Here we go. . . One last rant before the year’s end. No pokes at the government, no jokes at the expense of the idiot masses, and, for once, I’m going to leave ‘Dubya’ alone (it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, anyway).
It’s been an eventful year, with record-setting storms and gas prices, the space shuttle finally getting back off the ground, Lance Armstrong’s retirement, and the White Sox won a pennant for the first time in 88 years. Amid all that, however, are the little things that didn’t make the news but were no less monumental.
So, amid the silence of my house, as the children sleep, the peace broken only occasionally by the neighbors’ use of incendiary devices and firearms to express their excitement over the new year’s coming, I invite you all to raise your glasses with me in celebration of what has been and what is to come.
To Kimberley, who has put up with my lunacy and quirks for eight years.
To my children, who never cease to amaze me on a daily basis.
To my daughter, Sabrina, born on the first day of autumn this year, and to my niece, Ella, born not too soon before.
To Bonnie, struggling to make things better.
To the memory of my grandmother, who passed this summer, and to my grandfather, who finds the strength to go on each day.
To Sarah, who reminded me of things long forgotten.
To Dee, who helped me believe in the story, again.
To Tori, as determined as I to publish her own book.
To Tammy and Michelle, though we don’t speak as often now, they still are islands in the insanity.
To Carrie, wherever you are, I know you can find your strength again.
To Justin, my brother in arms, who discovered that everyone has to leave the darkness, sometime.
To absent friends. . .
And now, the beginning. . .
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
I've Childproofed the House, but They're STILL Getting In
As I sit staring, dazed, at the blinking cursor before me, it is a battle to even remain upright. Sore, stiff joints, eyes glazed, so worn-out from the sleep deprivation that I simply cannot sleep by natural means, the only sound I hear is the computer’s cooling fan. My ears strain through the deafening silence. It’s coming, I just know. . . Any second, now. . .
The logical observer would examine the symptoms; pain about all the extremities, sleeplessness, paranoia, the claim that I can actually feel my hair growing, and realize that one of two possible scenarios has played out recently. They would say something like, “Since copious amounts of alcohol weren’t involved, we can rule out the subject’s renewed attempt at an advanced Physics degree, so there can be only one unequivocal rational: Congratulations!”
Yes, for the fourth time, now, we have experienced the wonders of childbirth, from the days of ridiculously horrid hospital food to the bountiful supply of pain medication. Our lovely little daughter was born via cesarean section, a gruesomely interesting procedure whereby the doctor removes the baby by placing the entire contents of the abdomen on the woman’s chest. Of course, the mother is awake during the surgery, though under the effect of a spinal block, allowing her to feel nothing but the pressure of the doctor’s hands as he/she operates. That is, at least, what I was told. Judging from my wife’s constantly changing expressions, however, it was probably a good thing her arms were tied down.
Gory details aside, though, the procedure went very well, and soon we were being kept awake in the wee hours of the night by the hospital’s nursing staff who had the impeccable sense to come in to check on my wife every time the baby fell asleep. Three days of this, combined with meals of starch and bulk carbohydrates, and a ‘father’s foldaway bed’ that was as comfortable as the average bunk of plywood had me longing for the scarce few minutes I would be able to spend in my own bed upon returning home.
It is, at this point, time I set the record straight on a few things. While I find waking up every few hours through the night a tad annoying, I do not, for a minute, think I am ‘too old for this’. As my one-child or no-child friends will, no doubt, find it in their hearts to tell me, we do know what causes children and, yes, I am aware that contraceptive agents have been around for a few centuries. People think it’s wonderful that you have children, but tell them you have more than two and they look at you like you’re the latest circus freak. It’s a puzzlement to them how or why anyone can care for such a family, when they, themselves probably came from a group of three or more sibs. Let me tell you all a tiny little secret. . . Once you’ve had two, any other additions don’t seem like that much trouble at all.
Babies are a smart lot, though. They know from the outset just who is in charge of your particular situation. They scream, you come and feed them. They cry, you run to change their nappies. It continues on through early childhood. My oldest daughter could con just about anyone into doing her bidding with the ‘puppy dog eyes’ routine. Couple that with the fact that she can just about figure out any mechanical item you place in front of her, and we have the makings of an evil genius, all by the age of six. Sure, they’re sweet and loving when you’re around, but turn your back for a minute and you suddenly have a particle accelerator humming in your basement, ready to turn your neighborhood to glowing powder at the flip of a switch.
To stave off the holocaust that could ensue at any moment, I try to keep them busy. My oldest son and daughter like to putter around with me in the shop for short bits at a time, and as the others catch up there will be more for us to explore and create. Little things I learned many years ago are so interesting again because, in their eyes, it’s all brand new. No, I’m not too old for this; I’m too enthralled to want it to stop.
Welcome home, little Sabrina.
