At the risk of sounding overly-redundant, I have to bring up the 'Pluto' thing, again. Our good friend, keeping silent vigil in the outer reaches of the solar system, has, once again, been dumped on by the astronomical community.
In an attempt to reinforce their recent decision to strip Pluto of its planetary status, the International Astronomical Union has grouped it with other small solar-system bodies with well-known orbital paths. In other words, asteroids.
Yes, friends, Pluto has a new name and that name is '134340'.
It just doesn't roll off the toungue, does it? What of Charon, Hydra, and Nix? 134340 I, II, and III, respectively. Geeze, let's kick them while they're down.
It's late, I'm tired, and I'm getting very weary of piddly bickering over absolutely nothing. People are protesting in the streets (or, at least, the University campuses) over this farce. I can't say as I blame them. I've written stories about Pluto. I get sentimental over the little iceball.
Throughout the centuries, it has been the goal of humankind, in general, to make things much more complicated than they need to be. Something as simple as camping used to be a tent and a campfire. Nowadays, I see thirty-foot RVs pull into campgrounds and never disgorge their passengers except when connecting the water and electricity. Changing fluids in a car used to involve unscrewing a bolt, draining the fluid, and putting more fluid in. Now, it involves fifteen to thirty separate steps. Taking music along for a walk used to involve a transistor radio, then a walkman, and now, an MP3 player with desktop computer and internet support and supply.
Give it a rest. Besides, 'Pluto' is easier to remember.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Friday, September 01, 2006
Requiem for a Lost World. . .
I can stay silent no longer. I grew up a science wonk and, as such, I knew for a fact that the Solar System had nine planets. I was aware that that number could increase due to new discoveries but, barring a cosmic catastrophe, it should never decrease.
I knew the sun's name was Sol, and the moon's name was Luna. At the time, Jupiter only had nine moons and, thanks to Mariner 10 and the later Voyager probes, we had visited all of our known planetary neighbors.
Now, Jupiter has sixty-three confirmed moons, we've proven that the 'Face' on Mars was merely a trick of light and shadow, and mysterious, icy Pluto is now only a 'dwarf planet'.
In 2003, another celestial body was discovered, larger than Pluto and just a bit farther out. The new world was called 'Xena', and its discoverers proposed calling her and two other bodies 'planets'. The International Astronomical Union rejected the proposal, then decided to push around our tiny ninth neighbor. It was decreed that a new definition for the word 'planet' was needed.
According to the IAU, as of August 24th, 2006, a 'planet' is any body that orbits the Sun, is large enough to be made round by its own gravity, and has cleared the area around it of smaller cosmic objects.
This definition, of course, excludes planets that are struck on a regular basis by asteroids. Earth, for example.
In a Reuters article by Andy Sullivan, Allen Stern, the organizer of a petition challenging the IAU's ruling, said that the definition was "technically flawed, linguisticly flawed, and scientifically embarrassing". Hear, hear.
An astute eye would pick out the most glaring flaw. . . "A planet is any body that orbits the Sun. . ." The AIU makes things so general that they, themselves, are confused. Since these are bodies that orbit around 'the Sun', does that mean that extrasolar planets need their own definition? I propose we call them 'Those big, round things that aren't shiny'.
But we have drifted off course a bit. Why does the AIU have it in for Pluto? It has been a planet since February 18th of 1930. Why, now, should we demote it with a definition that is so poorly worded that we have to make exceptions to keep calling Earth a planet? Is it because of its size? Its composition? Perhaps they just don't want to memorize any more names.
Pluto was discovered by Clyde Tombaugh with ground-based equipment in the 1930s. At a diameter of 2390 kilometers, it is half the size of Mercury and just over half the size of our moon. Pluto has three confirmed moons, Charon, Hydra, and Nix; as many as all the inner planets, combined. Perhaps it hasn't cleared its surrounding space of cosmic debris, but could Mercury, if it weren't so near the sun?
Let's leave our textbooks alone. We can always add easier than we can erase. I say we give Pluto a chance. It may be smaller than Luna, but it orbits Sol with the rest of the planets, and holds silent vigil over the Kuiper Belt with all the other ageless little iceballs.
I bet if it were made of diamond, they'd call it a planet again.
I knew the sun's name was Sol, and the moon's name was Luna. At the time, Jupiter only had nine moons and, thanks to Mariner 10 and the later Voyager probes, we had visited all of our known planetary neighbors.
Now, Jupiter has sixty-three confirmed moons, we've proven that the 'Face' on Mars was merely a trick of light and shadow, and mysterious, icy Pluto is now only a 'dwarf planet'.
