I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost is more than I can bear. Benjamin Martin "The Patriot"
These words strike and ring more disdainfully to me more than they ever have.
As I watch my daughter grow from infant to toddler and beyond, I can not help but pray that she does not do all of the selfish things or experience all of the selfish and self-indulgent arrogant philandering and behavior that I dished out.
I listened to a young man just the other night, brashly speak in front of his fiance and my wife of exploits that pale by comparison to my own; I sat quietly, and later my wife asked why I was so quiet gently stroking the dewy glass of beer at our table, and with a simple glance from my sad eyes, she knew.
My past is racy - and I am not proud of it, though I must admit I was then. Like an unstoppable hormonal rage, I played the roll of biker, rocker, and playboy, as if the ramifications of any and all my actions amounted to nothing. I hurt people, mostly women.
Without going into too great of detail, I can tell you that I have sewn my wild oats and scorched the earth behind me. I have seen many tears. I have had stalkers. I have nearly been run through with a kitchen knife. I fell from grace and after 9/11 it hurt.
The culmination of all of my sins hit. I became reclusive, not wanting to associate myself with anyone, disappearing back to a land where I was infinitely successful. I believed that trying to off myself was a good idea. I believed that sleeping around with reckless abandon again was the only way of reclaiming my lost youth, and that led to alot of additional anguish.
Stupid. Sad arrogance.
It has been said that to reminisce and to be discouraged by our past is a waste of time, and I believe it to be true, but as old pictures come to the surface from some long forgone box and explanations droll onward, so to does a personal history - living, breathing coolly on orange embers.
My daughter, not even two, giggles at the lion's mane of hair, the rage of my unwrinkled youth, the people in some of those pictures.
She does not know yet of my successes and losses, and my rotten ways - about which, though I fear the day, must tell her. And explain why people tick one way and tock quite another. I must tell her of the wrongs in my addictions. I must tell her why I can love her mother - my wife the way I can and do. And why her mother and she are the most important people in the world to me.
I am not proud. What is there after all to be proud of? I have lost whatever was gained then, and was stripped to nothing, and because of that haughty history, I stand apathetically as a sociopath, not remembering people's names and not wishing to get involved in their pursuits. I make jokes to cover my iniquities; my "funny" is a grossly exaggerated defense mechanism. I force myself into pseudointellectual profundities to cover my stupidity. And exercise to cover my flabby sloth and miscreancy.
I ask for your forgiveness.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Last Whimsy
Try, if you will, to imagine yourself soaking up the warm summer sun. Bask in its bright yellowy-orange glow. Feel those tiny little hairs on your arms, rise and change, as your skin begins to absorb all of those wonderful rays and that vitamin D that is so essential to your vitality.
Now imagine, an obscure idea tickling your fancy - an idea that is both desired and dutifully needed in order for you to fulfill your paternal or maternal instincts. The end result comes to you in a flash and the searing imagery burned into you retinas as though you had stared at photograph or stone-emblazed tombstone for too long - its remaining shadows however are those of a child's warm smile and a wife's satisfaction and wanton desire.
Imagine you want to - nay must rise and begin to tinker with this whimsy that has covered you like a wet leather strap.
You begin. The fervor strikes you. Your wallet shivers under the might of parasitic consumerism as your feet lead to an ominous blue and white sign with a name that strikes fear and admiration into any novice craftsman. You see it in the back of the store in brilliant white - a deep-welled tub, sparkling in virgin faux-porcelain. You demand it, a surround, paint, brushes, fixtures, primer for the paint, more brushes, ceramic tile, knives, more PVC, more copper, blue tape, screws, 2X4s, sand, safety goggles, Band-Aids, grout, three more floor tiles, new blades for the new knives. Imagine vultures viciously claiming rights to your hard-earned greenbacks, clutched tightly in your fist.
It only takes 15 trips.
The wet leather whimsy begins to tighten.
Hammer in hand; you strike at various places in the wall. You remember to shut the water off before you destroy everything.
You confidently convince your beloved and yourself that it will only take a few short days to complete the project, and decide to shack up with your in-laws while the project goes through its phases - and you are eternally grateful, assuring them that all will be over with before they know it.
You crawl under the crawl space a cool but dirty and dark space barely big enough for you and your breath. You feel as though you are in the KuChi tunnels of Vietnam. And fear grips you in the dark.
Pounding from above.
Imagine you are the one to enter this cave, with light and equipment and saws and hammers, buckets, and wrenches. You imagine the deep rich fulfillment of pride, which though you place the thought of it "begetting the fall", resides in your new found handimannerisms. You imagine the end result - happy toddler, proud wife, a personal and uninterrupted soak -and you smile.
Days turn into nights and back into days. The sun outside has become an oppressive orb of heat and frustration.
You remember the words of the neighbor contractor, his words still clinging in the air that it would take weeks and not just a few simple days. The old tub weighs no less than a white bull-rhinoceros - you swear as you push it out the door.
Days turn into night and back again, but no sleep for you.
You laugh as that wet leather whimsy tightens as it dries in the sun, and you remember that the Natives used this as a torture to death device.