The logical observer would examine the symptoms; pain about all the extremities, sleeplessness, paranoia, the claim that I can actually feel my hair growing, and realize that one of two possible scenarios has played out recently. They would say something like, “Since copious amounts of alcohol weren’t involved, we can rule out the subject’s renewed attempt at an advanced Physics degree, so there can be only one unequivocal rational: Congratulations!”
Yes, for the fourth time, now, we have experienced the wonders of childbirth, from the days of ridiculously horrid hospital food to the bountiful supply of pain medication. Our lovely little daughter was born via cesarean section, a gruesomely interesting procedure whereby the doctor removes the baby by placing the entire contents of the abdomen on the woman’s chest. Of course, the mother is awake during the surgery, though under the effect of a spinal block, allowing her to feel nothing but the pressure of the doctor’s hands as he/she operates. That is, at least, what I was told. Judging from my wife’s constantly changing expressions, however, it was probably a good thing her arms were tied down.
Gory details aside, though, the procedure went very well, and soon we were being kept awake in the wee hours of the night by the hospital’s nursing staff who had the impeccable sense to come in to check on my wife every time the baby fell asleep. Three days of this, combined with meals of starch and bulk carbohydrates, and a ‘father’s foldaway bed’ that was as comfortable as the average bunk of plywood had me longing for the scarce few minutes I would be able to spend in my own bed upon returning home.
It is, at this point, time I set the record straight on a few things. While I find waking up every few hours through the night a tad annoying, I do not, for a minute, think I am ‘too old for this’. As my one-child or no-child friends will, no doubt, find it in their hearts to tell me, we do know what causes children and, yes, I am aware that contraceptive agents have been around for a few centuries. People think it’s wonderful that you have children, but tell them you have more than two and they look at you like you’re the latest circus freak. It’s a puzzlement to them how or why anyone can care for such a family, when they, themselves probably came from a group of three or more sibs. Let me tell you all a tiny little secret. . . Once you’ve had two, any other additions don’t seem like that much trouble at all.
Babies are a smart lot, though. They know from the outset just who is in charge of your particular situation. They scream, you come and feed them. They cry, you run to change their nappies. It continues on through early childhood. My oldest daughter could con just about anyone into doing her bidding with the ‘puppy dog eyes’ routine. Couple that with the fact that she can just about figure out any mechanical item you place in front of her, and we have the makings of an evil genius, all by the age of six. Sure, they’re sweet and loving when you’re around, but turn your back for a minute and you suddenly have a particle accelerator humming in your basement, ready to turn your neighborhood to glowing powder at the flip of a switch.
To stave off the holocaust that could ensue at any moment, I try to keep them busy. My oldest son and daughter like to putter around with me in the shop for short bits at a time, and as the others catch up there will be more for us to explore and create. Little things I learned many years ago are so interesting again because, in their eyes, it’s all brand new. No, I’m not too old for this; I’m too enthralled to want it to stop.
Welcome home, little Sabrina.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Dazing Missed Drivers
Having had the opportunity to be very young during the seventies I, fortunately, remember very little of them. I missed the long lines at the gas stations, but I do remember the high prices, and I remember the elation on my father’s face the day we were driving home from my grandfather’s and he spotted a station that had dropped to $.99 for regular.
We, as a nation, have been conditioned to believe that whenever we want or need something, it will be there waiting for us to purchase. The definition of ‘inalienable human rights’ has become a bit skewed in our society; a society in which a large number of people expect instant gratification while a much larger number struggle just to feed their families, or even to find shelter on the streets of our cities.
The unfortunate truth is that our demands are on finite, non-renewable resources. We are headed for a point called ‘Peak Oil’, during which our demands will exceed the world’s supply. When will it occur? Experts calculate sometime within the next decade. Some are predicting even before this year is out.
The obvious answer to the question, “what do we do?” is conserve. We used to hear that word all the time in the seventies and early eighties, and it has since gone away. Entire science lessons in early grade school were devoted to teaching a generation of children to turn the lights out when they leave the room and to chastise their parents when they take off too fast from a stoplight. Now, in a time when we must reduce our dependence on foreign resources, we must revisit those ‘egg under the gas pedal’ days.
I can already see people’s noses scrunching up at the idea. It’s so easy to complain about $3.38 per gallon for gasoline, but so difficult to do anything to reduce our consumption of it. People still pass me on the interstate like I’m going backward. I was, admittedly, happier than I should have been when a neighboring state raised their speed limit to 70 M.P.H., but I normally only drive about thirty interstate miles when I’m there, anyway. Essentially, that means I’m only arriving 2.4 minutes faster. Why bother? Remember, the ‘speed limit’ is a friendly suggestion. The state is telling you that you may go that fast if you feel the need to, as long as you don’t go beyond it.