In 2003, another celestial body was discovered, larger than Pluto and just a bit farther out. The new world was called 'Xena', and its discoverers proposed calling her and two other bodies 'planets'. The International Astronomical Union rejected the proposal, then decided to push around our tiny ninth neighbor. It was decreed that a new definition for the word 'planet' was needed.
According to the IAU, as of August 24th, 2006, a 'planet' is any body that orbits the Sun, is large enough to be made round by its own gravity, and has cleared the area around it of smaller cosmic objects.
This definition, of course, excludes planets that are struck on a regular basis by asteroids. Earth, for example.
In a Reuters article by Andy Sullivan, Allen Stern, the organizer of a petition challenging the IAU's ruling, said that the definition was "technically flawed, linguisticly flawed, and scientifically embarrassing". Hear, hear.
An astute eye would pick out the most glaring flaw. . . "A planet is any body that orbits the Sun. . ." The AIU makes things so general that they, themselves, are confused. Since these are bodies that orbit around 'the Sun', does that mean that extrasolar planets need their own definition? I propose we call them 'Those big, round things that aren't shiny'.
But we have drifted off course a bit. Why does the AIU have it in for Pluto? It has been a planet since February 18th of 1930. Why, now, should we demote it with a definition that is so poorly worded that we have to make exceptions to keep calling Earth a planet? Is it because of its size? Its composition? Perhaps they just don't want to memorize any more names.
Pluto was discovered by Clyde Tombaugh with ground-based equipment in the 1930s. At a diameter of 2390 kilometers, it is half the size of Mercury and just over half the size of our moon. Pluto has three confirmed moons, Charon, Hydra, and Nix; as many as all the inner planets, combined. Perhaps it hasn't cleared its surrounding space of cosmic debris, but could Mercury, if it weren't so near the sun?
Let's leave our textbooks alone. We can always add easier than we can erase. I say we give Pluto a chance. It may be smaller than Luna, but it orbits Sol with the rest of the planets, and holds silent vigil over the Kuiper Belt with all the other ageless little iceballs.
I bet if it were made of diamond, they'd call it a planet again.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
A Million Dollars. . .
Think about it. . . A million dollars.
It's the capitalist's dream. It has become the benchmark of success and financial independence. . . "When I make my first million, I'm gonna. . ."
What would you do?
Tonight, as I prepared for my nightly pre-writing ritual, I had the opportunity to take in a show on TV that highlighted the newest, state-of-the-art weaponry in use by military agencies the world over. The one that stood out was the 'Sensor Fuzed Weapon'.
In a nutshell, the SFW is actually a 'canister' that, shortly after being dropped from the delivery aircraft, breaks open, deploying ten cylinders by parachute that, each, holds four hockey puck-shaped 'skeets'. These 40 skeets are bomblets that use infrared sensors to detect targets for their small-yet-powerful warheads. The particular test they televised was against an armored division of retired assault armor. Each skeet warhead was loaded with molten copper, decimating its target on impact, or, if the warhead couldn't find a target, exploded in midair, spraying the battlefield with the molten metal.
The cost of the test-fire: One million dollars.
Now, let's step back a bit and look at the situation. I have always been a science wonk and, throughout high school and college, I favored physics because, well, it's fun to make things go kabloey. But a million dollars?!! I'd have to look at the money awful hard before sacrificing it to mere pyrotechnics.
We are invested, militarily, in a seemingly-unending commitment in Iraq that is bleeding money from our budget at a freakish rate. I understand that a weapon of this type could end a conventional military confrontation very quickly, but we're not dealing with that type of battlefield. It's useless.
Turning towards the home front, we find several storm-ravaged areas still in ruins, neighborhoods cleared of homes, grocery stores and gas stations empty and abandoned, and schools and churches falling apart. What would a million dollars do in the effort to rebuild?
Perhaps I'm picking nits. I mean, the atomic bomb cost about two billion dollars to develop and, at just over one billion dollars, the American Seawolf-class submarine is a venture that even the government had a hard time affording to produce. A million dollar bomb doesn't sound so bad in comparison. If you could buy such weaponry at the average retail stores, the Sensor Fuzed Weapon would be on the clearance shelf in your local Wal-Mart.
Ah, free Capitalism! I suppose we can't blame the government for using their money to develop a new toy. They know best, don't they? Besides, if I had a million dollars, I'd probably waste it on frivolous things like paying off my house or saving for my retirement and the kids' college tuition. At least the government is using the money to help insure the freedom and independence of our country.
. . .By blowing up a large piece of it.
It's the capitalist's dream. It has become the benchmark of success and financial independence. . . "When I make my first million, I'm gonna. . ."
What would you do?
