Monday, August 25, 2008
Don't Fergit to Feed the Aminals
Gone a-burning. Not going to write much or take many pictures. Not being just an observer so much. Have the greatest!
Friday, August 22, 2008
Obama Veep Brainfever
Biden? Joe Biden!?
Honestly, this game is rigged. Obama has been chosen to take the fall. Whoever told him to choose Biden probably made him an offer he couldn't you know the rest.
Honestly, this game is rigged. Obama has been chosen to take the fall. Whoever told him to choose Biden probably made him an offer he couldn't you know the rest.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Life Death Life
I fought in the Battle of Fresno a couple of years ago (the material at the dead link is reproduced below). Or Battle of Kearney Park, depending I guess on which side you were on. I’m planning to go fight it again in a couple months -– damn this see-saw war that never ends. Didn’t we show ‘em last time?
I learned a thing or two. How to fall into line. How to keep “farb” out of sight of the general public. How to wear suspenders and a straw hat while sitting on a hay bale, listening to fiddle music, and passing around a pewter flask of Bushmills. I also learned how to have fun when I die.
There was a soldier named Ken who positioned himself behind me in line and whispered instructions. I’d had a quick one on one lesson from the drill sergeant, but that sort of thing doesn’t stick. The time to really learn how to do something is when you’re out in the hot sun, hundreds of people watching, your fingers fumbling for the paper-wrapped cartridges as you struggle to get loaded in time for the command to fire and then quickly change positions according to the arcane instructions encoded in the movement of the guidon. Ken picked me out as a newbie and took it upon himself to keep me from going too many steps in the wrong direction, see that I was ready to fire when needed, and did not fire out of order when delivering a volley. In other words, he went out of his way to keep me from embarrassing myself before the crowd and the other men.
He was the dramatist of the bunch. The unruly soldier, the jokester, the card who talked back from formation through unmoving lips while everyone else suppressed laughter. He shouted insults at the enemy and howled when he charged. He also died with a grand clutching of the chest, rifle flung wide, and a fearless fall to the ground, so hard sometimes that he bounced. Why not, he said, give the folks a show.
He died for real a week ago, thirty eight years old. Out at a lake with his family, standing in waist-deep water, he suddenly fell and was gone before they got him to shore. A sudden heart failure -– myocardial infarction, pulmonary embolism, the sort of thing that can happen unexpectedly to any of us. I knew him very briefly, but his family, now having to rebuild from the shock, is in my thoughts as I hope for the best possible path for them going forward (like me, he was unreligious, and his family does not ask for prayers).
In honor of his memory and his love of the hobby, I’m reproducing here the story I wrote for the unit newsletter. Reading it reminds me of him, and that all of us really need to live while we have the chance.
We grouped under the trees or sat on tables in the shade. No one took off their kepis. No one talked much. It was enough to watch and wait.
A bugle call drifted down from the other end of the field, followed by the thunder of hooves. Sunlight glinted on sabers clashing. Horses milled about. Pistols cracked in the distance.
Sweat collected across my brow. I watered up from my canteen. The muzzles of cradled rifles were black against the sunlit grass.
Cannon faced each other from either end of the field, just in front of the trees. They spoke and a shock wave hammered past. Great booms echoed into the sky. White smoke billowed up into the sycamore trees. An artillery volley – great explosions in sequence from one end of the line to the other – was followed by a drift of applause.
An orderly galloped up from the rear and spoke to the lieutenant. The lieutenant barked orders.
“2nd Mass! Assemble at the guidon!”
We lined up by twos, shoulder to shoulder, carbines at the carry. They lay barrels up and triggers forward in the crooks of our right arms.
“By twos! March!”
The ground shook as the cannon roared. Cavalry galloped past. We walked into the open, two dozen of us in blue wool jackets with yellow piping and black leather across our chests. Upon command, we spread out into a broad front, marching forward two deep, lines dressed to the guidon. Ahead, less than a hundred yards, the shade of a few trees held men watching us, men in butternut and gray, men loading their muskets.
“Skirmish lines!”
We spread out further into a staggered formation.
“Halt! Load!”
Somewhere else, rifles were firing. Somewhere else, men were shouting. Somewhere far away, people clapped and a public address system droned unintelligibly. I concentrated on loading my carbine: open the breech, blow into it to remove any stray powder grains, reach around to the pouch in the small of my back, fumble about for a handmade paper cartridge, stuff it into the barrel, close the breech and cut off the tip of the cartridge, half-cock the weapon, fish around in my cap pouch for a firing cap, insert the cap, and then shout “Loaded!” I had only learned all this an hour before and did not know the terminology, only that it was all done with the right hand (the wrong hand for me) and I was deathly afraid of dropping things or jamming them up. But it worked, and the first sergeant yelled:
“Volley by file from the right! Ready!”
We fully cocked our weapons …
“Aim!”
… took a bead on the rebels nonchalantly slinging their ramrods and observing our maneuvers …
“Fire!”
… whereupon the right-most trooper squeezed the trigger, then his mate, then his, and so on down the line from right end to left, a quick succession of black powder explosions, bang bang bang bang bang. When I squeezed the trigger my rifle kicked and banged and a cloud of white smoke joined all the other clouds of white smoke making a battle haze over the field. It was a good feeling, as firing a rifle always is, not unlike swinging a bat and making contact with a baseball; but in this case there were no projectiles, just powder, and the rebels in front were too busy reloading their muskets to pay us any mind; for they had fired too, and I hadn’t noticed.