So yes, America, that is me in the outside lane, driving somewhere between 60 and 65 M.P.H., even though the signs on the roadside say 70. You may swear at me profusely, you may wave at me with a reduced amount of fingers as you pass by. . . I promise I’ll use all of mine when I wave back. But, then, you could join me in saving money and conserving our nation’s resources. I may cover five fewer miles in an hour, but I don’t mind leaving a bit earlier and, couldn’t we all use more stress-free mornings?
We, as a nation, have been conditioned to believe that whenever we want or need something, it will be there waiting for us to purchase. The definition of ‘inalienable human rights’ has become a bit skewed in our society; a society in which a large number of people expect instant gratification while a much larger number struggle just to feed their families, or even to find shelter on the streets of our cities.
The unfortunate truth is that our demands are on finite, non-renewable resources. We are headed for a point called ‘Peak Oil’, during which our demands will exceed the world’s supply. When will it occur? Experts calculate sometime within the next decade. Some are predicting even before this year is out.
The obvious answer to the question, “what do we do?” is conserve. We used to hear that word all the time in the seventies and early eighties, and it has since gone away. Entire science lessons in early grade school were devoted to teaching a generation of children to turn the lights out when they leave the room and to chastise their parents when they take off too fast from a stoplight. Now, in a time when we must reduce our dependence on foreign resources, we must revisit those ‘egg under the gas pedal’ days.
I can already see people’s noses scrunching up at the idea. It’s so easy to complain about $3.38 per gallon for gasoline, but so difficult to do anything to reduce our consumption of it. People still pass me on the interstate like I’m going backward. I was, admittedly, happier than I should have been when a neighboring state raised their speed limit to 70 M.P.H., but I normally only drive about thirty interstate miles when I’m there, anyway. Essentially, that means I’m only arriving 2.4 minutes faster. Why bother? Remember, the ‘speed limit’ is a friendly suggestion. The state is telling you that you may go that fast if you feel the need to, as long as you don’t go beyond it.
So yes, America, that is me in the outside lane, driving somewhere between 60 and 65 M.P.H., even though the signs on the roadside say 70. You may swear at me profusely, you may wave at me with a reduced amount of fingers as you pass by. . . I promise I’ll use all of mine when I wave back. But, then, you could join me in saving money and conserving our nation’s resources. I may cover five fewer miles in an hour, but I don’t mind leaving a bit earlier and, couldn’t we all use more stress-free mornings?
Save Our Souls. . .
In times such as these, it’s hard to tell which is the greater disaster; the unbridled fury of nature gone mad, or the oblivious nature of humans in large groups. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and the Federal Emergency Management agency have both expressed concern over the possibility of a catastrophic hurricane striking New Orleans. The former proposed a study of how the city could be protected in such a situation (research ordered by the current administration not to be undertaken), and the latter stated that it was “one of the three most likely disasters to strike the United States”.
And yet, even amid warnings from the federal government, and FEMA, the city and state government acted as though it were a rather large surprise.
For many days the nation watched Katrina bearing on the Florida peninsula, meteorologists all scratching their heads at the fact that she strengthened over land. She moved into the gulf, defiantly ignoring their predictions, meandering dangerously toward the Louisiana coast as she built to horrifying strength. Thousands were left stranded, unable to flee.
More than four days after feeling the storm’s fury, troops have arrived in the city bearing food and medical supplies while, at the same time, a convoy of busses arrived to begin transporting refugees from the devastated city. Mayor Ray Nagin stated in an interview that the people were “holding on by a thread” and asked, “who can we depend on? Only God knows”. In what could be eligible for the ‘Understatement of the Year Award’, President Bush stated of the relief effort, “The results are not enough”.
Lt. General Steven Blum, commander of the National Guard, said that 7,000 guardsmen would be in the city by Saturday. Not exactly a rousing statement of hope, some people claim, since we seem to be able to deploy thousands of troops to any point on the globe in so much less time. People are quick to say the military operation in Iraq is related to the events in New Orleans, as funds for the city’s flood control projects dried up with more dollars being funneled into the war. What many civilians do not realize is that the military is a rather large bureaucratic beast, and that it takes time to mobilize such a large effort with any real amount of useful precision.
Army Lt. General Russel Honore said that “It’s not our fault. The storm came and flooded the city”. We must remember that the loss and/or restructuring of the wetlands surrounding the city that would have lessened the storm surge was the result of policies set forth not just by the Bush administration, but largely by its predecessor.
Enough is enough, however. No matter the intentions, noble or righteous, we are so imbedded in operations overseas that are ‘ensuring our security’ that we cannot even help our own adequately. A major metropolitan area of over 400,000 people sinks into filth and anarchy within our own borders, and rather than help, people are rushing to blame administrative officials. The entire situation is summed up in the words of a survivor, interviewed in the shadow of the Superdome, “It’s like the people have lost their souls”.
Let the world be, America. The neighbors will be fine. We need to lend a hand and take care of the family.
And yet, even amid warnings from the federal government, and FEMA, the city and state government acted as though it were a rather large surprise.