Tonight, as I prepared for my nightly pre-writing ritual, I had the opportunity to take in a show on TV that highlighted the newest, state-of-the-art weaponry in use by military agencies the world over. The one that stood out was the 'Sensor Fuzed Weapon'.
In a nutshell, the SFW is actually a 'canister' that, shortly after being dropped from the delivery aircraft, breaks open, deploying ten cylinders by parachute that, each, holds four hockey puck-shaped 'skeets'. These 40 skeets are bomblets that use infrared sensors to detect targets for their small-yet-powerful warheads. The particular test they televised was against an armored division of retired assault armor. Each skeet warhead was loaded with molten copper, decimating its target on impact, or, if the warhead couldn't find a target, exploded in midair, spraying the battlefield with the molten metal.
The cost of the test-fire: One million dollars.
Now, let's step back a bit and look at the situation. I have always been a science wonk and, throughout high school and college, I favored physics because, well, it's fun to make things go kabloey. But a million dollars?!! I'd have to look at the money awful hard before sacrificing it to mere pyrotechnics.
We are invested, militarily, in a seemingly-unending commitment in Iraq that is bleeding money from our budget at a freakish rate. I understand that a weapon of this type could end a conventional military confrontation very quickly, but we're not dealing with that type of battlefield. It's useless.
Turning towards the home front, we find several storm-ravaged areas still in ruins, neighborhoods cleared of homes, grocery stores and gas stations empty and abandoned, and schools and churches falling apart. What would a million dollars do in the effort to rebuild?
Perhaps I'm picking nits. I mean, the atomic bomb cost about two billion dollars to develop and, at just over one billion dollars, the American Seawolf-class submarine is a venture that even the government had a hard time affording to produce. A million dollar bomb doesn't sound so bad in comparison. If you could buy such weaponry at the average retail stores, the Sensor Fuzed Weapon would be on the clearance shelf in your local Wal-Mart.
Ah, free Capitalism! I suppose we can't blame the government for using their money to develop a new toy. They know best, don't they? Besides, if I had a million dollars, I'd probably waste it on frivolous things like paying off my house or saving for my retirement and the kids' college tuition. At least the government is using the money to help insure the freedom and independence of our country.
. . .By blowing up a large piece of it.
Friday, June 16, 2006
All the Subtlety of Above-Ground Nuclear Testing. . .
Tonight, I'd like to talk about tact and decorum, subtlety and manners.
I'd like to, but I'm not, because I'm going to be talking about humans.
I had to take a small business trip to Detroit this week, and I opted for a State Park campground, rather than a hotel, since I am able to sleep much better in the former, than the latter. There's just something about being in a comfortable room with no screaming kids around that makes it impossible for me to write or sleep in. I just belong in nature.
And then there were humans. The cabin next to mine was occupied by about eight teenage girls of various ages, and one boy I would guess to be about fifteen who was brother to the largest part of the group. Needless to say, the 'missing the screaming kids' problem was nonexistent after this point.
Through a soundtrack of Christian rock emanating from their CD player, a hail of swearing and moderately off-color stories wafted across the campground with sufficient volume to be heard clearly by all. The only intermission to this being a short 'check up' visit from their father on the second day of their stay.
Across the way, an older fellow got into a shouting match over a citation he was given by the park ranger for 'driving off-road in an undesignated area'. That, translated, means that he couldn't back his trailer into the campsite, so he pulled straight through across another site to park it. Thus, we revisit the idea that, if you wish to own a vehicle (including trailers and RVs), you should have to take a training course to learn how to drive it. As I've said before, most people on the road today should be driving Volkswagen Beetles and such.
Not to be upstaged, the 'girls next door' began to wonder where their eldest sister had gotten to. Their brother, whom I had already begun to feel sorry for, announced that he would go find her. As I sat at the picnic table in front of my own cabin, writing stories and eating my steak sandwich, he walked past, disappearing down the road to the lake. Short minutes after, he comes back around the bend, announcing to everyone that she "fell asleep at the lake," and that "she looks like a friggin' tomato!"
Shortly behind the brother came the sister who, from two cabins away, announced to her group (and the campground at large) that, "my boobs are white, and the rest of me is glowing!" Thinking that wasn't exposition enough, she pulled off her bikini top to provide two, large visual aids for anyone who couldn't grasp the concept she was conveying.
**Please note, I didn't take any pictures, so don't email me. Thank you.**
Needless to say, things went downhill from there. I like to think it was Karma that sent the platoon of Raccoons upon them as they sat about their campfire, that night.
As with most of my observations of humans, both in the wild and in their native habitats, subtlety is a lost art. For any who doubt this conclusion, I invite you to look upon the current administration and any number of their actions. Or you could look at our history of conflicts.