As infantry units joined the fray to the beat of their small pipe and drum corps, and more men and guns entered into things, the artillery went largely silent lest any shock waves create a safety hazard. Though nothing like real battle, the action was driven by orders from the rear brought by orderlies on horseback and delivered via the leather lungs of elected officers and NCOs, and to a simple and inexperienced trooper the chaos was nearly complete. Only my desperate never-ending attempt to understand orders, stay in line, and not jam my borrowed black-powder rifle provided structure. All else was noise and smoke. We ran here, lined up there, retreated this way, then that; rallied; fell back; fired at will – “Pour it into ‘em, boys!” – aiming above the heads of the enemy if they were too close, happily drawing a bead right into their faces if they were far enough away. Now and then an amateur dramatist on one side or the other would wheel in pain and collapse into the grass, to lie still and pathetic and get some rest exactly as learned in the city parks of our universal playtime as nine-year-olds. I noticed that the veterans preferred to die in the shade.
We had entered the fray early. By the time I was finally able to raise my head and look at the lay of the body-littered battlefield, units were clumped all over, lined up in the characteristic fashion of the middle of the 19th Century, in rows and columns most efficient for pikes and muskets but not so clever when up against fast-loading carbines and rifled cannon and grapeshot. The Federal infantry had been pushed back towards the rear and were massing for a final defense, but we did not join them. As a dismounted cavalry unit, we did not line up well with infantry. Instead we were tasked with flanking the enemy. They didn’t think much of this, and thickened their line. The roar and concussion of opposing lines of rifles going off within ten yards of one another was made all the more fun by our exposed position. All re-enactors have a natural sense of theater, and it seemed wrong somehow to be exposed and outgunned and to not suffer any cas–
“Aahrr!”
I fell backwards to the ground, almost gently, not as though I had just had my guts torn out by a minié ball but strangely as if I was simply trying to avoid damaging my friend’s carbine. I lay still on my back with my face in the sun, my legs at an odd angle, and listened to the sounds of battle – endless rifle fire, the crack of pistols – men shouted orders and insults – a horseman galloped past my head – I saw him glance down at me over his moustache in that fraction of a second – the odd cannon blast – the unidentifiable sounds of men and equipment – metal clashing, leather creaking, booted feet drumming the ground – an unexpected lull incongruously filled by a breeze rustling the leaves overhead.
And then silence, or rather silence’s distant cousin: the echo of the last shot fading away through the trees; and from over in the 69th New York, halfway across the field, someone called out in an Irish brogue:
“Ye derrty bastards! Ye killed Kenny!”
But laughter was short-lived, as something was happening. Over my eyebrows I saw only men standing in rank, hanging by their feet from the grass that met the top of my head. In the distance there were voices, spoken firmly but civilly. I couldn’t make out the words. A silence settled over the field – I heard my heavy woolen coat move as I breathed – and from a place as far away as ancestral memory, a clear-toned bugle slowly sang Taps.
In the hands of a competent bugler, it is a haunting tune, with plenty of room for expression. This was in the hands of more than a brigade bugler; it was played by a musician. It sang of respect for the dead, of rest, of an end to strife; and especially, on this sunny day, it sang of surrender.
When it was over and had drifted beyond the trees, two thousand actors and thirty thousand spectators were completely silent for a strong half minute, until as if brought in on the tide, a wave of applause rose from beyond the ropes, and cheers and huzzahs, and the dead rose, and our unit reformed and marched through the crowds to camp, raising our kepis to the ladies and anticipating a seat in the shade and something cold to drink.
I learned a thing or two. How to fall into line. How to keep “farb” out of sight of the general public. How to wear suspenders and a straw hat while sitting on a hay bale, listening to fiddle music, and passing around a pewter flask of Bushmills. I also learned how to have fun when I die.
There was a soldier named Ken who positioned himself behind me in line and whispered instructions. I’d had a quick one on one lesson from the drill sergeant, but that sort of thing doesn’t stick. The time to really learn how to do something is when you’re out in the hot sun, hundreds of people watching, your fingers fumbling for the paper-wrapped cartridges as you struggle to get loaded in time for the command to fire and then quickly change positions according to the arcane instructions encoded in the movement of the guidon. Ken picked me out as a newbie and took it upon himself to keep me from going too many steps in the wrong direction, see that I was ready to fire when needed, and did not fire out of order when delivering a volley. In other words, he went out of his way to keep me from embarrassing myself before the crowd and the other men.
He was the dramatist of the bunch. The unruly soldier, the jokester, the card who talked back from formation through unmoving lips while everyone else suppressed laughter. He shouted insults at the enemy and howled when he charged. He also died with a grand clutching of the chest, rifle flung wide, and a fearless fall to the ground, so hard sometimes that he bounced. Why not, he said, give the folks a show.
He died for real a week ago, thirty eight years old. Out at a lake with his family, standing in waist-deep water, he suddenly fell and was gone before they got him to shore. A sudden heart failure -– myocardial infarction, pulmonary embolism, the sort of thing that can happen unexpectedly to any of us. I knew him very briefly, but his family, now having to rebuild from the shock, is in my thoughts as I hope for the best possible path for them going forward (like me, he was unreligious, and his family does not ask for prayers).
In honor of his memory and his love of the hobby, I’m reproducing here the story I wrote for the unit newsletter. Reading it reminds me of him, and that all of us really need to live while we have the chance.
* * * * *
We grouped under the trees or sat on tables in the shade. No one took off their kepis. No one talked much. It was enough to watch and wait.
A bugle call drifted down from the other end of the field, followed by the thunder of hooves. Sunlight glinted on sabers clashing. Horses milled about. Pistols cracked in the distance.
Sweat collected across my brow. I watered up from my canteen. The muzzles of cradled rifles were black against the sunlit grass.