For many days the nation watched Katrina bearing on the Florida peninsula, meteorologists all scratching their heads at the fact that she strengthened over land. She moved into the gulf, defiantly ignoring their predictions, meandering dangerously toward the Louisiana coast as she built to horrifying strength. Thousands were left stranded, unable to flee.
More than four days after feeling the storm’s fury, troops have arrived in the city bearing food and medical supplies while, at the same time, a convoy of busses arrived to begin transporting refugees from the devastated city. Mayor Ray Nagin stated in an interview that the people were “holding on by a thread” and asked, “who can we depend on? Only God knows”. In what could be eligible for the ‘Understatement of the Year Award’, President Bush stated of the relief effort, “The results are not enough”.
Lt. General Steven Blum, commander of the National Guard, said that 7,000 guardsmen would be in the city by Saturday. Not exactly a rousing statement of hope, some people claim, since we seem to be able to deploy thousands of troops to any point on the globe in so much less time. People are quick to say the military operation in Iraq is related to the events in New Orleans, as funds for the city’s flood control projects dried up with more dollars being funneled into the war. What many civilians do not realize is that the military is a rather large bureaucratic beast, and that it takes time to mobilize such a large effort with any real amount of useful precision.
Army Lt. General Russel Honore said that “It’s not our fault. The storm came and flooded the city”. We must remember that the loss and/or restructuring of the wetlands surrounding the city that would have lessened the storm surge was the result of policies set forth not just by the Bush administration, but largely by its predecessor.
Enough is enough, however. No matter the intentions, noble or righteous, we are so imbedded in operations overseas that are ‘ensuring our security’ that we cannot even help our own adequately. A major metropolitan area of over 400,000 people sinks into filth and anarchy within our own borders, and rather than help, people are rushing to blame administrative officials. The entire situation is summed up in the words of a survivor, interviewed in the shadow of the Superdome, “It’s like the people have lost their souls”.
Let the world be, America. The neighbors will be fine. We need to lend a hand and take care of the family.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Baby On Board
In these dark times, Americans should take heart that their government is doing everything in its power to make them safer. With security for its citizens the foremost concern, stringent new enforcements of the "no-fly list" are going farther than ever before to keep the airlines free from an incursion of highly effective, disruptive people capable of firmly striking terror in the heart of every adult flier.
We are, of course, speaking of babies and toddlers.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our government is not hesitating to stop anyone in their tracks whose name appears on the "no-fly list", regardless of age! A recently released report stated that, last Thanksgiving, before boarding a return flight to Washington, a one-year old girl was stopped in Phoenix. A similar, more recent report states that, while departing from Dulles International Airport outside Washington, two parents were told by an airline ticket agent that their 11-month-old son was on the government list. The child was allowed to board the plane, but only after taking better than a half hour to chase down his passport and fill out the proper paperwork.
The ACLU claims that these are unavoidable mistakes, as the government does not provide enough information about those named on the list to effectively allow airport security to discern between the 35-40 year-old terrorist and little Johnny, age 11 months, who just happens to have a name exactly like, or similar to, someone already on the list. This is happening all across our nation and around the world at the ticket counters of all American air carriers.
There are some adults who would call this practice ludicrous; that no infant could ever pose a threat to any commercial airliner, and that the enforcement of the list is too poorly focused to be effective. On the other side of the coin, as the father of three, I know very well what small children in large groups are capable of, and I can say without hesitation that I applaud the efforts of our airport security teams. Anyone who has ever been trapped in a pressurized cabin at high altitude surrounded by any number of infants and toddlers, bombarded on all sides by excessive levels of noise and noxious fumes, has a very unique definition of the word 'purgatory'. Anyone who has had the misfortune to sit in coach on a cross-continental flight beside these smaller versions of ourselves has a reason to wish life was more like 'Star Trek', with ports on the walls to jettison dirty diapers into space, and the ability to erect a soundproof force-field between themselves and the constant barrage coming from the window seat, "LookitthatcloudMommy!Whatwasthatnoise?Didjaseethatbird?Why'sthatman'seyetwitching?"
Some might dub this all a horrible malfunction of today's system of security; that this could even become another form of profiling. Well, of course not. We don't take children to see adult-rated movies, we take them to see children's films. We don't take small children to casinos on vacation, we take them to resorts with water parks and amusement parks. Until they are of age, we don't take them onto golf courses that aren't populated by windmills and strange statues of former presidents.
I stand on my soapbox today to point out that we are a differentiating society. We do this out of necessity, shielding our children from certain elements that they may grow up in the best manner possible. Children are given to experiences at their own level, so they, like every other human on the planet, may learn best from their mistakes. They are not expected to learn yet from the mistakes of the adults. No child of toddler age or younger will learn its behavior from observing an adult. Sure, the child may mimic the adult for a short time, but then all the candy, soft drinks, and pent-up energy take over and they commence bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the aircraft like a free-flying gas molecule.
