Thursday
4/06/04
A Question for Ann Coulter
On the morning of July four, 1912, Professor Harold Hill stepped off the train in River City, Iowa with only the worst intentions. And sure enough, in no time flat the peaceful little town was being educated about the evils of pool…
Trouble, oh we got trouble,
Right here in River City!
With a capital "T"
That rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool!
Well, we have our own little River City right here in Rockland County. In fact, Nyack, a quaint little town on the Hudson just north of the city, usually conducts itself with an energetic and eclectic sort of grace. Then, just to liven things up, I suppose, a small group of thoroughly disturbed Harold Hills arrived from the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka yesterday.
Ostensibly, they came to protest the same sex marriages that were officially recognized by Nyack’s mayor, John Shields, and yet it turned out to be about so much more. Not only is this group miffed by gays, but they also carried signs thanking God for 9/11 and dragged American flags on the ground. Even better, church member and wackaloon Margie Phelps had this to say about a group of local counter-protestors: "I think their voice is the voice of the future, and this nation deserves to have that evil and perverseness, because they’ve disobeyed God for so long."
So, what I would ask of Ann is to rationalize all this for me. Ann is, of course, noted for saying that "liberals hate America"… but as a liberal myself, I’m pretty sure I don’t. In fact I’m pretty sure that I’m not treasonous, either. But now that we’ve found a group of Americans that does indeed trample the flag and revel in the destruction of 9/11, perhaps she’d like to ask them just how liberal they are.
Hmm? How about it, Ann?
|
A Question for Ann Coulter
On the morning of July four, 1912, Professor Harold Hill stepped off the train in River City, Iowa with only the worst intentions. And sure enough, in no time flat the peaceful little town was being educated about the evils of pool…
Trouble, oh we got trouble,
Right here in River City!
With a capital "T"
That rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool!
Well, we have our own little River City right here in Rockland County. In fact, Nyack, a quaint little town on the Hudson just north of the city, usually conducts itself with an energetic and eclectic sort of grace. Then, just to liven things up, I suppose, a small group of thoroughly disturbed Harold Hills arrived from the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka yesterday.
Ostensibly, they came to protest the same sex marriages that were officially recognized by Nyack’s mayor, John Shields, and yet it turned out to be about so much more. Not only is this group miffed by gays, but they also carried signs thanking God for 9/11 and dragged American flags on the ground. Even better, church member and wackaloon Margie Phelps had this to say about a group of local counter-protestors: "I think their voice is the voice of the future, and this nation deserves to have that evil and perverseness, because they’ve disobeyed God for so long."
So, what I would ask of Ann is to rationalize all this for me. Ann is, of course, noted for saying that "liberals hate America"… but as a liberal myself, I’m pretty sure I don’t. In fact I’m pretty sure that I’m not treasonous, either. But now that we’ve found a group of Americans that does indeed trample the flag and revel in the destruction of 9/11, perhaps she’d like to ask them just how liberal they are.
Hmm? How about it, Ann?
04/05/04
The Last Party
It’s been said that during springtime young men’s thoughts turn to love. That’s not exactly the way I remember it however; for me, thinking about "love" was sort of a constant, year-round thing. In any case, as I and my friends age into what might be charitably termed "seasoned adults" (40 isn’t all that far away anymore), I find that in the springtime our thoughts turn to golf.
Or, this particular Spring: golf, marriage and a final bachelor party. This very month the last of our single friends will be taking that long walk down the aisle, forever leaving behind the world of "Going to Dave and Buster’s? Sure, I’ll see you in twenty minutes." and entering the world of "Um, I dunno, I’ll have to call you back." And that’s all fine of course; I’ve been in that world for a long time now and certainly the pros of family and kids far outweigh the cons of losing the freedom to run around all night like a knucklehead.
Anyway, back to the confluence of spring, aging guys, golf, and bachelor parties. We hit Atlantic City on Friday night, got ourselves settled in, and, as is our tradition, made ready to take the ten-minute walk to the Irish Pub on St. James for some Guinness and great, cheap food. It was then that Bachelor-boy announced that he wanted to take a cab, and I realized with a start that we are all truly domesticated now. Even more startling to me was that I thought that the cab was a good idea. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill, after all.
And so that’s pretty much how the rest of our grownup spring/golf/bachelor weekend went: Responsible driving of clubs back and forth to the Seaview in my minivan, naps before dinner at Max’s Steakhouse, a mind-numbing check for said dinner, and going to bed well before dawn.
Well, there was a little excitement involving Bachelor-boy and a bunch of Southern Comfort manhattans, but that’s a story I’ll save for when his kids get married some day.
|
The Last Party
It’s been said that during springtime young men’s thoughts turn to love. That’s not exactly the way I remember it however; for me, thinking about "love" was sort of a constant, year-round thing. In any case, as I and my friends age into what might be charitably termed "seasoned adults" (40 isn’t all that far away anymore), I find that in the springtime our thoughts turn to golf.
Or, this particular Spring: golf, marriage and a final bachelor party. This very month the last of our single friends will be taking that long walk down the aisle, forever leaving behind the world of "Going to Dave and Buster’s? Sure, I’ll see you in twenty minutes." and entering the world of "Um, I dunno, I’ll have to call you back." And that’s all fine of course; I’ve been in that world for a long time now and certainly the pros of family and kids far outweigh the cons of losing the freedom to run around all night like a knucklehead.