Cannon faced each other from either end of the field, just in front of the trees. They spoke and a shock wave hammered past. Great booms echoed into the sky. White smoke billowed up into the sycamore trees. An artillery volley – great explosions in sequence from one end of the line to the other – was followed by a drift of applause.
An orderly galloped up from the rear and spoke to the lieutenant. The lieutenant barked orders.
“2nd Mass! Assemble at the guidon!”
We lined up by twos, shoulder to shoulder, carbines at the carry. They lay barrels up and triggers forward in the crooks of our right arms.
“By twos! March!”
The ground shook as the cannon roared. Cavalry galloped past. We walked into the open, two dozen of us in blue wool jackets with yellow piping and black leather across our chests. Upon command, we spread out into a broad front, marching forward two deep, lines dressed to the guidon. Ahead, less than a hundred yards, the shade of a few trees held men watching us, men in butternut and gray, men loading their muskets.
“Skirmish lines!”
We spread out further into a staggered formation.
“Halt! Load!”
Somewhere else, rifles were firing. Somewhere else, men were shouting. Somewhere far away, people clapped and a public address system droned unintelligibly. I concentrated on loading my carbine: open the breech, blow into it to remove any stray powder grains, reach around to the pouch in the small of my back, fumble about for a handmade paper cartridge, stuff it into the barrel, close the breech and cut off the tip of the cartridge, half-cock the weapon, fish around in my cap pouch for a firing cap, insert the cap, and then shout “Loaded!” I had only learned all this an hour before and did not know the terminology, only that it was all done with the right hand (the wrong hand for me) and I was deathly afraid of dropping things or jamming them up. But it worked, and the first sergeant yelled:
“Volley by file from the right! Ready!”
We fully cocked our weapons …
“Aim!”
… took a bead on the rebels nonchalantly slinging their ramrods and observing our maneuvers …
“Fire!”
… whereupon the right-most trooper squeezed the trigger, then his mate, then his, and so on down the line from right end to left, a quick succession of black powder explosions, bang bang bang bang bang. When I squeezed the trigger my rifle kicked and banged and a cloud of white smoke joined all the other clouds of white smoke making a battle haze over the field. It was a good feeling, as firing a rifle always is, not unlike swinging a bat and making contact with a baseball; but in this case there were no projectiles, just powder, and the rebels in front were too busy reloading their muskets to pay us any mind; for they had fired too, and I hadn’t noticed.
As infantry units joined the fray to the beat of their small pipe and drum corps, and more men and guns entered into things, the artillery went largely silent lest any shock waves create a safety hazard. Though nothing like real battle, the action was driven by orders from the rear brought by orderlies on horseback and delivered via the leather lungs of elected officers and NCOs, and to a simple and inexperienced trooper the chaos was nearly complete. Only my desperate never-ending attempt to understand orders, stay in line, and not jam my borrowed black-powder rifle provided structure. All else was noise and smoke. We ran here, lined up there, retreated this way, then that; rallied; fell back; fired at will – “Pour it into ‘em, boys!” – aiming above the heads of the enemy if they were too close, happily drawing a bead right into their faces if they were far enough away. Now and then an amateur dramatist on one side or the other would wheel in pain and collapse into the grass, to lie still and pathetic and get some rest exactly as learned in the city parks of our universal playtime as nine-year-olds. I noticed that the veterans preferred to die in the shade.
We had entered the fray early. By the time I was finally able to raise my head and look at the lay of the body-littered battlefield, units were clumped all over, lined up in the characteristic fashion of the middle of the 19th Century, in rows and columns most efficient for pikes and muskets but not so clever when up against fast-loading carbines and rifled cannon and grapeshot. The Federal infantry had been pushed back towards the rear and were massing for a final defense, but we did not join them. As a dismounted cavalry unit, we did not line up well with infantry. Instead we were tasked with flanking the enemy. They didn’t think much of this, and thickened their line. The roar and concussion of opposing lines of rifles going off within ten yards of one another was made all the more fun by our exposed position. All re-enactors have a natural sense of theater, and it seemed wrong somehow to be exposed and outgunned and to not suffer any cas–
“Aahrr!”
I fell backwards to the ground, almost gently, not as though I had just had my guts torn out by a minié ball but strangely as if I was simply trying to avoid damaging my friend’s carbine. I lay still on my back with my face in the sun, my legs at an odd angle, and listened to the sounds of battle – endless rifle fire, the crack of pistols – men shouted orders and insults – a horseman galloped past my head – I saw him glance down at me over his moustache in that fraction of a second – the odd cannon blast – the unidentifiable sounds of men and equipment – metal clashing, leather creaking, booted feet drumming the ground – an unexpected lull incongruously filled by a breeze rustling the leaves overhead.
And then silence, or rather silence’s distant cousin: the echo of the last shot fading away through the trees; and from over in the 69th New York, halfway across the field, someone called out in an Irish brogue:
“Ye derrty bastards! Ye killed Kenny!”
But laughter was short-lived, as something was happening. Over my eyebrows I saw only men standing in rank, hanging by their feet from the grass that met the top of my head. In the distance there were voices, spoken firmly but civilly. I couldn’t make out the words. A silence settled over the field – I heard my heavy woolen coat move as I breathed – and from a place as far away as ancestral memory, a clear-toned bugle slowly sang Taps.
In the hands of a competent bugler, it is a haunting tune, with plenty of room for expression. This was in the hands of more than a brigade bugler; it was played by a musician. It sang of respect for the dead, of rest, of an end to strife; and especially, on this sunny day, it sang of surrender.