We have childrens' hospitals and childrens' hotels, childrens' television networks and childrens' radio. I propose a childrens' airline, composed of specially-designed aircraft that would allow these over-energetic, sugared-up, egocentric terrorists to be themselves, without being surprisingly disruptive. The adults on this flight would, of course, be the childrens' parents; people who would supposedly be immune to the splitting migranes that these little people would cause to the average person off the street. In its own way, this would actually be a more relaxing flight for the parents, as they wouldn't have to worry quite as much about their child's behavior. Those present would be expecting it of them, and the uncomprehending eyes of adults who do not know the joys of parenting would be comfortably absent from the scene.
We should rally around our government, and their crusade to protect us all from the incursion of pint-sized terrorists; these unsuspecting, tiny toddlers who, most times, do not understand that they're being so annoying but, nevertheless, can be just as disruptive on a flight as a grown man who claims to have a bomb tucked away in his shoes. With so few adjustments to our daily lives, we can enjoy a new era of comfortable air travel, and the 'friendly skies' may just be a bit more amicable.
We are, of course, speaking of babies and toddlers.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, our government is not hesitating to stop anyone in their tracks whose name appears on the "no-fly list", regardless of age! A recently released report stated that, last Thanksgiving, before boarding a return flight to Washington, a one-year old girl was stopped in Phoenix. A similar, more recent report states that, while departing from Dulles International Airport outside Washington, two parents were told by an airline ticket agent that their 11-month-old son was on the government list. The child was allowed to board the plane, but only after taking better than a half hour to chase down his passport and fill out the proper paperwork.
The ACLU claims that these are unavoidable mistakes, as the government does not provide enough information about those named on the list to effectively allow airport security to discern between the 35-40 year-old terrorist and little Johnny, age 11 months, who just happens to have a name exactly like, or similar to, someone already on the list. This is happening all across our nation and around the world at the ticket counters of all American air carriers.
There are some adults who would call this practice ludicrous; that no infant could ever pose a threat to any commercial airliner, and that the enforcement of the list is too poorly focused to be effective. On the other side of the coin, as the father of three, I know very well what small children in large groups are capable of, and I can say without hesitation that I applaud the efforts of our airport security teams. Anyone who has ever been trapped in a pressurized cabin at high altitude surrounded by any number of infants and toddlers, bombarded on all sides by excessive levels of noise and noxious fumes, has a very unique definition of the word 'purgatory'. Anyone who has had the misfortune to sit in coach on a cross-continental flight beside these smaller versions of ourselves has a reason to wish life was more like 'Star Trek', with ports on the walls to jettison dirty diapers into space, and the ability to erect a soundproof force-field between themselves and the constant barrage coming from the window seat, "LookitthatcloudMommy!Whatwasthatnoise?Didjaseethatbird?Why'sthatman'seyetwitching?"
Some might dub this all a horrible malfunction of today's system of security; that this could even become another form of profiling. Well, of course not. We don't take children to see adult-rated movies, we take them to see children's films. We don't take small children to casinos on vacation, we take them to resorts with water parks and amusement parks. Until they are of age, we don't take them onto golf courses that aren't populated by windmills and strange statues of former presidents.
I stand on my soapbox today to point out that we are a differentiating society. We do this out of necessity, shielding our children from certain elements that they may grow up in the best manner possible. Children are given to experiences at their own level, so they, like every other human on the planet, may learn best from their mistakes. They are not expected to learn yet from the mistakes of the adults. No child of toddler age or younger will learn its behavior from observing an adult. Sure, the child may mimic the adult for a short time, but then all the candy, soft drinks, and pent-up energy take over and they commence bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the aircraft like a free-flying gas molecule.
We have childrens' hospitals and childrens' hotels, childrens' television networks and childrens' radio. I propose a childrens' airline, composed of specially-designed aircraft that would allow these over-energetic, sugared-up, egocentric terrorists to be themselves, without being surprisingly disruptive. The adults on this flight would, of course, be the childrens' parents; people who would supposedly be immune to the splitting migranes that these little people would cause to the average person off the street. In its own way, this would actually be a more relaxing flight for the parents, as they wouldn't have to worry quite as much about their child's behavior. Those present would be expecting it of them, and the uncomprehending eyes of adults who do not know the joys of parenting would be comfortably absent from the scene.
We should rally around our government, and their crusade to protect us all from the incursion of pint-sized terrorists; these unsuspecting, tiny toddlers who, most times, do not understand that they're being so annoying but, nevertheless, can be just as disruptive on a flight as a grown man who claims to have a bomb tucked away in his shoes. With so few adjustments to our daily lives, we can enjoy a new era of comfortable air travel, and the 'friendly skies' may just be a bit more amicable.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Light My Fire (originally published July 3, 2005)
As I lay in bed, realizing how it must have been to try to sleep in Beirut in the 80's, I can't help but think of the mentality that abounds in this day and age. I've said it before: Humans have this serious mental deficiency that causes them to be attracted to things that are dangerous. In nature, bright colors say "hands off!", and every animal or insect understands this, says 'okay' and gets on about its business. Humans are attracted to bright, colorful things like, dare I mention, the average moth and its apparent sexual attraction to fire.