Anyway, back to the confluence of spring, aging guys, golf, and bachelor parties. We hit Atlantic City on Friday night, got ourselves settled in, and, as is our tradition, made ready to take the ten-minute walk to the Irish Pub on St. James for some Guinness and great, cheap food. It was then that Bachelor-boy announced that he wanted to take a cab, and I realized with a start that we are all truly domesticated now. Even more startling to me was that I thought that the cab was a good idea. Wouldn’t want to catch a chill, after all.
And so that’s pretty much how the rest of our grownup spring/golf/bachelor weekend went: Responsible driving of clubs back and forth to the Seaview in my minivan, naps before dinner at Max’s Steakhouse, a mind-numbing check for said dinner, and going to bed well before dawn.
Well, there was a little excitement involving Bachelor-boy and a bunch of Southern Comfort manhattans, but that’s a story I’ll save for when his kids get married some day.
04/01/04
Bush and Cheney, Holding Hands Under the Table
Rather in the same way that I avoid reaching across the table to pick at other people’s entrees, I’ve never felt the need to re-post the work of others. But… then there was that fateful day that my wife ordered the best crispy sesame beef ever. It was perfectly aromatic and crispy yet tender, rather like this following piece sent along to me by a friend yesterday. (Thanks)
It perfectly mirrors my merriment at learning yesterday that the intellectually and morally challenged Bush will only testify before the 9/11 commission if it’s in private and if daddy Cheney holds his hand. Enjoy:
Scene: The Roosevelt Room in the west wing of the White House. Time: The near future. Members of the 9/11 Commission sit on one side of a large walnut conference table, President Bush and Vice President Cheney on the other. Next to them is White House Counsel Albert Gonzales. An elderly secretary sits at one end of the table, pad of paper in her lap, dozing in her chair. Two beefy secret service agents guard the door.
Chairman Kean: (looks to his fellow commissioners to make sure they're ready, then taps his gavel lightly on the table) I hereby call this special executive session of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States to order. In keeping with your request Mr. President, today's session will not be recorded, and we will have only one note taker ... (she snores audibly) from the White House secretarial pool. Are these arrangements satisfactory?
Bush: (glances at Cheney, who barely nods his head) Yeah, this'll do, I guess. I mean, it's not like we've got anything to hide. (he catches Timothy Roemer trying to suppress a smile) Whaddya you laughin' at, Tiny Tim? You wanna piece of me? Mano a mano?
Kean: Mr. President, please! We don't have much time!
Cheney: (smiling) Fifty seven minutes and forty three seconds, Mr. Chairman.
Kean: But Mr. Vice President, Mr. Gonzales assured us you and the president would not set an arbitrary time limit on your testimony today!
Cheney: (still smiling) Fifty seven minutes and eighteen seconds, Mr. Chairman. (winks at Gonzales)
Kean: (flustered) Then I suppose we should proceed. Mr. President? Excuse me, Mr. President? May we begin?
Bush: (still glaring at Roemer) Fine by me. But just remember what I said: We got nothin' to hide, and Dick here can vouch for it. Why, he knows I woulda stopped those planes if the CIA had just told us where the damned ragheads were gonna strike ... (Cheney bursts out in a loud fit of coughing. We hear the sound of a foot being stomped under the table. Bush winces and stops talking.)
Kean: (rushes to fill an awkward silence) Then I believe Mr. Ben-Veniste is scheduled to go first. If someone would just, uh, alert our note taker there... (Jamie Gorelick leans over and nudges the secretary, who wakes up with a start)
Note Taker: Eh? Is it time for coffee?
Gorelick: (sotto voice) The testimony is starting.
Note Taker: (querulous) What? Farting? Who's farting? Don't tell me Mr. Card had the bean soup for lunch again today!
Gorelick: I said, the testimony is starting.
Note Taker: (stares at Gorelick for a moment, then starts to fiddle with a hearing aid in her ear) Just a minute dearie, I think I need to replace the battery in this thing ...
Cheney: (grinning) Fifty three minutes, seventeen seconds, Mr. Chairman.
Kean: Commissioner Ben-Veniste, you may begin.
Ben-Veniste: Mr. President, what did you know and when did you know it?
Bush: Say what?
Ben-Veniste: (chuckles) Sorry, Mr. President. I couldn't resist that one. (clears throat, grows more serious) Mr. President, you were inaugurated as president on January 20th, 2001, were you not?
Bush: (evasive) You mean as president of the U.S. of A.?
Ben-Veniste: Yes sir, that's right.
Bush: Well, I, that is, um ... I think ... (Cheney loudly stamps his foot under the table, twice)
Bush: (carefully pronouncing each word) Yes, Commissioner, that statement is correct.
Ben-Veniste: And as president, you bear the ultimate responsibility for your administration's performance, do you not?
Bush: Responsibility? I'm not sure I like the sound of that ... (Cheney loudly stamps his foot, once.)
Ben-Veniste: (annoyed) Is something wrong, Mr. Vice President?
Cheney: It's just my foot, Commissioner. I'm afraid it's gone to sleep. (stamps it again, once.)
Bush: (slowly and precisely) No Commissioner, I must disagree with you about that.
Ben-Veniste: About what?
Bush: What?
Ben-Veniste: You must disagree about what?
Bush: (flustered) Whatever you just said, that's what.
Ben-Veniste: (sighs, consults his papers) Mr. President, we've heard testimony from Director Tenet, and others, that you were briefed on August 6, 2001 about the threat of terrorist hijackings -- either in the United States or abroad -- and that your senior counter-terrorism advisor urged you to take the federal government to "battle stations." Do you recall these conversations?