War is the ultimate opposite of subtlety. Whether conventional or nuclear, a bomb is a rather rude interruption to the flow of someone's day. As if that's not enough, before they are deployed, our troops write insulting messages on them.
Whether we are looking at troops at war, citizens in conflict with authority, or loud, exhibitionist girls with a very henpecked brother, I believe we're seeing both a psychological need to be understood and an inability to tell when the subject's point has been made. Call it a 'malfunctioning barometer', if you will. One part of the brain is not paying attention to what the other parts are trying to accomplish, thus the mouth and body keep rambling and gesticulating long after everyone gets the idea.
Not being a psychologist, I cannot speculate as to the treatment or cure for this failing, if such it can be called. I can only suggest observation from a distance and, of course, a little popcorn to go with the show.
I'd like to, but I'm not, because I'm going to be talking about humans.
I had to take a small business trip to Detroit this week, and I opted for a State Park campground, rather than a hotel, since I am able to sleep much better in the former, than the latter. There's just something about being in a comfortable room with no screaming kids around that makes it impossible for me to write or sleep in. I just belong in nature.
And then there were humans. The cabin next to mine was occupied by about eight teenage girls of various ages, and one boy I would guess to be about fifteen who was brother to the largest part of the group. Needless to say, the 'missing the screaming kids' problem was nonexistent after this point.
Through a soundtrack of Christian rock emanating from their CD player, a hail of swearing and moderately off-color stories wafted across the campground with sufficient volume to be heard clearly by all. The only intermission to this being a short 'check up' visit from their father on the second day of their stay.
Across the way, an older fellow got into a shouting match over a citation he was given by the park ranger for 'driving off-road in an undesignated area'. That, translated, means that he couldn't back his trailer into the campsite, so he pulled straight through across another site to park it. Thus, we revisit the idea that, if you wish to own a vehicle (including trailers and RVs), you should have to take a training course to learn how to drive it. As I've said before, most people on the road today should be driving Volkswagen Beetles and such.
Not to be upstaged, the 'girls next door' began to wonder where their eldest sister had gotten to. Their brother, whom I had already begun to feel sorry for, announced that he would go find her. As I sat at the picnic table in front of my own cabin, writing stories and eating my steak sandwich, he walked past, disappearing down the road to the lake. Short minutes after, he comes back around the bend, announcing to everyone that she "fell asleep at the lake," and that "she looks like a friggin' tomato!"
Shortly behind the brother came the sister who, from two cabins away, announced to her group (and the campground at large) that, "my boobs are white, and the rest of me is glowing!" Thinking that wasn't exposition enough, she pulled off her bikini top to provide two, large visual aids for anyone who couldn't grasp the concept she was conveying.
**Please note, I didn't take any pictures, so don't email me. Thank you.**
Needless to say, things went downhill from there. I like to think it was Karma that sent the platoon of Raccoons upon them as they sat about their campfire, that night.
As with most of my observations of humans, both in the wild and in their native habitats, subtlety is a lost art. For any who doubt this conclusion, I invite you to look upon the current administration and any number of their actions. Or you could look at our history of conflicts.
War is the ultimate opposite of subtlety. Whether conventional or nuclear, a bomb is a rather rude interruption to the flow of someone's day. As if that's not enough, before they are deployed, our troops write insulting messages on them.
Whether we are looking at troops at war, citizens in conflict with authority, or loud, exhibitionist girls with a very henpecked brother, I believe we're seeing both a psychological need to be understood and an inability to tell when the subject's point has been made. Call it a 'malfunctioning barometer', if you will. One part of the brain is not paying attention to what the other parts are trying to accomplish, thus the mouth and body keep rambling and gesticulating long after everyone gets the idea.
Not being a psychologist, I cannot speculate as to the treatment or cure for this failing, if such it can be called. I can only suggest observation from a distance and, of course, a little popcorn to go with the show.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Never Let a Wiccan Wish for Rain While You Test New Plumbing
Today started quite well. I had a bit of a headache when I got out of bed this morning, but that was from the massive amount of cleaning and spackling the day before, in an attempt to redecorate the upstairs bathroom. A little breakfast, and I was ready to start the day.
I had no complaints about work, as everything was nice and dull. The day progressed with no problems, and my headache dissipated.
It was later in the afternoon, as I was getting ready for my Tai Chi class, that things began to go wrong. Oh, it started innocently enough. I decided to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom; a sort of 'inaugural cruise', if you will, since we hadn't really used it since I finished it. Everything went swimmingly, and I went upstairs to get dressed for class.