Of course, my topic tonight is fireworks.
This is a perilous time for most adventure-loving, non-instruction reading humans, because there is no shortage of excuses for igniting customized pyrotechnic devices. Canada Day has come and gone, the counterpart to the American Independence Day, which not only provides for five (yes, five) days of filled trauma units and burn wards, but gave Bill Pullman the chance to play in a fighter jet and quote Dylan Thomas. Amid all the excitement of the holiday, which is magnified by the fact that it makes a three-day weekend, AND is accompanied by the generous ingestion of alcoholic substances, the simple phrase 'light fuse and get away' becomes more of a personal challenge than friendly advice.
Fireworks aficionados fall into three groups: Professionals, Hobbyists, and Organ Donors. Professionals are highly skilled, well trained, and well paid individuals who operate large public displays with expert precision, though still manage to set themselves on fire from time to time. Hobbyists, quite unlike the name suggests, are no more than the occasional user of pyrotechnics, but tend to view safety as their primary concern. These are the people you see lighting their fuses with propane torches, who always keep a bucket of water nearby for the children's sparklers, and usually cause a rather alarmingly high number of grassfires. Both experience danger to varying degrees but, thanks to the different levels of experience, mistakes made by both are usually rectified with a healthy fire extinguisher.
I find myself surrounded by Organ Donors. These are the select portion of society who truly believe in the idea, "Celebrate the birth of your nation by blowing up a small part of it". These are the people who enclose firecrackers in jars, just to see what's going to happen; the people who bury M-80s just to see how large a crater they can make. These are the same people I observed one summer, launching bottle rockets from their hands, only to have one double back and fly through the open window of their van, setting the upholstery on fire. The same people who live down the street from me, who think it's a pretty great idea to accompany their nightly bombardment of yard and street with several rounds of gunfire from numerous types of firearms.
So, as usual, I'll spend my Fourth of July at home, diligently protecting my tiny piece of suburbia from the hail of 'friendly fire' that seeks to set alight my drought-stricken lawn. I will listen for the silences, as I am ensconced in now, which are usually followed shortly after by the wail of ambulance sirens.
. . .Yep, there they are, now.
Sounds like the neighbors gave two thumbs up for this year's fireworks display. Literally.
By the People (originally published June 11, 2005)
"I pledge allegiance to the Flag
Of the United States of America,
And to the Republic for which it stands,
One nation, under God, indivisible,
With liberty and justice for all."
A nation founded on lofty goals . . . Where has it gone?
The Pledge of Allegiance was first scripted in 1892 by Francis Bellamy. It originally read as "I pledge allegiance to my Flag and to the Republic for which it stands: one Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all".
Francis Bellamy was a socialist.
When the cold war kicked into high gear, the "Red Scare" emerged from the United States' intense fear and hostility toward communism. It was at this time, in the mid-fifties, Senator Joseph McCarthy took advantage of the situation and began the greatest witch hunt this country had ever seen since Salem, 1692. Playing on the fears of the masses allowed a few elected officials to manipulate the populace. Being a true patriot meant being as opposite the communist way of life as possible, so Congress added the line "under God" as a poke at communist atheism.
Little has changed since those days. In the wake of the September 11 attacks on U.S. soil, the world was behind us in our hunt for those responsible, and we took action. Shortly thereafter, though, the line began to blurr. Suddenly, we were hearing about Iraq and Saddam Hussien. In a wonderful example of manipulative journalism, the average American actually believed Iraq was behind the terror attacks, even though the words were never spoken. We went to war without the support of the United Nations, and as such, the word 'Iraq' has become the new Arabic word for 'Vietnam'.
These days, the fear of terrorism is the fuel for the fires of government manipulation. Even as the public is easing out of its long paranoia sparked by the September 11 attacks, our President, the man elected to lead our nation simply because he was the lesser of two vacuous evils, is trying to make permanent the Patriot Act. Both parties are critical of this law, as it undermines basic freedoms of law-abiding Americans. The President's recent speech on the matter, of course, ignored these more controversial aspects of the Act.
Our Republic has, figuratively, lost a lot of ground since its inception. What would the founding fathers say to such restrictive laws and regulations? Over the course of the next few years, our borders are going to be tightening like never before. In 2006, a passport will be necessary to reenter the country from the Carribean and central and South America. In 2007, one will be required for reentry from even Mexico and Canada, our true neighbors in the world. By 2008, travel into the U.S. from any point on the planet will require passport identification. How far off are we from needing papers to fly from State to State?