(Cheney drums his fingers on the table, loudly.)
Bush: (grins at Cheney) Could you repeat your question, Commissioner? A little more slowly?
Ben-Veniste: (exasperated) Mr. President, on August 6, 2001, were you or where you not warned that Al Qaeda terrorists might be planning a major hijacking?
Bush: (slouches back casually in his chair) Welllll, lessee now. August 6th, you say? Hmmmm...you know Commissioner, that was a mighty long time ago. (he glances at Cheney, who nods sympathetically)
Bush: I'm going to have to think real hard about that one, Ben.
Ben-Veniste: My name's Richard.
Bush: Whatever. August 6th ... August 6th ... You know, I think I was on vacation that month, back in Crawford. Ain't that right, Dick? (Cheney nods) You ever been down to that part of Texas, Ben? Awful pretty country ... (Cheney looks at his watch, smiles) Ben-Veniste: (wearily) Let's move on, Mr. President, maybe we can return to that question later. (Cheney makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.)
Ben-Veniste: Mr. President, have you ever had any business dealings with any members of the Bin Laden family?
Bush: (gives Ben-Veniste a shifty look) Have I ever had any what?
Ben-Veniste: Business dealings. Have any members of the Bin Laden family ever invested in any of the companies you've been associated with, or served as directors with you on any corporate boards ...?
Gonzales: (interrupts) Mr. Ben-Veniste, the administration wants to cooperate with the commission's work, but we have clearly stipulated as a condition for this session that questions about the president's relationship with the Bin Laden family are entirely out of bounds.
Ben-Veniste: (frowns) You have? I've seen no record of it.
Gonzales: That's because there isn't any. (snorts) We just made it up. (Cheney gives Gonzales a high five)
Kean: (interjects) Works for me! Now if you have no further questions, Commissioner Ben-Veniste, we'll move on to Commissioner Thompson. (Ben-Veniste starts to protest, but thinks better of it after noticing that one of the secret service agents is cracking his knuckles and glaring at him.)
Kean: Big Jim?
Thompson: (puts down the porno novel he's been reading) Thank you Mr. Chairman. I yield the balance of my time to Mr. Cheney. (picks up porno novel.)
Gorelick: Objection, Mr. Chairman!
Kean: (bangs gavel) Overruled. Mr. Cheney?
Cheney: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Since our time here is growing short... (Gorelick tries to interrupt, but Kean gavels her down.)
Cheney: As I was saying (smiles at Gorelick), since our time is now short, I'd like to take this opportunity to put something on the record -- something that's been bothering me really ever since 9/11. To the families of those who died on that terrible day, I want to say how sorry I am that so many of our career federal bureaucrats failed to protect you and your loved ones from the Islamic menace. Dick Clarke failed you. George Tenet failed you. But most of all, Dick Clarke and George Tenet failed you. They tried -- maybe not as hard as they should have, but nobody's perfect. Still, they failed. I just hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive them someday. (wipes an imaginary tear from his eye, then glances at his watch)
Bush: (cuts in) And now Mr. Chairman, in the few minutes remaining, I'd like to offer a prayer for each and every soul who went to meet our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ on that tragic day. Please bow your heads while Al here reads the names of our honored dead Ready when you are, Al. (Bush bows his head)
(As Gonzales pulls a thick list from his briefcase, the Democratic commissioners fume, throwing down their pens and angrily gathering up their papers. The Republican commissioners, meanwhile, stare blissfully into their folded hands.) Gonzales: (reading from list) Adams, Edgar P. ... Afford, Janice ... Agee, Betty L. ... Agee, Simon F. ...
Bush: (bellowing over Gonzales) Oh Heavenly Father, we beseech you to accept the Christians on this sacred list into your loving care, and we beg you also to show mercy to the nonbelievers, that they may someday be released from the gates of hell, and find their way to Jesus ...
(Bush's prayer gradually fades into an echo, leaving only the sound of Gonzales reading the names of the dead)
Gonzales: Butcher, Gerald R ... Bzyninski, Maude ... Carmine, Joseph .... (his voice gradually dies away)
(Fade to black)
(I’m afraid I don’t know the source, but anyway: great thanks to the author. -E)
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Bush and Cheney, Holding Hands Under the Table
Rather in the same way that I avoid reaching across the table to pick at other people’s entrees, I’ve never felt the need to re-post the work of others. But… then there was that fateful day that my wife ordered the best crispy sesame beef ever. It was perfectly aromatic and crispy yet tender, rather like this following piece sent along to me by a friend yesterday. (Thanks)
It perfectly mirrors my merriment at learning yesterday that the intellectually and morally challenged Bush will only testify before the 9/11 commission if it’s in private and if daddy Cheney holds his hand. Enjoy:
Scene: The Roosevelt Room in the west wing of the White House. Time: The near future. Members of the 9/11 Commission sit on one side of a large walnut conference table, President Bush and Vice President Cheney on the other. Next to them is White House Counsel Albert Gonzales. An elderly secretary sits at one end of the table, pad of paper in her lap, dozing in her chair. Two beefy secret service agents guard the door.
Chairman Kean: (looks to his fellow commissioners to make sure they're ready, then taps his gavel lightly on the table) I hereby call this special executive session of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States to order. In keeping with your request Mr. President, today's session will not be recorded, and we will have only one note taker ... (she snores audibly) from the White House secretarial pool. Are these arrangements satisfactory?