You remember that you were writing a pseudo-intellectual fable - timely, poignant and pretentious with its French lilt, and well placed adjectives. You remember that motorcycle in the garage, now covered in gypsum dust - those miles you expected to squeak out before riding season ended.
You laugh and nothing is funny.
You help yourself to a cigarette and yet you do not smoke.
You swear and your words hang in the air as though in a Dagwood Bumstead cartoon, because we all know that it is not about Blondie.
The whimsy tightens.
One more time into the crawl space.
One more time to the home and hardware store to open your wallet one more time.
One more time to sleep on the floor in your in-laws place, for which you are eternally grateful. And in order for the baby and you to sleep peaceably the carpet is your domain.
You return to the job. And you do it again...
Rinse and repeat.
The job is done - sort of. Your body and mind (should you still have one) return - sort of.
The baby takes a very happy bath with bubbles and splashing and angry screams as you pour water on her head and it gets in her face.
Your turn.
You consider the idea of the whimsy and make a decision to reconsider doing it again - in the far, far, far future. And you soak.
Now imagine, an obscure idea tickling your fancy - an idea that is both desired and dutifully needed in order for you to fulfill your paternal or maternal instincts. The end result comes to you in a flash and the searing imagery burned into you retinas as though you had stared at photograph or stone-emblazed tombstone for too long - its remaining shadows however are those of a child's warm smile and a wife's satisfaction and wanton desire.
Imagine you want to - nay must rise and begin to tinker with this whimsy that has covered you like a wet leather strap.
You begin. The fervor strikes you. Your wallet shivers under the might of parasitic consumerism as your feet lead to an ominous blue and white sign with a name that strikes fear and admiration into any novice craftsman. You see it in the back of the store in brilliant white - a deep-welled tub, sparkling in virgin faux-porcelain. You demand it, a surround, paint, brushes, fixtures, primer for the paint, more brushes, ceramic tile, knives, more PVC, more copper, blue tape, screws, 2X4s, sand, safety goggles, Band-Aids, grout, three more floor tiles, new blades for the new knives. Imagine vultures viciously claiming rights to your hard-earned greenbacks, clutched tightly in your fist.
It only takes 15 trips.
The wet leather whimsy begins to tighten.
Hammer in hand; you strike at various places in the wall. You remember to shut the water off before you destroy everything.
You confidently convince your beloved and yourself that it will only take a few short days to complete the project, and decide to shack up with your in-laws while the project goes through its phases - and you are eternally grateful, assuring them that all will be over with before they know it.
You crawl under the crawl space a cool but dirty and dark space barely big enough for you and your breath. You feel as though you are in the KuChi tunnels of Vietnam. And fear grips you in the dark.
Pounding from above.
Imagine you are the one to enter this cave, with light and equipment and saws and hammers, buckets, and wrenches. You imagine the deep rich fulfillment of pride, which though you place the thought of it "begetting the fall", resides in your new found handimannerisms. You imagine the end result - happy toddler, proud wife, a personal and uninterrupted soak -and you smile.
Days turn into nights and back into days. The sun outside has become an oppressive orb of heat and frustration.
You remember the words of the neighbor contractor, his words still clinging in the air that it would take weeks and not just a few simple days. The old tub weighs no less than a white bull-rhinoceros - you swear as you push it out the door.
Days turn into night and back again, but no sleep for you.
You laugh as that wet leather whimsy tightens as it dries in the sun, and you remember that the Natives used this as a torture to death device.
You remember that you were writing a pseudo-intellectual fable - timely, poignant and pretentious with its French lilt, and well placed adjectives. You remember that motorcycle in the garage, now covered in gypsum dust - those miles you expected to squeak out before riding season ended.
You laugh and nothing is funny.
You help yourself to a cigarette and yet you do not smoke.
You swear and your words hang in the air as though in a Dagwood Bumstead cartoon, because we all know that it is not about Blondie.
The whimsy tightens.
One more time into the crawl space.
One more time to the home and hardware store to open your wallet one more time.
One more time to sleep on the floor in your in-laws place, for which you are eternally grateful. And in order for the baby and you to sleep peaceably the carpet is your domain.
You return to the job. And you do it again...
Rinse and repeat.
The job is done - sort of. Your body and mind (should you still have one) return - sort of.
The baby takes a very happy bath with bubbles and splashing and angry screams as you pour water on her head and it gets in her face.
Your turn.
You consider the idea of the whimsy and make a decision to reconsider doing it again - in the far, far, far future. And you soak.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Rabbit and the Bricklayer
Once upon a time, in the little town of Le'Oiseau Bleu, lived a hardworking bricklayer named Robert LeMaçon. Now, Robert, being very a very busy bricklayer, decided to plant a vegetable garden out of necessity to his family and a fascination for the way things grew.
So it was in the smallish field behind his smallish home in the smallish town of Le'Oiseau Bleu that, after work he removed the grass and rocks, and tilled the soil until it would become fine and soft. He built even rows of black soil mounds, and sowed the few seeds he bought with his meager pay to grow a smallish garden. He watered the soil diligently everyday. He eagerly waited for the greens to pop through the well tilled soil.