When it was over and had drifted beyond the trees, two thousand actors and thirty thousand spectators were completely silent for a strong half minute, until as if brought in on the tide, a wave of applause rose from beyond the ropes, and cheers and huzzahs, and the dead rose, and our unit reformed and marched through the crowds to camp, raising our kepis to the ladies and anticipating a seat in the shade and something cold to drink.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
A Meandering Rant on Judgment
One perspective on the war in Vietnam is that LBJ understood it as a consequence of Jack Kennedy’s relative immaturity of judgment, and that once inheriting it, he felt pressured to escalate lest the hawkish Bobby Kennedy make his life miserable prior to the ’68 election. Ironic, isn’t it? Bobby is now thought of as some sort of suit-and-tie flower-child cut off at the roots, and LBJ never ran for re-election in ’68 after all.
What is this judgment thing? Some claim Obama lacks it and hasn’t the experience or maturity to develop it in time for an ’09 presidency. I don’t think anyone seriously claims the same about McCain. Yet what is it, really? Is it really worth anything? Bush clearly lacked it in spades and that certainly sent history’s march in an unexpected direction. Same for Carter, whose inaction regarding Iran in the seventies undoubtedly informed the neocons’ over-reactions in the nineties and aughts. But while Reagan is thought of kindly by history, in his day he was thought by many to be one of the dumbest of all. And suppose his gamble hadn’t paid off? Suppose the Soviets’ adventure in Afghanistan (never mind Carter’s role in encouraging it) hadn’t made such cracks in their structure, and instead of folding into self-destructive introspection had instead responded to Western pressure by sending the tanks rolling across the Elbe? Then Reagan wouldn’t look so smart, would he?
And Lincoln. Did he have good judgment? It violates the American religion to suggest not, but only because he won. His decision to prosecute the war against secession would have been his undoing if not for a few well-timed Union victories in the summer of ’64. The Emancipation Proclamation was no great feat of judgment: Everyone knew, with the growth of the “Black” Republican party and the intensifying rivalry between southern and northern states to, among other things, first establish a railroad link to California, that at some point there would be an Emancipator President. The only question was who. Upon Lincoln’s 1860 election, southerners were pretty certain he was it and finally made good on their many threats to secede. Lincoln himself had no such intention. He only became the Great Emancipator in a political gamble to capitalize on the victory at Antietam and isolate the C.S.A from European support. In the end, Lincoln’s greatness as a president was founded mainly on the blood shed under orders from Grant and Sherman. But for battlefield results, all his other great qualities went for naught.
Claims and counter-claims of sound judgment are way over-rated. And yet, regardless, this upcoming presidential term will require a leader of sound judgment. The “war” in Iraq is a done deal, of course. It’s been over for awhile now (don’t tell the press). Obama wouldn’t pull troops to some timeline, even if it were possible. People who actually believe a President Obama will reduce the incidence and intensity of warfare make me giggle. This is why:
1. Musharraf has resigned from leadership in Pakistan. There will be a period of governmental weakness as the remaining players jockey for position. A grass-roots organization of intensely religious Islamicists will end up sufficiently powerful to wield either direct control or at least a huge influence.
2. Iran will go nuclear with both the indirect assistance of those Europeans who sign large technical trade agreements with them (e.g. France, Germany) and of those who distract world powers with other "small" regional conflicts (e.g. a resurgent and increasingly old-style Russia).
3. Russia will continue to calculate which energy-rich nation is the real winner when Gulf instability –- driven by a fresh Iran / Pakistan nuclear rivalry and increased state-sponsored terrorism, especially against Israel and perhaps Saudi Arabia -– drives global energy prices through the roof, and will act accordingly.
4. The U.N. will continue to grow in irrelevance as China and Russia veto any measures against Iran (not to mention Sudan) that actually have teeth.
And so on. A “peace” president will discover there is no such thing. And since nothing encourages war quite so much as a position for peace, and since Obama is a smart man who has shown a certain amount of flexibility -- who spoke early in the campaign about taking the Afghan war into Pakistan -- there’s no doubt in my mind he will discover that his legacy will depend at least in part on preserving Bush’s. Thus my giggles. They’re not happy ones.
Judgment, then. Everyone has some. Whether or not a given candidate has enough can never be known ahead of time, nor sometimes even after the fact. The only certainty is that if a president doesn’t take steps to maintain the country’s strategic strength in an ever-changing global environment, his judgment will be proven lacking and the people who put him in office will deeply regret it. I hope all claims of either Obama's or McCain's poor judgment are proven wrong.
What is this judgment thing? Some claim Obama lacks it and hasn’t the experience or maturity to develop it in time for an ’09 presidency. I don’t think anyone seriously claims the same about McCain. Yet what is it, really? Is it really worth anything? Bush clearly lacked it in spades and that certainly sent history’s march in an unexpected direction. Same for Carter, whose inaction regarding Iran in the seventies undoubtedly informed the neocons’ over-reactions in the nineties and aughts. But while Reagan is thought of kindly by history, in his day he was thought by many to be one of the dumbest of all. And suppose his gamble hadn’t paid off? Suppose the Soviets’ adventure in Afghanistan (never mind Carter’s role in encouraging it) hadn’t made such cracks in their structure, and instead of folding into self-destructive introspection had instead responded to Western pressure by sending the tanks rolling across the Elbe? Then Reagan wouldn’t look so smart, would he?