Bush: (glances at Cheney, who barely nods his head) Yeah, this'll do, I guess. I mean, it's not like we've got anything to hide. (he catches Timothy Roemer trying to suppress a smile) Whaddya you laughin' at, Tiny Tim? You wanna piece of me? Mano a mano?
Kean: Mr. President, please! We don't have much time!
Cheney: (smiling) Fifty seven minutes and forty three seconds, Mr. Chairman.
Kean: But Mr. Vice President, Mr. Gonzales assured us you and the president would not set an arbitrary time limit on your testimony today!
Cheney: (still smiling) Fifty seven minutes and eighteen seconds, Mr. Chairman. (winks at Gonzales)
Kean: (flustered) Then I suppose we should proceed. Mr. President? Excuse me, Mr. President? May we begin?
Bush: (still glaring at Roemer) Fine by me. But just remember what I said: We got nothin' to hide, and Dick here can vouch for it. Why, he knows I woulda stopped those planes if the CIA had just told us where the damned ragheads were gonna strike ... (Cheney bursts out in a loud fit of coughing. We hear the sound of a foot being stomped under the table. Bush winces and stops talking.)
Kean: (rushes to fill an awkward silence) Then I believe Mr. Ben-Veniste is scheduled to go first. If someone would just, uh, alert our note taker there... (Jamie Gorelick leans over and nudges the secretary, who wakes up with a start)
Note Taker: Eh? Is it time for coffee?
Gorelick: (sotto voice) The testimony is starting.
Note Taker: (querulous) What? Farting? Who's farting? Don't tell me Mr. Card had the bean soup for lunch again today!
Gorelick: I said, the testimony is starting.
Note Taker: (stares at Gorelick for a moment, then starts to fiddle with a hearing aid in her ear) Just a minute dearie, I think I need to replace the battery in this thing ...
Cheney: (grinning) Fifty three minutes, seventeen seconds, Mr. Chairman.
Kean: Commissioner Ben-Veniste, you may begin.
Ben-Veniste: Mr. President, what did you know and when did you know it?
Bush: Say what?
Ben-Veniste: (chuckles) Sorry, Mr. President. I couldn't resist that one. (clears throat, grows more serious) Mr. President, you were inaugurated as president on January 20th, 2001, were you not?
Bush: (evasive) You mean as president of the U.S. of A.?
Ben-Veniste: Yes sir, that's right.
Bush: Well, I, that is, um ... I think ... (Cheney loudly stamps his foot under the table, twice)
Bush: (carefully pronouncing each word) Yes, Commissioner, that statement is correct.
Ben-Veniste: And as president, you bear the ultimate responsibility for your administration's performance, do you not?
Bush: Responsibility? I'm not sure I like the sound of that ... (Cheney loudly stamps his foot, once.)
Ben-Veniste: (annoyed) Is something wrong, Mr. Vice President?
Cheney: It's just my foot, Commissioner. I'm afraid it's gone to sleep. (stamps it again, once.)
Bush: (slowly and precisely) No Commissioner, I must disagree with you about that.
Ben-Veniste: About what?
Bush: What?
Ben-Veniste: You must disagree about what?
Bush: (flustered) Whatever you just said, that's what.
Ben-Veniste: (sighs, consults his papers) Mr. President, we've heard testimony from Director Tenet, and others, that you were briefed on August 6, 2001 about the threat of terrorist hijackings -- either in the United States or abroad -- and that your senior counter-terrorism advisor urged you to take the federal government to "battle stations." Do you recall these conversations?
(Cheney drums his fingers on the table, loudly.)
Bush: (grins at Cheney) Could you repeat your question, Commissioner? A little more slowly?
Ben-Veniste: (exasperated) Mr. President, on August 6, 2001, were you or where you not warned that Al Qaeda terrorists might be planning a major hijacking?
Bush: (slouches back casually in his chair) Welllll, lessee now. August 6th, you say? Hmmmm...you know Commissioner, that was a mighty long time ago. (he glances at Cheney, who nods sympathetically)
Bush: I'm going to have to think real hard about that one, Ben.
Ben-Veniste: My name's Richard.
Bush: Whatever. August 6th ... August 6th ... You know, I think I was on vacation that month, back in Crawford. Ain't that right, Dick? (Cheney nods) You ever been down to that part of Texas, Ben? Awful pretty country ... (Cheney looks at his watch, smiles) Ben-Veniste: (wearily) Let's move on, Mr. President, maybe we can return to that question later. (Cheney makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat.)
Ben-Veniste: Mr. President, have you ever had any business dealings with any members of the Bin Laden family?
Bush: (gives Ben-Veniste a shifty look) Have I ever had any what?
Ben-Veniste: Business dealings. Have any members of the Bin Laden family ever invested in any of the companies you've been associated with, or served as directors with you on any corporate boards ...?
Gonzales: (interrupts) Mr. Ben-Veniste, the administration wants to cooperate with the commission's work, but we have clearly stipulated as a condition for this session that questions about the president's relationship with the Bin Laden family are entirely out of bounds.
Ben-Veniste: (frowns) You have? I've seen no record of it.
Gonzales: That's because there isn't any. (snorts) We just made it up. (Cheney gives Gonzales a high five)
Kean: (interjects) Works for me! Now if you have no further questions, Commissioner Ben-Veniste, we'll move on to Commissioner Thompson. (Ben-Veniste starts to protest, but thinks better of it after noticing that one of the secret service agents is cracking his knuckles and glaring at him.)