His lazy neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane laughed, as Robert LeMaçon, the bricklayer had attempted a garden of this sort before.
Now, it came to pass with the sun gently beginning to warm the Earth that through the soft ground came sprouts of green in neat little rows on top the soft, black soil that Robert LeMaçon had created.
He pointed to the little sprouts with great excitement and exclaimed to the family du LeMaçon, "Nous aurons les haricots, les carottes, le chou frisé et le chou. Ne voyez-vous?"
La femme du LeMaçon smiled at her husband and went about her business tending to everything else that Robert did not obsess himself with.
One day after working in the hot sun, Monsieur LeMaçon came home to see a tiny rabbit belonging to Monsieur Cheval Ane in his garden. Robert was enraged to find that Lapin had eaten the top green leaves off of his bean plants, his carrots, his kale and his cabbage.
He stomped forward with his angry feet, and then he yelled, "Sortir de mon jardin, bébé lapin stupide!"
The rabbit, Lapin, quickly took to foot and ran through holes in Robert's old wired fence. And as Lapin took to the path behind Robert's house, with his belly full of delicious greens, he laughed and laughed.
That evening, skipping his evening meal with much protest from his wife, Robert went to task repairing his fence and building a stone wall, all the while smoke poured from his nostrils in anger.
When he finished, he stood rubbing his sore and calloused hands together, and noticed that Lapin had fortunately not eaten all of his plantings and he was no longer angry. His plants would surely be safe and grow well.
The next day, Robert awoke and looked out at his garden as the sun rose. And in the corner of his proud little garden, hiding behind the remains of green tops of his beans stood Lapin, only the rabbit had grown twice its original size.
Enraged, Robert sent out Chien.
“Tuer ce lapin stupide!”
Chien beared its sharp yellow teeth, and quickly ran towards Lapin. But Lapin was very smart indeed and found a spot in the stone wall through which to escape. Chien, with all of her speed hit the wall. Defeated, she howled and whimpered back to Robert.
Robert set to task repairing any holes in his stone wall. He dug a deep trench surrounding the garden and poured water into it, hoping that Lapin could not swim.
Robert’s neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane yelled angrily at him for making such noise and for trying to keep Lapin out of his garden.
“Mon Lapin devraient être autorisés à être dans votre jardin! Quelle injustice!”
Lapin belonged to the lazy Monsieur Cheval Ane, who never worked. His property was overrun with weeds and pieces of his house had fallen. The house smelled of fetid fat. And Monsieur Cheval Ane refused responsibility for Lapin.
“Lapin est le vôtre. Pourquoi devrais-je nourrir Lapin? Lapin est de votre responsabilité!”
Monsieur Cheval Ane raised a fat fist at Robert and went back into his house.
Monsieur LeMaçon considered his neighbor and no longer wondered why Lapin would rather stay elsewhere.
Robert was covered with mud. His back, legs and arms were sore, and his yard had become significantly smaller and made filthy by flattened green grass because of the moat he had constructed; however, his remaining vegetables were now free to grow. And he smiled.
But that night, the very clever Lapin, had gotten into the garden as Robert slept. Lapin ate his beans, carrots, kale and cabbage to his heart’s content and with his stomach full, fell into a deep sleep on the very soft soil.
Robert awoke early that morning for work. The sun had yet to show its face and the lights in his neighborhood were still dark. He put on his boots and walked out the door. He looked over to his garden, and saw the black silhouette of Lapin sleeping on the soft soil where once stood the efforts of his garden.
Lapin had grown two times three times four times his original size. He had become a very fat rabbit indeed.
Robert slowly walked up to Lapin, so as to not scare him away. But Lapin, full of vegetables that did not belong to him, could not awaken. Robert, the bricklayer, quickly built a wall of mortar and stone around Lapin, and topped it off with an enormous capstone with two large points on top to keep Lapin from ever escaping.
“Si vous ne pouvez pas empêcher de ne pouvez pas entrer le lapin, je le garderai dans”
As the sun slowly rose to greet the town, the capstone with two large points, cast a shadow on Monsiuer Cheval Ane’s property that looked like Lapin.
And like the shadow moves across the land and disappears – so too will Lapin.
-Fin-
So it was in the smallish field behind his smallish home in the smallish town of Le'Oiseau Bleu that, after work he removed the grass and rocks, and tilled the soil until it would become fine and soft. He built even rows of black soil mounds, and sowed the few seeds he bought with his meager pay to grow a smallish garden. He watered the soil diligently everyday. He eagerly waited for the greens to pop through the well tilled soil.
His lazy neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane laughed, as Robert LeMaçon, the bricklayer had attempted a garden of this sort before.
Now, it came to pass with the sun gently beginning to warm the Earth that through the soft ground came sprouts of green in neat little rows on top the soft, black soil that Robert LeMaçon had created.
He pointed to the little sprouts with great excitement and exclaimed to the family du LeMaçon, "Nous aurons les haricots, les carottes, le chou frisé et le chou. Ne voyez-vous?"