Here, I digress. Every homeowner, after a certain amount of time, knows every creak, pop, squeak, shimmy, or other annoying noise their home makes. I do. I can tell, from the opposite end of the house, when the ice maker refills. So, when you hear rushing water when the washing machine and dishwasher are both silent, your life passes before you.
And you run.
I wish the Guinness people had been around, because I blew away speed records in reaching the basement. Of course, my first and only thought was stopping the flow of water that was gushing from the access hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, so I neglected to turn on any lights. In the dark, I found the bathroom's shutoff valves and, naturally, turned off the wrong one first. When I finally got the blown line's valve in hand, I was a bit dismayed to find that it wasn't working completely. Fully closed, it was still letting a trickle flow through, deepening my new indoor swimming pool. In wet socks, I slogged over to the main and shut off the whole house.
Thankfully, the idiots that built my house couldn't level a concrete pad to save their lives, so the water was corralled on the uncarpeted side of the basement. Unfortunately, it just happened to be the side with all the boxes and tables jammed against the wall.
It was about this time, for some reason, the song, "Come On, Get Happy" began running through my head. Suddenly, I found myself wondering if David Cassidy was still alive so I could strangle him.
To make a long story manageably short, five hours, two shop vacuums, one box fan, many towels, four repair couplings, and a large amount of primer and cement later, we have running water. The cause of my entire problem had been a small seal in the shutoff valve I mentioned earlier. The seal broke free and was swept through the line to a repair coupling where it, apparently, caused a pressure variance that blew out the compression fitting.
A series of unfortunate events. And none of it was lemony.
This evening, as things were calming down, I was speaking to one of my friends over the phone. She was telling me about how, at around the same time I was having my day's adventure, she was really wishing for a heavy rain. Also, about this time, her grandmother had a water line explode in her basement. She felt bad because she 'caused' it. Hmmm. . . No, Diane, I'm not letting you take responsibility for this one. This is just the way the Universe keeps things interesting for me.
"Come on, get happy"? It's a screaming wonder I don't drink.
I had no complaints about work, as everything was nice and dull. The day progressed with no problems, and my headache dissipated.
It was later in the afternoon, as I was getting ready for my Tai Chi class, that things began to go wrong. Oh, it started innocently enough. I decided to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom; a sort of 'inaugural cruise', if you will, since we hadn't really used it since I finished it. Everything went swimmingly, and I went upstairs to get dressed for class.
Here, I digress. Every homeowner, after a certain amount of time, knows every creak, pop, squeak, shimmy, or other annoying noise their home makes. I do. I can tell, from the opposite end of the house, when the ice maker refills. So, when you hear rushing water when the washing machine and dishwasher are both silent, your life passes before you.
And you run.
I wish the Guinness people had been around, because I blew away speed records in reaching the basement. Of course, my first and only thought was stopping the flow of water that was gushing from the access hall between the bathroom and the bedroom, so I neglected to turn on any lights. In the dark, I found the bathroom's shutoff valves and, naturally, turned off the wrong one first. When I finally got the blown line's valve in hand, I was a bit dismayed to find that it wasn't working completely. Fully closed, it was still letting a trickle flow through, deepening my new indoor swimming pool. In wet socks, I slogged over to the main and shut off the whole house.
Thankfully, the idiots that built my house couldn't level a concrete pad to save their lives, so the water was corralled on the uncarpeted side of the basement. Unfortunately, it just happened to be the side with all the boxes and tables jammed against the wall.
It was about this time, for some reason, the song, "Come On, Get Happy" began running through my head. Suddenly, I found myself wondering if David Cassidy was still alive so I could strangle him.
To make a long story manageably short, five hours, two shop vacuums, one box fan, many towels, four repair couplings, and a large amount of primer and cement later, we have running water. The cause of my entire problem had been a small seal in the shutoff valve I mentioned earlier. The seal broke free and was swept through the line to a repair coupling where it, apparently, caused a pressure variance that blew out the compression fitting.
A series of unfortunate events. And none of it was lemony.
This evening, as things were calming down, I was speaking to one of my friends over the phone. She was telling me about how, at around the same time I was having my day's adventure, she was really wishing for a heavy rain. Also, about this time, her grandmother had a water line explode in her basement. She felt bad because she 'caused' it. Hmmm. . . No, Diane, I'm not letting you take responsibility for this one. This is just the way the Universe keeps things interesting for me.
"Come on, get happy"? It's a screaming wonder I don't drink.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
No Brain, No Gain
I have come to a single conclusion. . . I need to write a book on fitness.
What? It's true.