Kean: Big Jim?
Thompson: (puts down the porno novel he's been reading) Thank you Mr. Chairman. I yield the balance of my time to Mr. Cheney. (picks up porno novel.)
Gorelick: Objection, Mr. Chairman!
Kean: (bangs gavel) Overruled. Mr. Cheney?
Cheney: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Since our time here is growing short... (Gorelick tries to interrupt, but Kean gavels her down.)
Cheney: As I was saying (smiles at Gorelick), since our time is now short, I'd like to take this opportunity to put something on the record -- something that's been bothering me really ever since 9/11. To the families of those who died on that terrible day, I want to say how sorry I am that so many of our career federal bureaucrats failed to protect you and your loved ones from the Islamic menace. Dick Clarke failed you. George Tenet failed you. But most of all, Dick Clarke and George Tenet failed you. They tried -- maybe not as hard as they should have, but nobody's perfect. Still, they failed. I just hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive them someday. (wipes an imaginary tear from his eye, then glances at his watch)
Bush: (cuts in) And now Mr. Chairman, in the few minutes remaining, I'd like to offer a prayer for each and every soul who went to meet our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ on that tragic day. Please bow your heads while Al here reads the names of our honored dead Ready when you are, Al. (Bush bows his head)
(As Gonzales pulls a thick list from his briefcase, the Democratic commissioners fume, throwing down their pens and angrily gathering up their papers. The Republican commissioners, meanwhile, stare blissfully into their folded hands.) Gonzales: (reading from list) Adams, Edgar P. ... Afford, Janice ... Agee, Betty L. ... Agee, Simon F. ...
Bush: (bellowing over Gonzales) Oh Heavenly Father, we beseech you to accept the Christians on this sacred list into your loving care, and we beg you also to show mercy to the nonbelievers, that they may someday be released from the gates of hell, and find their way to Jesus ...
(Bush's prayer gradually fades into an echo, leaving only the sound of Gonzales reading the names of the dead)
Gonzales: Butcher, Gerald R ... Bzyninski, Maude ... Carmine, Joseph .... (his voice gradually dies away)
(Fade to black)
(I’m afraid I don’t know the source, but anyway: great thanks to the author. -E)
3/22/04
Things I Don't Miss
As I write this, I’m sitting in the car while the boys are in Karate. It’s a bright, sunny March day, and yet I must admit that I’m just a little grumpy about having to cool my heels in the car. Then, just to my right I noticed station wagon in which a father had made a pit stop with his toddler-aged daughter. Being just a shade older and wiser than she, I realized immediately that it was a diaper stop. And then, right on cue, chaos began the instant she realized what the stop was all about. Beginning with a high pitched squeal, the wrestling match between father and daughter escalated to near John Wayne/Maureen O’Hara proportions until ultimately the daughter tapped out, having been pinned on the back deck of the wagon.
All the while though, despite the increasing intensity of the shrieking, pleading and wiggling, the diaper bag-wielding dad kept his cool. All it took was two minutes of soothing banter and skilled sleight of hand, and he walked away triumphantly wielding his prize: toddler poo safely ensconced in a plastic shopping bag. He was a pro.
As they drove away, the sun continued to shine brightly, the birds sang, and a strangely quiet sort of peace descended over the parking lot in which I sat. A moment later I remembered with a start that Karate was nearly over and I had to fetch the boys... and it was then that I realized that I wasn’t grumpy anymore. In fact, never again will I grumble about a little chore like driving the boys around, because if nothing else, they've been wiping their own asses for a long time now. And boy, I sure don’t miss that.
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Things I Don't Miss
As I write this, I’m sitting in the car while the boys are in Karate. It’s a bright, sunny March day, and yet I must admit that I’m just a little grumpy about having to cool my heels in the car. Then, just to my right I noticed station wagon in which a father had made a pit stop with his toddler-aged daughter. Being just a shade older and wiser than she, I realized immediately that it was a diaper stop. And then, right on cue, chaos began the instant she realized what the stop was all about. Beginning with a high pitched squeal, the wrestling match between father and daughter escalated to near John Wayne/Maureen O’Hara proportions until ultimately the daughter tapped out, having been pinned on the back deck of the wagon.
All the while though, despite the increasing intensity of the shrieking, pleading and wiggling, the diaper bag-wielding dad kept his cool. All it took was two minutes of soothing banter and skilled sleight of hand, and he walked away triumphantly wielding his prize: toddler poo safely ensconced in a plastic shopping bag. He was a pro.
As they drove away, the sun continued to shine brightly, the birds sang, and a strangely quiet sort of peace descended over the parking lot in which I sat. A moment later I remembered with a start that Karate was nearly over and I had to fetch the boys... and it was then that I realized that I wasn’t grumpy anymore. In fact, never again will I grumble about a little chore like driving the boys around, because if nothing else, they've been wiping their own asses for a long time now. And boy, I sure don’t miss that.
Monday
3/10/04
Wagon Wheels and Ellipses
Just like any other elaborate collection of ideas that undergoes change with the interpretation and handling of people, both the Bible and the Internet are, as best I can tell, rather like a vast game of "telephone’. Or the Torah or Koran or whatever.