La femme du LeMaçon smiled at her husband and went about her business tending to everything else that Robert did not obsess himself with.
One day after working in the hot sun, Monsieur LeMaçon came home to see a tiny rabbit belonging to Monsieur Cheval Ane in his garden. Robert was enraged to find that Lapin had eaten the top green leaves off of his bean plants, his carrots, his kale and his cabbage.
He stomped forward with his angry feet, and then he yelled, "Sortir de mon jardin, bébé lapin stupide!"
The rabbit, Lapin, quickly took to foot and ran through holes in Robert's old wired fence. And as Lapin took to the path behind Robert's house, with his belly full of delicious greens, he laughed and laughed.
That evening, skipping his evening meal with much protest from his wife, Robert went to task repairing his fence and building a stone wall, all the while smoke poured from his nostrils in anger.
When he finished, he stood rubbing his sore and calloused hands together, and noticed that Lapin had fortunately not eaten all of his plantings and he was no longer angry. His plants would surely be safe and grow well.
The next day, Robert awoke and looked out at his garden as the sun rose. And in the corner of his proud little garden, hiding behind the remains of green tops of his beans stood Lapin, only the rabbit had grown twice its original size.
Enraged, Robert sent out Chien.
“Tuer ce lapin stupide!”
Chien beared its sharp yellow teeth, and quickly ran towards Lapin. But Lapin was very smart indeed and found a spot in the stone wall through which to escape. Chien, with all of her speed hit the wall. Defeated, she howled and whimpered back to Robert.
Robert set to task repairing any holes in his stone wall. He dug a deep trench surrounding the garden and poured water into it, hoping that Lapin could not swim.
Robert’s neighbor, Monsieur Cheval Ane yelled angrily at him for making such noise and for trying to keep Lapin out of his garden.
“Mon Lapin devraient être autorisés à être dans votre jardin! Quelle injustice!”
Lapin belonged to the lazy Monsieur Cheval Ane, who never worked. His property was overrun with weeds and pieces of his house had fallen. The house smelled of fetid fat. And Monsieur Cheval Ane refused responsibility for Lapin.
“Lapin est le vôtre. Pourquoi devrais-je nourrir Lapin? Lapin est de votre responsabilité!”
Monsieur Cheval Ane raised a fat fist at Robert and went back into his house.
Monsieur LeMaçon considered his neighbor and no longer wondered why Lapin would rather stay elsewhere.
Robert was covered with mud. His back, legs and arms were sore, and his yard had become significantly smaller and made filthy by flattened green grass because of the moat he had constructed; however, his remaining vegetables were now free to grow. And he smiled.
But that night, the very clever Lapin, had gotten into the garden as Robert slept. Lapin ate his beans, carrots, kale and cabbage to his heart’s content and with his stomach full, fell into a deep sleep on the very soft soil.
Robert awoke early that morning for work. The sun had yet to show its face and the lights in his neighborhood were still dark. He put on his boots and walked out the door. He looked over to his garden, and saw the black silhouette of Lapin sleeping on the soft soil where once stood the efforts of his garden.
Lapin had grown two times three times four times his original size. He had become a very fat rabbit indeed.
Robert slowly walked up to Lapin, so as to not scare him away. But Lapin, full of vegetables that did not belong to him, could not awaken. Robert, the bricklayer, quickly built a wall of mortar and stone around Lapin, and topped it off with an enormous capstone with two large points on top to keep Lapin from ever escaping.
“Si vous ne pouvez pas empêcher de ne pouvez pas entrer le lapin, je le garderai dans”
As the sun slowly rose to greet the town, the capstone with two large points, cast a shadow on Monsiuer Cheval Ane’s property that looked like Lapin.
And like the shadow moves across the land and disappears – so too will Lapin.
-Fin-
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Responsibility Dialogue
What’s the cure for this disease?
You’re asking me?
Yes. And stop answering with a question. That really drives me nuts. Do you understand?
Well – wasn’t that a question?
Yes, but…
You get to answer the questions with questions. So why can’t I?
Because – I am the one who is supposed to be asking them, right?
Right? What gives you the right?
Can you just answer the question?
Which one?
The first one. What is the cure for this disease?
You’re asking me?
Look.
Where?
Stop it.
What?
You know what?
I…
What’s the cure?
I…
I…
… don’t know.
What do you mean you don’t know? You started this whole thing.
Did I?
Yes.
They did. Not me.
So, you’re not responsible?
No – No.
So. Who is then?
Responsible?
Yes. Who is responsible?
These questions are hard.
Life’s hard.
Yeah, but…
It just keeps getting harder.
How?
Take some responsibity.
Responsibility?
It used to be the norm.
Responsibility? Getoutahere!
No seriously. When men were still men, and not these namby-pamby, pantywaists obsessed with six-pack abs and designer enemas, men did such brazen activities as honing up to it.
Honing?
A little archaic – true, but it meant bearing the brunt and ramifications of what they had done – both good and bad.
Bunt and ramming – I don’t get it.