Walk into any bookstore in the United States (and, most likely, Canada) and you will find an entire section of books devoted to making everyone fit, healthy, strong, and generally gorgeous. There are diets from the sensible to the absurd, weight training routines that are supposed to make anyone look like Conan the Barbarian, and fitness routines that are a melding of martial arts and dance that, in all honesty, I truly wonder about.
And, yet, we are a nation of obesity. Obesity is the second leading cause of death in the U.S., with approximately 60 million people considered obese (Body Mass Index >30) and approximately 9 million extremely obese (BMI >40). Once again, though, I have to wonder how true those facts are since, not that long ago, I also saw an article about how the BMI index is inaccurate, as it does nothing to distinguish between lean body weight (muscle) and fat. In fact, it doesn't even consider clothing.
I wear, on average, around 5 pounds of clothing, not including my shoes. This is jeans, shirt, and whatever is in my pockets or on my belt (wallet, keys, cell phone, spare change, etc.). At home, weighing myself in lighter attire, I am not considered overweight by the BMI index (though it is only by a narrow margin). At the doctor's office, they do not even require me to take off my shoes to be weighed so, there, I am overweight (BMI = 25.8).
Needless to say, I have little confidence in medical science's ability to gauge my health by such tenuous means.
I do believe there is a problem, however. It's hard to not see it. We live in a country where the meat of another animal has become a condiment (i.e., "I'll take my half-pound burger with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise and BACON!!"). There are greasy, fast-food places on every corner and, quite frankly, our society is not exactly a model of self-control.
I am not here, today, to take a 'holier-than-thou' attitude on the matter. Far from it, I am here to set the record straight. I am NOT an expert, nor am I a certified personal trainer or nutritionist. I am an average being with above-average knowledge of the subject of fitness because of one reason, alone:
I acknowledge that no two people are exactly alike.
Everyone is different. This fact seems to escape all the 'gurus' and 'experts' who write these books. People buy their collective works as though they are the Word from On High, but what works for one person, or even a sizable group, is not guaranteed to work for the average person. I have, over the years, picked up a large number of fitness magazines, all claiming to have the best workouts for muscle mass, or diets for fat-burning, and I've tried a few, now and again. Have they all worked? No. Have some of them worked? No.
Now, don't get me wrong; there was a lot of helpful information in those articles, but just not all at once. I follow fitness guidelines for myself that is a hybridization of all of the knowledge I've accumulated over the years since high school, and I've made it work for me. I weight train four days a week, run at least a mile on the other days, and throw in Tai Chi as often as I can. It works for me. Will it work for you? Probably not. Remember, everyone is different.
My point, through all this ranting, is that the human body is an amazing machine. If you exert yourself, physically, on a regular basis using common sense, you will improve your health. If you are mindful of what you eat and lay off of the garbage food, you will lose weight or, at least, maintain a healthy weight. For some people, losing weight could be as simple as cutting out soft drinks. For others, medical intervention could be required. Carb-free diets and all-liquid meals are fads that come and go and, quite frankly, should be left alone.
If you are concerned about your weight, you should talk to your doctor. No magazine or book or DVD knows you like he or she does. Doctors aren't all about the prescriptions; they may have a good, simple plan for you to follow. Besides, you should see your doctor for a physical before starting any workout regimen, so you're going to be there, anyway.
Remember, it's our duty as good citizens to live as long as we can, just to keep the Social Security people totally confounded.
What? It's true.
Walk into any bookstore in the United States (and, most likely, Canada) and you will find an entire section of books devoted to making everyone fit, healthy, strong, and generally gorgeous. There are diets from the sensible to the absurd, weight training routines that are supposed to make anyone look like Conan the Barbarian, and fitness routines that are a melding of martial arts and dance that, in all honesty, I truly wonder about.
And, yet, we are a nation of obesity. Obesity is the second leading cause of death in the U.S., with approximately 60 million people considered obese (Body Mass Index >30) and approximately 9 million extremely obese (BMI >40). Once again, though, I have to wonder how true those facts are since, not that long ago, I also saw an article about how the BMI index is inaccurate, as it does nothing to distinguish between lean body weight (muscle) and fat. In fact, it doesn't even consider clothing.
I wear, on average, around 5 pounds of clothing, not including my shoes. This is jeans, shirt, and whatever is in my pockets or on my belt (wallet, keys, cell phone, spare change, etc.). At home, weighing myself in lighter attire, I am not considered overweight by the BMI index (though it is only by a narrow margin). At the doctor's office, they do not even require me to take off my shoes to be weighed so, there, I am overweight (BMI = 25.8).
Needless to say, I have little confidence in medical science's ability to gauge my health by such tenuous means.