But, since I don’t feel quite up to musing about the fluid nature of Bible study today, I’ll just wonder about the fluid nature of the Internet. In short, I’m just mildly curious about one minor thing: there’s been some buzz about Steve Martin’s ‘Passion’ script notes piece in the New Yorker for the last few days, and although it took me a day or so, I’ve found that there are at least two slightly different versions circulating.
In the first, studio guy "Stan" wonders if instead of a cross it would be feasible to use a copyrightable shape like a wagon wheel, and in another version he wonders if it could be an ellipse. Of course there’s nothing remarkable about intellectual or physical content either morphing into something new or incrementally gathering errors like a fifth generation cassette tape of the Dead at Sacramento, but the difference between a wagon wheel and an ellipse seems inexplicable.
So, I guess I’m just looking for any thoughts on this, or if anybody knows if there’s even anything worth knowing about that difference in the first place.
Now then, if I could just figure out the incremental communication errors that make my kids interpret "Go to bed" as "Run around the house like maniacs…"
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Wagon Wheels and Ellipses
Just like any other elaborate collection of ideas that undergoes change with the interpretation and handling of people, both the Bible and the Internet are, as best I can tell, rather like a vast game of "telephone’. Or the Torah or Koran or whatever.
But, since I don’t feel quite up to musing about the fluid nature of Bible study today, I’ll just wonder about the fluid nature of the Internet. In short, I’m just mildly curious about one minor thing: there’s been some buzz about Steve Martin’s ‘Passion’ script notes piece in the New Yorker for the last few days, and although it took me a day or so, I’ve found that there are at least two slightly different versions circulating.
In the first, studio guy "Stan" wonders if instead of a cross it would be feasible to use a copyrightable shape like a wagon wheel, and in another version he wonders if it could be an ellipse. Of course there’s nothing remarkable about intellectual or physical content either morphing into something new or incrementally gathering errors like a fifth generation cassette tape of the Dead at Sacramento, but the difference between a wagon wheel and an ellipse seems inexplicable.
So, I guess I’m just looking for any thoughts on this, or if anybody knows if there’s even anything worth knowing about that difference in the first place.
Now then, if I could just figure out the incremental communication errors that make my kids interpret "Go to bed" as "Run around the house like maniacs…"
3/09/04
Echostar and Viacom. Nitwits.
Just a note for all you digital junkies out there… If you have Dish Network you may have noticed over the last few days that under a few of the channels there was a ticker running that rambled on about Echostar wanting to take away channels such as Comedy Central and Nickelodeon.
It seems that Echostar and Viacom are in the midst of a pissing match over rate hikes and programming, and as of this morning all those Viacom owned channels have indeed been pulled. Even more annoying, while futzing around on the web last night, I found very little mention about and almost no objective news on the whole thing.
But, as they often are, a couple of blogs were already all over the issue like hair on an ape, which is where I found the first of these two stories. (Thanks to Cap’n Arbyte, who doesn’t seem to miss anything anywhere. Ooh, and even better yet, this story from Motely Fool is typical of their lucid style.)
Me? I just called Direct TV. Heck, I’ll even finally get the Yankees.
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Echostar and Viacom. Nitwits.
Just a note for all you digital junkies out there… If you have Dish Network you may have noticed over the last few days that under a few of the channels there was a ticker running that rambled on about Echostar wanting to take away channels such as Comedy Central and Nickelodeon.
It seems that Echostar and Viacom are in the midst of a pissing match over rate hikes and programming, and as of this morning all those Viacom owned channels have indeed been pulled. Even more annoying, while futzing around on the web last night, I found very little mention about and almost no objective news on the whole thing.
But, as they often are, a couple of blogs were already all over the issue like hair on an ape, which is where I found the first of these two stories. (Thanks to Cap’n Arbyte, who doesn’t seem to miss anything anywhere. Ooh, and even better yet, this story from Motely Fool is typical of their lucid style.)
Me? I just called Direct TV. Heck, I’ll even finally get the Yankees.
3/08/04
Muppets and Munchkins
From the dawn of time right up through the modern age, mankind’s grasp on survival has been tenuous indeed. Ice ages came and went, the rise of city-states and monotheistic religions invited organized warfare, toothpaste came in only one flavor, and exorbitant late fees at Blockbuster caused marital discord.
But no longer. Not only do I have bubble gum flavored toothpaste, but also Netflix has ensured that family movie night is an entirely stress free experience. We’ve been using it for a year or so now, and what a fine thing it is. Just this last weekend, the lads and my Lovely Bride and I beat back the late-winter blues with a double feature of Muppet Movie and The Wizard of Oz.
I probably hadn’t seen the Muppet Movie since I was a teenager, and had entirely forgotten what a great time it is. The early running joke about finding ones way with Hare Krishna is priceless, and most of the cameos are as fresh as ever. (Well, with two odd exceptions: balloon-vending Richard Pryor is clearly wasted out of his mind, and poor, watery-eyed Orson Wells looks as though he’s on life support. But on the bright side, the Steve Martin snotty waiter bit still made me laugh till I nearly fell off the couch.)
And then there’s The Wizard of Oz. I hadn’t seen it straight through since I was six years old at a showing of a restored print at Radio City; so again there's a movie about which I had pretty much forgotten. (Certainly the few times I had seen it since then after it was cut to shreds and filled with commercials on channel 11 didn’t do it any justice.)
Mean green witch, singing Munchkins, flying monkeys… it’s all there in one crisp, tidy package. In fact it’s the sort of film that makes you glad it was made when it was; had it been produced today it would be filled with distracting CGI effects and run at least 30 minutes too long. But not here; Judy is plenty fetching in grainy sepia tone, and Margaret disappears in a pleasantly old fashioned puff of stage smoke.