As I ramble on, I realize the problem falls into the laps of the American people. Our version of democracy has become a joke. No longer is it possible for the common citizen to achieve a high office in this country. Gone are the days of Davy Crockett. The American people vote per party affilliation, and not by weight of issues, or even competency of the candidate in question (obviously). The citizenry muddles through its day-to-day existance, blissfully unaware of the government's daily workings, and the government is entirely happy with the situation.
Government "By the People" only works if the people are paying attention. How are we to learn from mistakes of the past if we do not take an active part in their solution? We need to keep ourselves informed, we need to keep an eye on our elected officials, because they do, in fact, work for us and, most importantly, we need to elect a president that can properly pronounce the word 'nuclear'.
Never Yell 'Theatre' in a Crowded Fire (originally published May 18, 2005)
As long as we're on the theme of retail home improvement, let's talk a bit about common sense. Retail sales is the very heart of our capitalistic economy, from the purchase of food and clothing to vehicles and motorhomes. We repair our cars and trucks with parts bought at retail, whether directly or indirectly, and the same is true for our home repair projects. With all that in mind, you would think that, as a society, we would be experts in the field; that the entire process would come as second nature.
Of course, you'd be wrong.
I spend most of my non-driving day completely surrounded by 'Do-It-Yourselfers', otherwise known as 'future insurance statistics'. People who take a simple job, like replacing a fifty-cent light switch, and turn it into an all-day $300 project, complete with a visit from the fire department, should not be allowed access to repair materials. This becomes obvious the moment they walk in the front door.
What is the first thing most people do when they enter a grocery store? They select a shopping cart. They know they will be purchasing many small to medium-sized items which would be difficult to carry, so they obtain an ambulatory container to make their job easier. Why, then, in a DIY store in which the average item weighs between 25-60 lbs, most everyone walks right by the mass of shopping carts at the front of the store to tell a moderately disgruntled employee, "I need that one, there," pointing to a 24 cubic-foot box on the top shelf. Of course, once the employee retrieves the item in question, knees buckling as he or she wobbles down the ladder, the customer almost ALWAYS says, "Oh, I need a cart, don't I? Would you find one for me?"
Continuing on through the store, this pattern repeats in every department until they reach the registers. Once paid, the customer engages in the ultimate form of tragic entertainment, the 'loading'. Usually help is requested, because the customer truly has no idea how they are going to fit six foot-long boards, sheet goods, and an 80,000 BTU gas grill into the trunk of their Ford Focus. They walk in blissful ignorance to the vehicle that dutifully carries them and their purchases to and from their local megastore, without giving a second thought to things like 'spatial mechanics' and 'displacement'.
Of course, the employee tries to semi-calmly explain that the task before them is impossible in this universe, and the customer grudgingly agrees (though usually after a few failed attempts) to purchasing the store's delivery service. Sometimes, though, this isn't the outcome, and the story ends with blown tires or a broken axle at the end of the parking lot.
Perhaps I'm not being fair. I am merely citing DIYers tonight, but 'professionals' are just as prone to bouts of senselessness, too. One instance that pops to mind is of a stern dressing-down I received from a dockbuilder who, after a trying time at the store's return desk, stormed to the hardware department to complain about the 'cheap (explicative deleted) garbage metal' that the stainless steel fasteners were made from. After enduring a five-minute tirade, I was finally able to ask how he had come to his conclusions. Was there a defect? Were there unthreaded screws in the packages (which DOES happen, sometime)? His response: "None of this cheap (string of explicatives deleted) would stick to a magnet!!"
If you fancy yourself a DIYer, I recommend you consult any of the numerous volumes of books and software that are available on just about any project you can think of before you embark on your adventure. Be safe, and remember, whether or not you do your job properly, someone will always be coming behind you down the road, be they trained professional, or just the next owner of the house. If you are a professional, watch what you're doing, do it well, and listen closely to the guys at the store. They may not make as much as you do in a day, but they do know that stainless steel isn't magnetic.
Isn't It Obvious? (originally published May 17, 2005)
To begin today's rant, I would like to thank the various Departments of Transportation in the odd state or two I travel regularly for their recent efforts at honesty. Travelling so many miles in a state whose official animal is the orange barrel, I must say that there is nothing so frustrating as having to wait for hours in a miles-long procession of slug-paced vehicles while being outwardly lied to by those working to improve our infrastructure, one crater at a time. When you encounter a sign that says, "Road Construction Next 250,000 miles" while cruising day after day at 4 miles per hour on a four-lane road bottlenecked into a two-vehicle wide pothole, you expect to see a bit of progress. That's what the word 'construction' makes us infer. . . progress. You expect to see something being built but, instead, all you are able to say after six or eight months of barrel dodging is, "That's a damn nice trench they've dug, there."