Ah! A good example would be your general lack of understanding.
I blame the teachers.
Why?
I don’t know. Maybe my parents.
Why?
Well they were the one’s responsible for teaching me.
Teaching what?
These are hard questions.
Life’s hard.
Getting harder?
Yep.
What about your type 2 diabetes?
Fast food restaurants. McDonalds, KFC… I am hungry.
Restraint. Try it.
Retrain?
Restraint - it means to wait or to hold back. And this case I am refering to your need for instant gastrological gratification.
My what? Man am I hungry. Can you spot me a few dollars?
You have no money?
No money. Right!
Why?
Those evil credit card companies. They...
They what?
They keep taking it.
Well - you know that big screen television.
The one that hangs in that rat shack you call a home? Yes.
I bought it. And now...
ANd now what. Who bought it?
I did.
How did you buy it?
This credit card.
And you bought it?
Yeah.
With whose money?
Well - mine eventually. I mean - come on, it's a monster HiDef television.
So?
I have to make the payments, and if I want to watch the dang I have to get HiDef capable cable or satellite. And that costs -
So?
That cable company they keep threatening to shut off my cable programs if I don't pay - so I pay, and then I have to pay for my TV.
Why did you get such a big and expensive TV?
The neighbors -
The neighbors? Really?
Yeah.
Your neighbors just got foreclosed on.
Those greedy banks! Taking property that does not belong to them.
Really? How do you figure?
Ummm.
Your neighbors signed a note saying "in good faith" that they would pay to the bank a monthly fee called -
A mortgage.
Right. And they defaulted.
Well, their rate jumped.
Adjustable rates do that. They chose to get in at a nice low rate, in the hopes that it would go even lower. It did not pan out. They too much house and invested in a gamble and lost.
Yeah, but...
You ever go to a casino?
Yeah. Vegas baby!
Who always wins?
That depends.
The house always wins.
But...
Always! When you gamble you are taking a chance against "the house".
And they always win, right?
Right. Those people who lost an entire life savings on Wall Street?
Hmm. I lost a lot too.
There are those little words near where you place a signature that state that there is no guarantee that you won't lose it all.
I did not see those words.
Small print.
Yeah. Alot of small print.
Didn't read them did you? Well - had you read them you may have realized the risk. And perhaps realized that there are no guarantees on Wall Street, at your job if had one, and you home and...
Stop!
Do you understand what I am saying to you?
Yes!
Tell me.
I am fat, because I am a lazy food junky who has never held anything heavier than a 40. I am broke and in hock becasue nothing I have I bought with my own money. I don't have a life because I am in so much debt that I can hardly see straight. I lost my money in stocks and am a big fat baby becasue I was too dang gone stupid to understand the small print.
Should I feel bad?
No. It's my fault.
You are responsible?
Yeah.
It'll be okay. By the way, I have this bridge you see and it...
For America - It's not GW's fault, not Clinton, Reagan, the other Bush - nope it's yours. You spent, you trusted, you lounged, and it all grew like a mold, until it encompassed the country. There is an old saying from a great book discounted today because it's hard and mean. It says that if you can not take care of you, someone else will. Thank you America, someone else is now in charge and it is no longer you.
You’re asking me?
Yes. And stop answering with a question. That really drives me nuts. Do you understand?
Well – wasn’t that a question?
Yes, but…
You get to answer the questions with questions. So why can’t I?
Because – I am the one who is supposed to be asking them, right?
Right? What gives you the right?
Can you just answer the question?
Which one?
The first one. What is the cure for this disease?
You’re asking me?
Look.
Where?
Stop it.
What?
You know what?
I…
What’s the cure?
I…
I…
… don’t know.
What do you mean you don’t know? You started this whole thing.
Did I?
Yes.
They did. Not me.
So, you’re not responsible?
No – No.
So. Who is then?
Responsible?
Yes. Who is responsible?
These questions are hard.
Life’s hard.
Yeah, but…
It just keeps getting harder.
How?
Take some responsibity.
Responsibility?
It used to be the norm.
Responsibility? Getoutahere!
No seriously. When men were still men, and not these namby-pamby, pantywaists obsessed with six-pack abs and designer enemas, men did such brazen activities as honing up to it.
Honing?
A little archaic – true, but it meant bearing the brunt and ramifications of what they had done – both good and bad.
Bunt and ramming – I don’t get it.
Ah! A good example would be your general lack of understanding.
I blame the teachers.
Why?
I don’t know. Maybe my parents.
Why?
Well they were the one’s responsible for teaching me.
Teaching what?
These are hard questions.
Life’s hard.
Getting harder?
Yep.
What about your type 2 diabetes?
Fast food restaurants. McDonalds, KFC… I am hungry.
Restraint. Try it.
Retrain?
Restraint - it means to wait or to hold back. And this case I am refering to your need for instant gastrological gratification.
My what? Man am I hungry. Can you spot me a few dollars?
You have no money?
No money. Right!
Why?
Those evil credit card companies. They...
They what?
They keep taking it.
Well - you know that big screen television.
The one that hangs in that rat shack you call a home? Yes.