And even better, for next week’s movie night it looks likely that Godzilla will be stomping all over Tokyo.
All hail Netflix! Huzzah!
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Muppets and Munchkins
From the dawn of time right up through the modern age, mankind’s grasp on survival has been tenuous indeed. Ice ages came and went, the rise of city-states and monotheistic religions invited organized warfare, toothpaste came in only one flavor, and exorbitant late fees at Blockbuster caused marital discord.
But no longer. Not only do I have bubble gum flavored toothpaste, but also Netflix has ensured that family movie night is an entirely stress free experience. We’ve been using it for a year or so now, and what a fine thing it is. Just this last weekend, the lads and my Lovely Bride and I beat back the late-winter blues with a double feature of Muppet Movie and The Wizard of Oz.
I probably hadn’t seen the Muppet Movie since I was a teenager, and had entirely forgotten what a great time it is. The early running joke about finding ones way with Hare Krishna is priceless, and most of the cameos are as fresh as ever. (Well, with two odd exceptions: balloon-vending Richard Pryor is clearly wasted out of his mind, and poor, watery-eyed Orson Wells looks as though he’s on life support. But on the bright side, the Steve Martin snotty waiter bit still made me laugh till I nearly fell off the couch.)
And then there’s The Wizard of Oz. I hadn’t seen it straight through since I was six years old at a showing of a restored print at Radio City; so again there's a movie about which I had pretty much forgotten. (Certainly the few times I had seen it since then after it was cut to shreds and filled with commercials on channel 11 didn’t do it any justice.)
Mean green witch, singing Munchkins, flying monkeys… it’s all there in one crisp, tidy package. In fact it’s the sort of film that makes you glad it was made when it was; had it been produced today it would be filled with distracting CGI effects and run at least 30 minutes too long. But not here; Judy is plenty fetching in grainy sepia tone, and Margaret disappears in a pleasantly old fashioned puff of stage smoke.
And even better, for next week’s movie night it looks likely that Godzilla will be stomping all over Tokyo.
All hail Netflix! Huzzah!
3/04/04
TV Ads And Cat Poop
Life is just chock full of little mysteries, both pleasant and otherwise. The crocus, harbingers of spring who push their brave little blooms upwards on inhospitable March days in the hope of finding a few golden rays of sunlight, are just such a pleasant mystery. Then again, the reason our neighbor’s cat exclusively prefers our yard for pooping is just as mysterious, only a heck of a lot less poetic than crocus and sunlight. Yuck.
Of course there are also the would-be mysteries that aren’t really mysterious at all: the so called "prizes" that hitchhike along in boxes Crackerjacks are never anything but a crummy little tattoo thingy. But again, maybe I’m just a star-crossed buyer of snack foods.
Anyway, as if life wasn't wierd enough already, I awoke to a real stumper today; namely, who was it at the Karl Rove insinuation=fact factory that thought it would be a great idea to use images of firefighters retrieving the remains of a 9/11 victim for Bush’s very first volley of TV ads? Well, perhaps it’s just inept rather than mysterious, but still.
In any case, I suppose it’s going to be a long eight months until the election, so I had better toughen up and stop being surprised by this sort of nonsense each morning. And gee whiz, I think I really do prefer the cat poop.
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TV Ads And Cat Poop
Life is just chock full of little mysteries, both pleasant and otherwise. The crocus, harbingers of spring who push their brave little blooms upwards on inhospitable March days in the hope of finding a few golden rays of sunlight, are just such a pleasant mystery. Then again, the reason our neighbor’s cat exclusively prefers our yard for pooping is just as mysterious, only a heck of a lot less poetic than crocus and sunlight. Yuck.
Of course there are also the would-be mysteries that aren’t really mysterious at all: the so called "prizes" that hitchhike along in boxes Crackerjacks are never anything but a crummy little tattoo thingy. But again, maybe I’m just a star-crossed buyer of snack foods.
Anyway, as if life wasn't wierd enough already, I awoke to a real stumper today; namely, who was it at the Karl Rove insinuation=fact factory that thought it would be a great idea to use images of firefighters retrieving the remains of a 9/11 victim for Bush’s very first volley of TV ads? Well, perhaps it’s just inept rather than mysterious, but still.
In any case, I suppose it’s going to be a long eight months until the election, so I had better toughen up and stop being surprised by this sort of nonsense each morning. And gee whiz, I think I really do prefer the cat poop.
Thursday
2/27/04
Tourist Dad
Although life can be full of little embarrassments, thank heavens that most of them are little more than personal bogeymen, entirely invisible to others. To wit: I was born in New York, New York, a city that is, it seems, so nice they named it twice. But then, despite having spent a lot of time there with my friends as a younger guy (McSorely’s, Ray’s, Beacon theatre, Jeremy’s Ale House at the seaport, any restaurant west of Washington Square Park, fireworks over the East River, Wonderland, Limelight, concerts on the pier, The Bottom Line, Kettle of Fish, etc. etc. etc.), I eventually slipped into grown-up-dad-guy-in-the-suburbs mode and pretty much stopped going.
Bad dad. We live thirty minutes from midtown in the greatest city on earth, and yet we were letting it all slide past. So anyway, over the last year or so, the lovely Bride and I have been making a point of getting back into it, and today we’re taking the lads in to do fun, touristy stuff. Some Empire State Building and Peanut Butter & Co. for lunch. That sort of thing.
