry won the debate, but unless he has a connection at the visceral level it does not matter," said Matthew Dowd, a top strategist for Mr. Bush.
Told of the Bush claims, Joel Johnson, a top aide to Mr. Kerry, responded, "If they're saying we absolutely have to win, that means we don't have to win, to win."
I love spun meta-news. It takes journalism into dimensional regimes physicists and philosophers can only dream of.
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