I bought it. And now...
ANd now what. Who bought it?
I did.
How did you buy it?
This credit card.
And you bought it?
Yeah.
With whose money?
Well - mine eventually. I mean - come on, it's a monster HiDef television.
So?
I have to make the payments, and if I want to watch the dang I have to get HiDef capable cable or satellite. And that costs -
So?
That cable company they keep threatening to shut off my cable programs if I don't pay - so I pay, and then I have to pay for my TV.
Why did you get such a big and expensive TV?
The neighbors -
The neighbors? Really?
Yeah.
Your neighbors just got foreclosed on.
Those greedy banks! Taking property that does not belong to them.
Really? How do you figure?
Ummm.
Your neighbors signed a note saying "in good faith" that they would pay to the bank a monthly fee called -
A mortgage.
Right. And they defaulted.
Well, their rate jumped.
Adjustable rates do that. They chose to get in at a nice low rate, in the hopes that it would go even lower. It did not pan out. They too much house and invested in a gamble and lost.
Yeah, but...
You ever go to a casino?
Yeah. Vegas baby!
Who always wins?
That depends.
The house always wins.
But...
Always! When you gamble you are taking a chance against "the house".
And they always win, right?
Right. Those people who lost an entire life savings on Wall Street?
Hmm. I lost a lot too.
There are those little words near where you place a signature that state that there is no guarantee that you won't lose it all.
I did not see those words.
Small print.
Yeah. Alot of small print.
Didn't read them did you? Well - had you read them you may have realized the risk. And perhaps realized that there are no guarantees on Wall Street, at your job if had one, and you home and...
Stop!
Do you understand what I am saying to you?
Yes!
Tell me.
I am fat, because I am a lazy food junky who has never held anything heavier than a 40. I am broke and in hock becasue nothing I have I bought with my own money. I don't have a life because I am in so much debt that I can hardly see straight. I lost my money in stocks and am a big fat baby becasue I was too dang gone stupid to understand the small print.
Should I feel bad?
No. It's my fault.
You are responsible?
Yeah.
It'll be okay. By the way, I have this bridge you see and it...
For America - It's not GW's fault, not Clinton, Reagan, the other Bush - nope it's yours. You spent, you trusted, you lounged, and it all grew like a mold, until it encompassed the country. There is an old saying from a great book discounted today because it's hard and mean. It says that if you can not take care of you, someone else will. Thank you America, someone else is now in charge and it is no longer you.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The World According to... Six
In an age of such great access to intellect, one may come to believe that reason and wisdom would follow short in tow - that these two characteristics would surely accompany freely this age of automated know-how. It would only make sense to fully compare this age to the great enlightenment or another renaissance, perhaps as late as through the 1700's and well into the 1800's, during a much romanticized Bohemian period in Western history, and perhaps even further back to Descartes, during a time when doubt and reason walked hand in hand.
In this age of freely passing information, stand rhetoric and inflammatory conjecture as a high art; a void of mostly emotional argumentation with rarely a shred of fact, history or empathy. Media driven "town-criers", who are no more than self prophetic doomsayers, display themselves, often as opposing authorities. Their power is as strong as the people's lack of will to contest it. Their facts are as valid as their admirer's ability to cast away bias.
It has been said however, that history is written by the victors and that truth is theirs to be had - regardless of validity. In a republic-democracy, in which the power is to belong to the people, that same sad truth remains. Napoleon Bonaparte once said, "History is a set of lies agreed upon." Generally, in a government of the majority, truth is a matter of greater percentages. The greater the majority, the greater the slice of truth. The minority, in this case, struggles over the scraps of that percentage, and should their hearts beat loudly enough, continue to drum their axiom until a very fickle people hear that cry.
As a general rule, those who gain power and wishing to remain, go to the youth, as they are seen as the most naive and willing to succumb to those who present them with gifts of truths that they deem valid. Where as the older generation, only a bit wiser are portrayed as curmudgeons who though desiring the same care and gifts are not as maliable - or forgiving. Nor are they as subject to populace opinion, which in a leader's view may be subject to sedition should they be standing is direct opposition of that particular truth.
One need only look to history to catch glimpses as to the power of controlling the truth.
In an age and land of free and quickly accessable information, one must guard and live The Truth. Descartes would have us question every aspect of our surroundings and those in authority, and those protecting that authority by delivering those truths.
Believe not without question, because even one's own heart is a vile snake, bent solely on preservation.
In this age of freely passing information, stand rhetoric and inflammatory conjecture as a high art; a void of mostly emotional argumentation with rarely a shred of fact, history or empathy. Media driven "town-criers", who are no more than self prophetic doomsayers, display themselves, often as opposing authorities. Their power is as strong as the people's lack of will to contest it. Their facts are as valid as their admirer's ability to cast away bias.
It has been said however, that history is written by the victors and that truth is theirs to be had - regardless of validity. In a republic-democracy, in which the power is to belong to the people, that same sad truth remains. Napoleon Bonaparte once said, "History is a set of lies agreed upon." Generally, in a government of the majority, truth is a matter of greater percentages. The greater the majority, the greater the slice of truth. The minority, in this case, struggles over the scraps of that percentage, and should their hearts beat loudly enough, continue to drum their axiom until a very fickle people hear that cry.