Now, in at least a slight play for honesty, the signs say "Road Work Next 250,000 miles". This is technically true, in that they are working, but they are not claiming any progress in the working. They are merely stating the obvious.
I used to think that the human talent for stating the obvious was merely borne of a need for 'small talk', in the constant effort to fill every bit of silence with some inane banter of sorts. After many years of dealing with the public at large, both in retail home improvement and construction, I believe it has become some sort of psychological reinforcement; a bit of compensation for the fact that most humans do not seem to have the ability to see the obvious.
When you stop and consider the environment in which I had this epiphany, the idea becomes rather terrifying. Construction. . .Home improvement. . . People who have access, not only to power tools, but many, many miles of pressurized pipes and energized wiring systems, all wrapped in a very flammable shell of lumber and drywall, who are unintentionally ready to kill or be killed.
One of my favorite stories on this road of discovery came when I was still in college, working for a small retailer in Kentucky. An older gentleman came in looking for a light for over his front door, and was carefully regarding a wall full of brightly-illuminated fixtures when I approached.
The encounter went something like:
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I'm looking at lights."
"Okay," I say, smiling inwardly. "Is there any particular type you were looking for?"
"Well, these look interesting," *long pause* "Are these electrical?"
"Can I help you, sir?"
"I'm looking at lights."
"Okay," I say, smiling inwardly. "Is there any particular type you were looking for?"
"Well, these look interesting," *long pause* "Are these electrical?"
Of course, I managed to get out a 'yes' before my lesser-controlled brain cells kicked in and made me say something like "Well, sir, most of them are magickal," and then wave to turn on one of the motion lights. Even in the time before my enlightenment on the subject (no pun intended), I chose not to torment or ridicule. That, and, getting fired wouldn't have been very conducive to making my tuition payments.
So remember, when someone says "It's a nice day," or "Road Construction Ahead," it's not because they want to be annoying, they're merely fulfilling a psychological need to show they get the blatantly obvious, and help those along who don't. If someone rattles off a question that makes you wonder just how boneheaded a species we are, be polite and accept them for their little flaws. Just smile and nod, remembering that they are the majority, and they have all the bulldozers and nuclear weapons.
Let's Talk About Prioritizing (originally published May 7, 2005)
A few days ago, a friend and I were discussing 'priorities'. Of course, it was a political discussion, spanning such issues as the deep American dependancy on Middle East oil and our attempts at conservation projects on a national and international level. Oh, I could just rant on and on. . .
Later in the day, I happened to be rifling through the refrigerator, when I chanced upon a bottle of Catalina dressing with some, er, seniority. Of course, by 'seniority', I mean it had an expiration date of May 1999. Everyone has a 'junk drawer', or 'catch all shelf', or some other form of black hole that just tends to accumulate the things we think are too usefull to throw away, but not important enough to organize or find a proper place for. Like a junk drawer, this particular shelf on my 'fridge door just happened to contain a bottle of salad dressing that was four months older than my daughter, and well on the way to developing some rather intricate language skills as it establishes its territorial boundries with the other condiments.
We all prioritize, whether consciously or not, every day. We decide to hit the snooze button rather than getting up early, we decide to take a shower and cram a cereal bar rather than waste the time on waffles and eggs, and we decide which route is the best to get to work after all that procrastination. Perhaps, then, we can truly say that prioritization is synonymous with procrastination. We can't be bothered to sort out our junk drawers, and I can't spare the ten seconds it would take me to pick up that bottle and toss it into the garbage can right next to the refrigerator. Of course, that doesn't explain why it moved across two states with us, but let's deal with one mental illness at a time. We'll call this one 'procrastiprioritizing'.
In recent news, President Bush met with Crown Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia concerning the problem of supply issues for American oil consumption. The United States consumes somewhere in the neighborhood of 130 billion gallons (~500 billion liters) of gasoline a year. One would think that all eyes would be on methods of conservation and technological developments to reduce our dependancy. Rather, the President is reviewing Saudi plans to increase the production of oil by 1.5 million barrels a day. Why? It's simply easier, and lower oil prices improve his approval rating.
As a nation, we are rather wasteful, and procrastiprioritizing is at the very heart of the matter. The average american produces 3.5 pounds of garbage a day and we consume about 25% of the world's petrolium, though we only total about 4% of the world's population. We throw things away rather than sorting and recycling because it takes less time. We burn gasoline because we absolutely have to race to work at twice the speed of sense, when we could have simply left a bit earlier and driven slower and safer. No, that would mean not using the snooze alarm. Who cares if we careen off the road while shaving with one hand and talking on our cel phone with the other? We got to sleep in and the state's budget doesn't allow for enough police to patrol the roads.
Humans are creatures of habit, falling into patterns as hard to break as any diamond. Until time's end, we continue putting off until whenever that which we should have done six years ago. I could go on, but I have to break up a border skirmish between the salad dressing and the mayonaise.
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