And Lincoln. Did he have good judgment? It violates the American religion to suggest not, but only because he won. His decision to prosecute the war against secession would have been his undoing if not for a few well-timed Union victories in the summer of ’64. The Emancipation Proclamation was no great feat of judgment: Everyone knew, with the growth of the “Black” Republican party and the intensifying rivalry between southern and northern states to, among other things, first establish a railroad link to California, that at some point there would be an Emancipator President. The only question was who. Upon Lincoln’s 1860 election, southerners were pretty certain he was it and finally made good on their many threats to secede. Lincoln himself had no such intention. He only became the Great Emancipator in a political gamble to capitalize on the victory at Antietam and isolate the C.S.A from European support. In the end, Lincoln’s greatness as a president was founded mainly on the blood shed under orders from Grant and Sherman. But for battlefield results, all his other great qualities went for naught.
Claims and counter-claims of sound judgment are way over-rated. And yet, regardless, this upcoming presidential term will require a leader of sound judgment. The “war” in Iraq is a done deal, of course. It’s been over for awhile now (don’t tell the press). Obama wouldn’t pull troops to some timeline, even if it were possible. People who actually believe a President Obama will reduce the incidence and intensity of warfare make me giggle. This is why:
1. Musharraf has resigned from leadership in Pakistan. There will be a period of governmental weakness as the remaining players jockey for position. A grass-roots organization of intensely religious Islamicists will end up sufficiently powerful to wield either direct control or at least a huge influence.
2. Iran will go nuclear with both the indirect assistance of those Europeans who sign large technical trade agreements with them (e.g. France, Germany) and of those who distract world powers with other "small" regional conflicts (e.g. a resurgent and increasingly old-style Russia).
3. Russia will continue to calculate which energy-rich nation is the real winner when Gulf instability –- driven by a fresh Iran / Pakistan nuclear rivalry and increased state-sponsored terrorism, especially against Israel and perhaps Saudi Arabia -– drives global energy prices through the roof, and will act accordingly.
4. The U.N. will continue to grow in irrelevance as China and Russia veto any measures against Iran (not to mention Sudan) that actually have teeth.
And so on. A “peace” president will discover there is no such thing. And since nothing encourages war quite so much as a position for peace, and since Obama is a smart man who has shown a certain amount of flexibility -- who spoke early in the campaign about taking the Afghan war into Pakistan -- there’s no doubt in my mind he will discover that his legacy will depend at least in part on preserving Bush’s. Thus my giggles. They’re not happy ones.
Judgment, then. Everyone has some. Whether or not a given candidate has enough can never be known ahead of time, nor sometimes even after the fact. The only certainty is that if a president doesn’t take steps to maintain the country’s strategic strength in an ever-changing global environment, his judgment will be proven lacking and the people who put him in office will deeply regret it. I hope all claims of either Obama's or McCain's poor judgment are proven wrong.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Get On Your Bikes And
A few days after I turned fifty we had a party. Lots of people, good food, etc. But the big thing for me was the run. I wanted to have a birthday run from my workplace to my house. Unfortunately, most of my workout pals were on vacation (as were a lot of other people, what I get for being born in August), and then I started to notice the hot weather, and I thought, nah, we’ll make it a bike ride. So I made up flyers announcing my Only Annual Invitational Birthday Commemorative √50 Mile Bike Ride and plotted a route from work to home that was exactly 7.07 miles in length (the square root of fifty, if you haven’t had your coffee yet), and sent out invitations noting the bike ride was optional
Everyone had an excuse. There were probably thirty people who came to our house and ate Miz Liz' excellent cooking (and brought presents wrapped in wine bottles, yay!). But for my bike ride, only the very hardest of the hard core: My younger son (the older one had to work), and my neighbor. My neighbor’s a crazy mountain biker type and the three of us had a good ol’ time. I plotted it out on myfavoriterun.com ...
which is how I got it to go on sidewalks and bike trails and across country and still got the distance right, and we rode down hills and under bridges and across creeks and along railroad tracks and stopped on the new bridge to enjoy a view of the old bridge ...
and went down and around and under and climbed the most ridiculous hill, walking and pushing up an unofficial trail carved by shortcutters up and down the escarpment that falls off the boulevard towards the lake, and from there were well positioned to cross my favorite old bridge ...
and onward, home to guests and beer and barbecue and beer ...
and a bouncy house. Yay! Good times for all but I still think everyone without small children was a weenie that they didn't get on their bikes and ride.
The bike ride is optional and is not a race unless we change our minds and race anyway because sometimes we’re like that and it will take place rain, smoke or shine whether it’s a warm 110º or a bracing 95º and should take less than an hourand waited for the acceptances to come in.
Everyone had an excuse. There were probably thirty people who came to our house and ate Miz Liz' excellent cooking (and brought presents wrapped in wine bottles, yay!). But for my bike ride, only the very hardest of the hard core: My younger son (the older one had to work), and my neighbor. My neighbor’s a crazy mountain biker type and the three of us had a good ol’ time. I plotted it out on myfavoriterun.com ...
which is how I got it to go on sidewalks and bike trails and across country and still got the distance right, and we rode down hills and under bridges and across creeks and along railroad tracks and stopped on the new bridge to enjoy a view of the old bridge ...
and went down and around and under and climbed the most ridiculous hill, walking and pushing up an unofficial trail carved by shortcutters up and down the escarpment that falls off the boulevard towards the lake, and from there were well positioned to cross my favorite old bridge ...
and onward, home to guests and beer and barbecue and beer ...
and a bouncy house. Yay! Good times for all but I still think everyone without small children was a weenie that they didn't get on their bikes and ride.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Saturday Olympic Eleven
1. Bob Costas is a goober.
2. The trouble with Phelps' eighth gold medal was it was all they talked about during the race as if the other guys didn't really count.
3. I like the arrangement they use of the Star-Spangled Banner. The bridge has some chords I hadn't thought of.
4. What the hell kind of country has an anthem with a word like "spangled" in it? Aren't spangles in the glitter and glue aisle at Michael's?