As a general rule, those who gain power and wishing to remain, go to the youth, as they are seen as the most naive and willing to succumb to those who present them with gifts of truths that they deem valid. Where as the older generation, only a bit wiser are portrayed as curmudgeons who though desiring the same care and gifts are not as maliable - or forgiving. Nor are they as subject to populace opinion, which in a leader's view may be subject to sedition should they be standing is direct opposition of that particular truth.
One need only look to history to catch glimpses as to the power of controlling the truth.
He alone, who owns the youth, gains the future.
All propaganda has to be popular and has to accommodate itself to the comprehension of the least intelligent of those whom it seeks to reach.
Adolf Hitler
In an age and land of free and quickly accessable information, one must guard and live The Truth. Descartes would have us question every aspect of our surroundings and those in authority, and those protecting that authority by delivering those truths.
Believe not without question, because even one's own heart is a vile snake, bent solely on preservation.
Friday, April 16, 2010
With This Ring...
It's a funny story - how I asked for my wife's hand, and to extend it further it probably should be done by guys around the globe in a similar way; my wife is a beautiful, intelligent and busy person, and for her to take the time to witness my imperfections and obvious lack of social graces, and still agree to marry me is a blessing.
The circumstances leading up to the actual nuptials are nothing out of the ordinary. Man meets girl. Man does not want a relationship. Man calls girl. Man goes out just as friends. Man likes girl. Man kisses girl. Girl kisses man. Man loves girl. Man becomes consumed by girl. Man screws things up and begs girl to take him back only after man purges self of stupidity. Girl takes back man anyway. Girl goes to Pike's Peak. Man wrecks motorcycle in West Virginia. Man realizes he has an amazing woman to say "I love you" to. Girl falls asleep in man's car. Girl drools. Man realizes that this is his perfect woman after wiping the side of her mouth. Man asks her to open glove box. Girl picks up expensive frilly box. Man explains. Girl accepts. Man continues to be stupid. Girl still marries man anyway.
I explained to a politico friend of mine, who is mauling over getting married, that there is no perfect time. There is no perfect person. What there is, perhaps, is a longing or willingness to finish what one starts. Another is to give of yourself what you can, and to witness how beautiful something that - at times - may not be so pretty can truly be.
My desires in this relationship are pretty simple and I witnessed them in my great uncle, as stories were told of how he bathed, washed, preened and held his slowly dying once glamorous wife; I want to go to sleep with my wife's hair itchily in my face every night. I want morning breath to come from her wide open mouth. I need her occasional frustrations. I need her tears and anxiousness. Because I love her tenderness. Because I love her faith. Because of her "duck on the water" style and grace. Because of her tender care for our daughter. Because she kisses me. Because I love her.
Marriage is not a fairy tale. It's not a disastrous sitcom theme. It's two lives that have somehow come together as one, and better.
wedding ring gh uid 3
The circumstances leading up to the actual nuptials are nothing out of the ordinary. Man meets girl. Man does not want a relationship. Man calls girl. Man goes out just as friends. Man likes girl. Man kisses girl. Girl kisses man. Man loves girl. Man becomes consumed by girl. Man screws things up and begs girl to take him back only after man purges self of stupidity. Girl takes back man anyway. Girl goes to Pike's Peak. Man wrecks motorcycle in West Virginia. Man realizes he has an amazing woman to say "I love you" to. Girl falls asleep in man's car. Girl drools. Man realizes that this is his perfect woman after wiping the side of her mouth. Man asks her to open glove box. Girl picks up expensive frilly box. Man explains. Girl accepts. Man continues to be stupid. Girl still marries man anyway.
I explained to a politico friend of mine, who is mauling over getting married, that there is no perfect time. There is no perfect person. What there is, perhaps, is a longing or willingness to finish what one starts. Another is to give of yourself what you can, and to witness how beautiful something that - at times - may not be so pretty can truly be.
My desires in this relationship are pretty simple and I witnessed them in my great uncle, as stories were told of how he bathed, washed, preened and held his slowly dying once glamorous wife; I want to go to sleep with my wife's hair itchily in my face every night. I want morning breath to come from her wide open mouth. I need her occasional frustrations. I need her tears and anxiousness. Because I love her tenderness. Because I love her faith. Because of her "duck on the water" style and grace. Because of her tender care for our daughter. Because she kisses me. Because I love her.
Marriage is not a fairy tale. It's not a disastrous sitcom theme. It's two lives that have somehow come together as one, and better.
wedding ring gh uid 3
Monday, March 29, 2010
Needs and Wants
Words, like their macromonious state - language, can be tricky. The English vernacular generally is considered to be one of the most difficult to learn, and to be sure the native speakers, particularly in what is currently considered the "Rust Belt" find it rather an inconvenience to use its proper grammar or usage, instead taking on monosyllabic utterances, and "texting"; however, to the defense of technologically savvy individuals, it has indeed taken an otherwise useless branch from the tree of linguistics and produced a fruit of its very own - indeed a hybrid, quickly digested in its expediency and protected by the thick skin of its convenience and in some cases privacy.