I do believe there is a problem, however. It's hard to not see it. We live in a country where the meat of another animal has become a condiment (i.e., "I'll take my half-pound burger with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise and BACON!!"). There are greasy, fast-food places on every corner and, quite frankly, our society is not exactly a model of self-control.
I am not here, today, to take a 'holier-than-thou' attitude on the matter. Far from it, I am here to set the record straight. I am NOT an expert, nor am I a certified personal trainer or nutritionist. I am an average being with above-average knowledge of the subject of fitness because of one reason, alone:
I acknowledge that no two people are exactly alike.
Everyone is different. This fact seems to escape all the 'gurus' and 'experts' who write these books. People buy their collective works as though they are the Word from On High, but what works for one person, or even a sizable group, is not guaranteed to work for the average person. I have, over the years, picked up a large number of fitness magazines, all claiming to have the best workouts for muscle mass, or diets for fat-burning, and I've tried a few, now and again. Have they all worked? No. Have some of them worked? No.
Now, don't get me wrong; there was a lot of helpful information in those articles, but just not all at once. I follow fitness guidelines for myself that is a hybridization of all of the knowledge I've accumulated over the years since high school, and I've made it work for me. I weight train four days a week, run at least a mile on the other days, and throw in Tai Chi as often as I can. It works for me. Will it work for you? Probably not. Remember, everyone is different.
My point, through all this ranting, is that the human body is an amazing machine. If you exert yourself, physically, on a regular basis using common sense, you will improve your health. If you are mindful of what you eat and lay off of the garbage food, you will lose weight or, at least, maintain a healthy weight. For some people, losing weight could be as simple as cutting out soft drinks. For others, medical intervention could be required. Carb-free diets and all-liquid meals are fads that come and go and, quite frankly, should be left alone.
If you are concerned about your weight, you should talk to your doctor. No magazine or book or DVD knows you like he or she does. Doctors aren't all about the prescriptions; they may have a good, simple plan for you to follow. Besides, you should see your doctor for a physical before starting any workout regimen, so you're going to be there, anyway.
Remember, it's our duty as good citizens to live as long as we can, just to keep the Social Security people totally confounded.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
A Special Thanks to all my Concerned Friends. . .
Well, friends, another year has begun, and we've gotten off to a wonderful start. This age of computerized communication has placed in all our hands the power to keep in touch with family and friends as never before. To those friends who send me actual letters via email, I am forever appreciative. My heartfelt appreciation also goes out to all of you who have taken the time and trouble to send me email "forwards" over the past 12 months. Thank you for making me feel safe, secure, blessed and wealthy.
Extra thanks for the ones that I have to open 15 times to get to the message.
Special thanks to whoever sent me the one about rat doots in the glue on envelopes 'cause I now have to go get a wet towel every time I need to seal an envelope.
Also, I scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason. Because of your concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains and clean chrome.
I no longer drink Pepsi, or Dr Pepper, since the people who make these products are atheists who won't put "Under God" on their cans.
I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.
I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.
I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.
I no longer go to shopping malls because someone might drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.
I no longer receive packages from, nor send packages by UPS, or FedEx, since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.
I no longer answer the phone, because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica, Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan.
I no longer eat KFC, because their "chickens" are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.
I no longer have any sneakers -- but that will change once I receive my free replacement pair from Nike.
I no longer have to buy expensive cookies from Neiman Marcus, since I now have their recipe.
I no longer worry about my soul, because at last count I have 363,214 angels looking out for me.
Thanks to you, I have learned that God only answers my prayers if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.
I no longer have any savings, because I gave it to a sick girl who is about to die in the hospital (for the 1,387,258th time)
I no longer have any money at all - but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special email program.
Yes, I want to thank you so much for looking out for me that I will now return the favor!
If you don't copy and send this article to 144,000 people in the next 7 minutes, a large pigeon with a wicked case of explosive diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM (EDT) this afternoon. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of mine's next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's former college roommate.
Heads up!
Extra thanks for the ones that I have to open 15 times to get to the message.
Special thanks to whoever sent me the one about rat doots in the glue on envelopes 'cause I now have to go get a wet towel every time I need to seal an envelope.
Also, I scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason. Because of your concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains and clean chrome.
I no longer drink Pepsi, or Dr Pepper, since the people who make these products are atheists who won't put "Under God" on their cans.
I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.
I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.
I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.
I no longer go to shopping malls because someone might drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.
I no longer receive packages from, nor send packages by UPS, or FedEx, since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.
I no longer answer the phone, because someone will ask me to dial a number for which I will get a phone bill with calls to Jamaica, Uganda, Singapore, and Uzbekistan.
I no longer eat KFC, because their "chickens" are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.