5. The Water Cube English-language announcer sounds vaguely Australian. I wonder if he's Chinese and learned English down under. Well, if you have to choose an accent, there are worse.
6. Latin American soccer is superior to the European variety.
7. Soccer needs smarter television direction - more replays, say in the upper half while the action continues in the lower half.
8. I don't get Americans who claim soccer is boring. We like basketball. We like hockey. We like baseball. Soccer / football has fast running like basketball and similar overall layout as hockey and as much athletic grace as baseball. There's nothing not to like except those long-haired prima donnas rolling around the pitch pretending to be in pain and all that needs is an anti-grandstanding rule with a penalty of, I dunno, chaining the guy to the ground for two minutes, something like that.
9. A sport that involves chains and shackles would have to be popular.
10. I honestly don't give a flip about American men's basketball. Who the hell's idea was it to send multi-millionaire man-child professionals to the Olympics?
11. We should all believe in God for four seconds just so we can thank Him there is no Olympic golf.
2. The trouble with Phelps' eighth gold medal was it was all they talked about during the race as if the other guys didn't really count.
3. I like the arrangement they use of the Star-Spangled Banner. The bridge has some chords I hadn't thought of.
4. What the hell kind of country has an anthem with a word like "spangled" in it? Aren't spangles in the glitter and glue aisle at Michael's?
5. The Water Cube English-language announcer sounds vaguely Australian. I wonder if he's Chinese and learned English down under. Well, if you have to choose an accent, there are worse.
6. Latin American soccer is superior to the European variety.
7. Soccer needs smarter television direction - more replays, say in the upper half while the action continues in the lower half.
8. I don't get Americans who claim soccer is boring. We like basketball. We like hockey. We like baseball. Soccer / football has fast running like basketball and similar overall layout as hockey and as much athletic grace as baseball. There's nothing not to like except those long-haired prima donnas rolling around the pitch pretending to be in pain and all that needs is an anti-grandstanding rule with a penalty of, I dunno, chaining the guy to the ground for two minutes, something like that.
9. A sport that involves chains and shackles would have to be popular.
10. I honestly don't give a flip about American men's basketball. Who the hell's idea was it to send multi-millionaire man-child professionals to the Olympics?
11. We should all believe in God for four seconds just so we can thank Him there is no Olympic golf.
New World Same as the Old World
A glance at the news shows that Obama and McCain will cross paths at some megachurch in the O.C. tonight.
Isn’t it time we outgrew that nonsense? There are real answers. We don't need leaders who have to prove themselves to crowds held in thrall to feelings, fealty and faith.
The event reflects the importance of religion in American life and, increasingly, in politics. It also marks the coming of age of a broader brand of evangelicalism that is more socially minded and diverse than the orthodox religious movement of the Christian right. - NY Times 17 Aug 08I truly think that is a horrible thing to have to say, to have to read, to have to recognize as a fact in my country. Neither of those men is particularly religious, and that is a good thing; but that they must kowtow to powers who foster irrationalism in the service of greed is hugely disturbing. Reminds me of other times when the zeitgeist was mostly driven by fear – the 1950s, when the Cold War could go nuclear hot at any time and “One nation, under God” was inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance; or the 1860s, when the country was flying apart and “In God We Trust” was first imprinted on our coinage.
Isn’t it time we outgrew that nonsense? There are real answers. We don't need leaders who have to prove themselves to crowds held in thrall to feelings, fealty and faith.
Friday, August 08, 2008
Shoes and Broken Mirrors
Someone got whacked on the head with a shoe. The schoolroom full of Cub Scouts was a noisy place anyway and now someone was crying.
I was all, “What? What?” until I got my wits together enough to gather them around.
The sniffler was one of those who sniffles a lot and naturally gets picked on. The new kid, whose spirited permutations had led to this tragedy, was stoic and unrepentant.
“Josh,” I said, “that was not responsible.”
The other Cubs, the old guard of ten year olds to whom he was still an interloper, regarded him with disdain.
“We’re all a team, we get along …”
My own son had a superior, almost haughty look about him as he fell in with the anti Josh crowd.
“What happened, how did this … ?”
Words were failing me. Leadership was failing me. Suddenly I had a long look down the tunnel, through the dimness of opposing mirrors reflecting forever into the dark. Moments like this require either instincts to follow or a model to copy. I had neither.
“Josh, apologize to Steven.”
He did.
“What are you going to do so it doesn’t happen again?”
He didn’t know. Another Cub, who had no doubt witnessed a similar scene in his own history, said Josh should keep his hands to himself unless he has permission. I silently thanked that kid’s parents and said something to the effect of, Yeah.
Shortly they were back on track, energetically integrating whatever project I had set up for them within their natural chaos. I had a moment to look down that tunnel again and try to find understanding.
Boys need a man to lead them and show them. In the 1970s, society tried to drum that out of us. Too many men gleefully took the cue to abandon their responsibilities. But it’s true: without a male figure leading us as boys, we are lost and, too often, never again found. In that moment, as in thousands of other moments as a father, I felt lost. I had no childhood experience of male leadership to subconsciously process and return to the next generation. Forty years had given me nothing to base a plan on that would work with ten year old boys. I had nothing to fall back on but logic.
Fortunately, with boys logic often works. For about six minutes. I heard a scream and saw a shoe flying through the air.
“Josh!”
“It isn’t me!”
I was all, “What? What?” until I got my wits together enough to gather them around.
The sniffler was one of those who sniffles a lot and naturally gets picked on. The new kid, whose spirited permutations had led to this tragedy, was stoic and unrepentant.
“Josh,” I said, “that was not responsible.”