There have been, in most recent years, some general changes to the language of some concern. The concern is perhaps not so much for the very usage, but the etymology and the source.
The words "need" and its synonyms have usurped the decision making power of "want" and its synonyms.
"Need" is defined as a necessity; indeed its very usage is a matter of sustenance and consequence and should either be preceded by or followed by a descriptive, narrating the issue further.
In the preceding instances, the reader is introduced to two legitimate concerns. In both circumstances, the reader is given options solely dependent upon actions of the people in each sentence. The person in each does not "need" to do anything, and there are proposed repercussions to their actions or inactions.
In many cases, the word "need" can be used without expounding; however, a reader can be left with a number of questions, rendering the entire sentence useless. It must be addressed that the second sentence in these examples can be colloquial - interpreted as a matter of her questionable sanity.
There is a more insidious matter in the prescribed usage of the words. Indeed, the word "want" expresses a desire; it may be added that "want" can be used in all degrees of desire, but has been substituted in many cases by "need" and vice versa.
The English language in these examples is implicatable of the future welfare of the subjects involved. In the first example, the subject obviously would undergo certain problems should he fail to apply himself to his duties, and again can either be preceded or followed by an explanation:
The speaker knows well that he has options - either choosing to go or not. He understands that there are consequences to his actions.
The second sentence is more concerning than the first, as it deals mainly with consumerism, more so than an underlying obligation as in the first. This form of market-grammar is a means by which corporations both large and small use their goods as necessities to live by. Market-grammar explains a scenario of being without a particular product rendering the consumer very unpopular, and more nefariously rendering him dead.
The issue not being entirely without understanding, is incorrect in its strength - a gross exaggeration. This, as most businesses will know, is a means by which the consumer focuses and breaths. The consumer is made to believe that he or she can not do without. He is made to believe, through his patterns of language distribution - in both passive and active forms, that what is before him is not only a privilege if deemed so, but an absolute right.
Though large corporations are the ones to typically use well crafted marketing techniques, it is not limited to mere commerce but to politics and human sexuality.
By monitoring one's active and passive linguistic mannerisms, one can indeed exercise the capabilities of strength and accountability, not to mention a sense of controlled being. This can be achieved through active engagement with other people, reading, and performing acts of trial and error.
There have been, in most recent years, some general changes to the language of some concern. The concern is perhaps not so much for the very usage, but the etymology and the source.
The words "need" and its synonyms have usurped the decision making power of "want" and its synonyms.
"Need" is defined as a necessity; indeed its very usage is a matter of sustenance and consequence and should either be preceded by or followed by a descriptive, narrating the issue further.
The doctor said if I want to live a healthy lifestyle, I need an operation.
She needs to pay more attention if she wants better grades.
In the preceding instances, the reader is introduced to two legitimate concerns. In both circumstances, the reader is given options solely dependent upon actions of the people in each sentence. The person in each does not "need" to do anything, and there are proposed repercussions to their actions or inactions.
This wall needs to be level.
She needs to have her head examined.
In many cases, the word "need" can be used without expounding; however, a reader can be left with a number of questions, rendering the entire sentence useless. It must be addressed that the second sentence in these examples can be colloquial - interpreted as a matter of her questionable sanity.
There is a more insidious matter in the prescribed usage of the words. Indeed, the word "want" expresses a desire; it may be added that "want" can be used in all degrees of desire, but has been substituted in many cases by "need" and vice versa.
I need to get to work.
He needs a new pair of American Eagle dungarees.
The English language in these examples is implicatable of the future welfare of the subjects involved. In the first example, the subject obviously would undergo certain problems should he fail to apply himself to his duties, and again can either be preceded or followed by an explanation:
If I want to keep my job and get a paycheck, I need to get to work.
The speaker knows well that he has options - either choosing to go or not. He understands that there are consequences to his actions.
The second sentence is more concerning than the first, as it deals mainly with consumerism, more so than an underlying obligation as in the first. This form of market-grammar is a means by which corporations both large and small use their goods as necessities to live by. Market-grammar explains a scenario of being without a particular product rendering the consumer very unpopular, and more nefariously rendering him dead.
You need to ask your doctor about Lipitor.
I need an aspirin.
I need a new cell phone.
The issue not being entirely without understanding, is incorrect in its strength - a gross exaggeration. This, as most businesses will know, is a means by which the consumer focuses and breaths. The consumer is made to believe that he or she can not do without. He is made to believe, through his patterns of language distribution - in both passive and active forms, that what is before him is not only a privilege if deemed so, but an absolute right.
Though large corporations are the ones to typically use well crafted marketing techniques, it is not limited to mere commerce but to politics and human sexuality.
By monitoring one's active and passive linguistic mannerisms, one can indeed exercise the capabilities of strength and accountability, not to mention a sense of controlled being. This can be achieved through active engagement with other people, reading, and performing acts of trial and error.
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