I no longer have any sneakers -- but that will change once I receive my free replacement pair from Nike.
I no longer have to buy expensive cookies from Neiman Marcus, since I now have their recipe.
I no longer worry about my soul, because at last count I have 363,214 angels looking out for me.
Thanks to you, I have learned that God only answers my prayers if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.
I no longer have any savings, because I gave it to a sick girl who is about to die in the hospital (for the 1,387,258th time)
I no longer have any money at all - but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special email program.
Yes, I want to thank you so much for looking out for me that I will now return the favor!
If you don't copy and send this article to 144,000 people in the next 7 minutes, a large pigeon with a wicked case of explosive diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 PM (EDT) this afternoon. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of mine's next door neighbor's ex-mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's former college roommate.
Heads up!
Friday, January 06, 2006
Stereotypy, Ad Nauseum. . .
It's not very surprising and a bit horrifying that screaming incompetance and idiocy is a worldwide trend.
Scenario #1:
The holidays are over, and I FINALLY got my last Christmas package sent off yesterday. Why so late, you may ask? Because a package I sent out on the smegging 20th of December was returned to me by Canada Post for being 'improperly addressed'. What kind of grievous mistake did I commit? Did I leave out the postal code? No. Did I screw up the street address? No. Canada Post requires all items inbound from the United States to be printed in capital letters. In my apparent haste, amongst the capitals, I inserted a lowercase 'h'.
Example: SMITh
We're not exactly talking about a quantum leap of understanding, here.
Scenario #2:
Though I'm loath to admit it, I found myself watching one of those 'amazing video' shows last night. One of the clips was from an Austrailian children's show, the title of which was never given. The star, however, was one of those big, floppy monster-like creatures portrayed by a man who should have listened to his high school guidance counselors before choosing educational and career paths. An animal trainer was a guest, and he brought a (naturally) kangaroo.
Now, for those of you who have never had the opportunity to see a kangaroo outside of your local zoo, they are cute, yes, but also EXTREMELY strong and HORRIFYINGLY fierce when they feel threatened.
Enter the actor in the big, orange, floppy suit.
Within seconds of his walking on stage, the man in the costume found himself ON THE FLOOR IN A VISE-LIKE HEADLOCK, FIGHTING FOR AIR. The cute little kangaroo made it perfectly clear that he did not like the guy in the monster suit; so much that two people had to pull her off of him.
What does he do once he gets back on his feet? HE WALKS OVER TO THE KANGAROO AGAIN!! Of course, the animal reiterates her earlier editorial act and attempts to rip the costume head off while kicking the man severely in the groin and midsection.
Geeze. Where were the 'Darwin Award' people for this guy?
There we go. Two examples out of twenty this week that just make me wish there were colonies in Antarctica to ship people to.
More to come. . .
Scenario #1:
The holidays are over, and I FINALLY got my last Christmas package sent off yesterday. Why so late, you may ask? Because a package I sent out on the smegging 20th of December was returned to me by Canada Post for being 'improperly addressed'. What kind of grievous mistake did I commit? Did I leave out the postal code? No. Did I screw up the street address? No. Canada Post requires all items inbound from the United States to be printed in capital letters. In my apparent haste, amongst the capitals, I inserted a lowercase 'h'.
Example: SMITh
We're not exactly talking about a quantum leap of understanding, here.
Scenario #2:
Though I'm loath to admit it, I found myself watching one of those 'amazing video' shows last night. One of the clips was from an Austrailian children's show, the title of which was never given. The star, however, was one of those big, floppy monster-like creatures portrayed by a man who should have listened to his high school guidance counselors before choosing educational and career paths. An animal trainer was a guest, and he brought a (naturally) kangaroo.
Now, for those of you who have never had the opportunity to see a kangaroo outside of your local zoo, they are cute, yes, but also EXTREMELY strong and HORRIFYINGLY fierce when they feel threatened.
Enter the actor in the big, orange, floppy suit.
Within seconds of his walking on stage, the man in the costume found himself ON THE FLOOR IN A VISE-LIKE HEADLOCK, FIGHTING FOR AIR. The cute little kangaroo made it perfectly clear that he did not like the guy in the monster suit; so much that two people had to pull her off of him.
What does he do once he gets back on his feet? HE WALKS OVER TO THE KANGAROO AGAIN!! Of course, the animal reiterates her earlier editorial act and attempts to rip the costume head off while kicking the man severely in the groin and midsection.
Geeze. Where were the 'Darwin Award' people for this guy?
There we go. Two examples out of twenty this week that just make me wish there were colonies in Antarctica to ship people to.
More to come. . .
Saturday, December 31, 2005
This Is The Ending. . .
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. . .
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. . .
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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