The other Cubs, the old guard of ten year olds to whom he was still an interloper, regarded him with disdain.
“We’re all a team, we get along …”
My own son had a superior, almost haughty look about him as he fell in with the anti Josh crowd.
“What happened, how did this … ?”
Words were failing me. Leadership was failing me. Suddenly I had a long look down the tunnel, through the dimness of opposing mirrors reflecting forever into the dark. Moments like this require either instincts to follow or a model to copy. I had neither.
“Josh, apologize to Steven.”
He did.
“What are you going to do so it doesn’t happen again?”
He didn’t know. Another Cub, who had no doubt witnessed a similar scene in his own history, said Josh should keep his hands to himself unless he has permission. I silently thanked that kid’s parents and said something to the effect of, Yeah.
Shortly they were back on track, energetically integrating whatever project I had set up for them within their natural chaos. I had a moment to look down that tunnel again and try to find understanding.
Boys need a man to lead them and show them. In the 1970s, society tried to drum that out of us. Too many men gleefully took the cue to abandon their responsibilities. But it’s true: without a male figure leading us as boys, we are lost and, too often, never again found. In that moment, as in thousands of other moments as a father, I felt lost. I had no childhood experience of male leadership to subconsciously process and return to the next generation. Forty years had given me nothing to base a plan on that would work with ten year old boys. I had nothing to fall back on but logic.
Fortunately, with boys logic often works. For about six minutes. I heard a scream and saw a shoe flying through the air.
“Josh!”
“It isn’t me!”
Jungle Fever
"Hi, Dad. I was wondering if you happen to own a machete."
I hung up my voicemail and called his cell. No answer.
The funny thing was, I do happen to own a machete. I don't know exactly where it is. I don't know if it's sharp enough for whatever jungle my son was planning an expedition into. In 1979 I worked in a gas station. One day a black guy in an old white Mustang pulled up and asked if I wanted to buy a machete. He showed me a blade that had been sharpened many times, with a black handle and a brown leather scabbard. He wanted five dollars. I had always wanted a sword and this was close enough, so I took it. It's lain among my ever-accumulating effects ever since. Somewhere.
I hung up my voicemail and called his cell. No answer.
The funny thing was, I do happen to own a machete. I don't know exactly where it is. I don't know if it's sharp enough for whatever jungle my son was planning an expedition into. In 1979 I worked in a gas station. One day a black guy in an old white Mustang pulled up and asked if I wanted to buy a machete. He showed me a blade that had been sharpened many times, with a black handle and a brown leather scabbard. He wanted five dollars. I had always wanted a sword and this was close enough, so I took it. It's lain among my ever-accumulating effects ever since. Somewhere.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
L
Classic midlife. For whatever level of success the world yet holds, the die is cast. Long-since settled, bred, raised, trained, caught and released, and now going …
What?
And you may find yourself
in a beautiful house
with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself
Well...
How did I get here?
Next? A peculiar longing is the sloping beach, a crisis of identity the undertow. The bairns are raised, I can swim …
But …
Walked this strand for awhile now. On one hand, the land and people I love. On the other …
… the endless immensity of the sea.
But …
By itself, a half century is nothing. Something has to happen, is all. And it will. The question is …
What?
(Meanwhile a trifling, foolish record of my fiftyishness)
What?
And you may find yourself
in a beautiful house
with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself
Well...
How did I get here?
Next? A peculiar longing is the sloping beach, a crisis of identity the undertow. The bairns are raised, I can swim …
But …
Walked this strand for awhile now. On one hand, the land and people I love. On the other …
… the endless immensity of the sea.
But …
By itself, a half century is nothing. Something has to happen, is all. And it will. The question is …
What?
(Meanwhile a trifling, foolish record of my fiftyishness)
Monday, August 04, 2008
Sigh
Good ol' archer plugs his 70,000 candlepower spotlight into the cigarette lighter and illuminates the ugly fact of some anti-Obama rhetoric having a bit of an "uppity Negro" tone to it. I can see that. Methinks some pundits complain overmuch. It's true he's nothing special: He's a politician. As such he should get at least as much of a pass on his relentless if sweet-smelling bullshit as any other politician. I don't buy the idea that spurious claims of his rock-star panache mean he should be more closely scrutinized.
That said, I still can't take him seriously. Just now he's reversed his position on the strategic oil reserve: Says, as Democrats are occasionally wont to do (e.g. Gore in '00, I think it was), that the reserve should be tapped to address the crisis of high gas prices. No: It's a strategic reserve. It's in place so that in a national emergency coupled with a drop in fuel availability, strategic resources (e.g. National Guard) can still fuel their vehicles. Also, I imagine, to prevent sudden economic disruption due to some fuel-delivery emergency. Neither of those is going on today. Fuel is getting more expensive from a combo of increasing demand in Asia, long-held restrictions (driven by whose party?) on domestic production, and bizarre twists and turns in the global oil-as-commodity market. Dipping into the reserve is nothing but a political pandering to those whining Americans (didn't someone accuse us of that recently?) who need their gov'ment to Do Something (!) about the latest inconvenience.
Yeah, inconvenience. If you think losing your job and the ability to provide three meals a day to your family is really any worse than an inconvenience, you've been protected by the American Dream way too long.
What else? Iraq. I respect his willingness to turn away from the Mad Left and admit troops need not be pulled out immediately. Funny thing is, he can still talk about withdrawal schedules because things are going relatively well (for now). Why are they going well? Because for one brief summer, America acted as if it took Iraq seriously and sent in a surge of troops to force some stabilization and give the Iraqis a chance to get in the game. This surge Obama opposed. But will there ever be any acknowledgment that he was wrong? Hell no. Just move on.
And let's not even begin talking about foundering the economy on increased taxation.
He is right though that we should keep our tires inflated to save gas. Any criticism of that point is pure dumb-ass politics.
So I need to complain about McCain to balance it out. Well, it hurts to listen to him talk. Not nearly as much as listening to his buddy George. I don't care what GWB is saying -- he could announce a ten million dollar endowment to the development of What Ain't Hip Don as a freeload-artist and I wouldn't be able to listen to him. I literally turn off the radio or TV when he comes on -- just can't stand him, his accent, his inflections, his mangling of what used to be a perfectly good language. McCain's an improvement but not much of one. But this is pretty shallow. I don't like his standing with social conservatives on those issues I disagree with them on (duh). His complaint that Obama played the race card with his fear-mongering riff that the other side will start a fear-mongering riff about him not looking like the dollar-bill presidents was rather unnecessary -- I mean, why stir the obvious? Makes you look dumb. Bringing Paris Hilton into it, especially after her mom contributed to your campaign, makes you look even dumber. That was a low blow, I don't care what Lieberman says. And I haven't followed it, but any position that allows someone to accuse you of wanting tax breaks for oil companies has got to be a bad idea. Shoot, does my industry get tax breaks? (Actually, it might, I don't know.)
Right, well, this was sort of random. Back to work. Say, Obama is two days less than three years younger than me. Fuck me but that's a first. It was bad enough when there were ballplayers younger than me. Now they're ALL younger than me. But Presidents? Augh.
That said, I still can't take him seriously. Just now he's reversed his position on the strategic oil reserve: Says, as Democrats are occasionally wont to do (e.g. Gore in '00, I think it was), that the reserve should be tapped to address the crisis of high gas prices. No: It's a strategic reserve. It's in place so that in a national emergency coupled with a drop in fuel availability, strategic resources (e.g. National Guard) can still fuel their vehicles. Also, I imagine, to prevent sudden economic disruption due to some fuel-delivery emergency. Neither of those is going on today. Fuel is getting more expensive from a combo of increasing demand in Asia, long-held restrictions (driven by whose party?) on domestic production, and bizarre twists and turns in the global oil-as-commodity market. Dipping into the reserve is nothing but a political pandering to those whining Americans (didn't someone accuse us of that recently?) who need their gov'ment to Do Something (!) about the latest inconvenience.
Yeah, inconvenience. If you think losing your job and the ability to provide three meals a day to your family is really any worse than an inconvenience, you've been protected by the American Dream way too long.
What else? Iraq. I respect his willingness to turn away from the Mad Left and admit troops need not be pulled out immediately. Funny thing is, he can still talk about withdrawal schedules because things are going relatively well (for now). Why are they going well? Because for one brief summer, America acted as if it took Iraq seriously and sent in a surge of troops to force some stabilization and give the Iraqis a chance to get in the game. This surge Obama opposed. But will there ever be any acknowledgment that he was wrong? Hell no. Just move on.
And let's not even begin talking about foundering the economy on increased taxation.
He is right though that we should keep our tires inflated to save gas. Any criticism of that point is pure dumb-ass politics.
So I need to complain about McCain to balance it out. Well, it hurts to listen to him talk. Not nearly as much as listening to his buddy George. I don't care what GWB is saying -- he could announce a ten million dollar endowment to the development of What Ain't Hip Don as a freeload-artist and I wouldn't be able to listen to him. I literally turn off the radio or TV when he comes on -- just can't stand him, his accent, his inflections, his mangling of what used to be a perfectly good language. McCain's an improvement but not much of one. But this is pretty shallow. I don't like his standing with social conservatives on those issues I disagree with them on (duh). His complaint that Obama played the race card with his fear-mongering riff that the other side will start a fear-mongering riff about him not looking like the dollar-bill presidents was rather unnecessary -- I mean, why stir the obvious? Makes you look dumb. Bringing Paris Hilton into it, especially after her mom contributed to your campaign, makes you look even dumber. That was a low blow, I don't care what Lieberman says. And I haven't followed it, but any position that allows someone to accuse you of wanting tax breaks for oil companies has got to be a bad idea. Shoot, does my industry get tax breaks? (Actually, it might, I don't know.)
Right, well, this was sort of random. Back to work. Say, Obama is two days less than three years younger than me. Fuck me but that's a first. It was bad enough when there were ballplayers younger than me. Now they're ALL younger than me. But Presidents? Augh.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Shit, Writing Ain't So Tough
My boss wrote my review
Said I wasn't aggressive enough
Said Juan wrote the outbound message
because I didn't do it fast enough
Could have been mine
Should have been mine
Well I thought he was doing it so I did something else
There's no lack of work to do
But it was started by my customer
confirmed by my lab work
and involved -- guess what -- Juan's product
My project
His product
So I let him do it
I'm told I'm too passive
Need to grab the ball and run all out every got damn day
Just to keep a job
that keeps my family alive
and keeps me from writing
Some day I'll say Fuck that
Some day
Some other day
Dedicated to anyone too drunk to not be an artist
Said I wasn't aggressive enough
Said Juan wrote the outbound message
because I didn't do it fast enough
Could have been mine
Should have been mine
Well I thought he was doing it so I did something else
There's no lack of work to do
But it was started by my customer
confirmed by my lab work
and involved -- guess what -- Juan's product
My project
His product
So I let him do it
I'm told I'm too passive
Need to grab the ball and run all out every got damn day
Just to keep a job
that keeps my family alive
and keeps me from writing
Some day I'll say Fuck that
Some day
Some other day
Dedicated to anyone too drunk to not be an artist