And sure, I’ll just be another goofy tourist with a camera and some little kids now, but at least I’ll be working on the other half of the city I haven’t had a crack at yet.
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Tourist Dad
Although life can be full of little embarrassments, thank heavens that most of them are little more than personal bogeymen, entirely invisible to others. To wit: I was born in New York, New York, a city that is, it seems, so nice they named it twice. But then, despite having spent a lot of time there with my friends as a younger guy (McSorely’s, Ray’s, Beacon theatre, Jeremy’s Ale House at the seaport, any restaurant west of Washington Square Park, fireworks over the East River, Wonderland, Limelight, concerts on the pier, The Bottom Line, Kettle of Fish, etc. etc. etc.), I eventually slipped into grown-up-dad-guy-in-the-suburbs mode and pretty much stopped going.
Bad dad. We live thirty minutes from midtown in the greatest city on earth, and yet we were letting it all slide past. So anyway, over the last year or so, the lovely Bride and I have been making a point of getting back into it, and today we’re taking the lads in to do fun, touristy stuff. Some Empire State Building and Peanut Butter & Co. for lunch. That sort of thing.
And sure, I’ll just be another goofy tourist with a camera and some little kids now, but at least I’ll be working on the other half of the city I haven’t had a crack at yet.
2/24/04
Shrodinger's Cat and Marriage
As I generally consider myself a thinking sort of guy, I realize that although there are many political and ideological positions with which I disagree, I can still understand the rational behind them. Say, just for instance, our administration’s compulsive addiction to chasing more oil while steadfastly ignoring that the polar icecaps are melting. Stupid, but understandable.
Keeping that in mind, there are also some things I just don’t get at all, such as string theory and the whole business with Schrodinger’s cat. But worse than that, there are the seemingly simple things in life by which I’m inexplicably confounded as well; and although I’m usually flummoxed by only one event at a time, I must admit that two items this last week have had me staring at the news with a blank, drooling look of complete incomprehension.
The first is the growing furor over the notion of same sex marriage. It’s an issue that obviously frightens the bejesus out of some people, and yet for the life of me I can’t see why. I actually listen to the arguments against allowing adults the opportunity to have their union validated by society, and yet I still don’t get why. Last week the Times printed a letter from a Reverend Bill Branch who opined that same sex marriage would "devalue" the marriages of men and women. The Reverend, who is obviously an entirely sincere and thoughtful man, went on to use an analogy involving gold and sandstone. In the end, though, I read his letter twice and I still have no idea why I should feel that my marriage has been somehow devalued.
Even less helpful are those who don’t even bother with a logical rationale for their opposition to same sex marriage and simply hide behind the mantra "marriage is the union of a man and woman. Period." That sort of cowardly unwillingness to construct reasoned, logical foundation for a position that dictates how others must live their lives strikes me as unconscionable. Certainly an argument that any given societal status quo should be permanent and immutable makes no sense; after all, it used to be that slavery was cool and women’s suffrage was a terrible idea. Perhaps it’s time to grow up.
Anyway, the second thing I found entirely inexplicable this week is Nader’s decision to run again. And, although I had an equally lengthy, well-reasoned argument prepared about why he shouldn’t, I find that at times there’s no substitute for brevity.
So here it is: Ralph Nader. What an ass.
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Shrodinger's Cat and Marriage
As I generally consider myself a thinking sort of guy, I realize that although there are many political and ideological positions with which I disagree, I can still understand the rational behind them. Say, just for instance, our administration’s compulsive addiction to chasing more oil while steadfastly ignoring that the polar icecaps are melting. Stupid, but understandable.
Keeping that in mind, there are also some things I just don’t get at all, such as string theory and the whole business with Schrodinger’s cat. But worse than that, there are the seemingly simple things in life by which I’m inexplicably confounded as well; and although I’m usually flummoxed by only one event at a time, I must admit that two items this last week have had me staring at the news with a blank, drooling look of complete incomprehension.
The first is the growing furor over the notion of same sex marriage. It’s an issue that obviously frightens the bejesus out of some people, and yet for the life of me I can’t see why. I actually listen to the arguments against allowing adults the opportunity to have their union validated by society, and yet I still don’t get why. Last week the Times printed a letter from a Reverend Bill Branch who opined that same sex marriage would "devalue" the marriages of men and women. The Reverend, who is obviously an entirely sincere and thoughtful man, went on to use an analogy involving gold and sandstone. In the end, though, I read his letter twice and I still have no idea why I should feel that my marriage has been somehow devalued.
Even less helpful are those who don’t even bother with a logical rationale for their opposition to same sex marriage and simply hide behind the mantra "marriage is the union of a man and woman. Period." That sort of cowardly unwillingness to construct reasoned, logical foundation for a position that dictates how others must live their lives strikes me as unconscionable. Certainly an argument that any given societal status quo should be permanent and immutable makes no sense; after all, it used to be that slavery was cool and women’s suffrage was a terrible idea. Perhaps it’s time to grow up.
Anyway, the second thing I found entirely inexplicable this week is Nader’s decision to run again. And, although I had an equally lengthy, well-reasoned argument prepared about why he shouldn’t, I find that at times there’s no substitute for brevity.
So here it is: Ralph Nader. What an ass.
Monday
2/18/04
Thanks for the Memories
It's been a common practice of the neo-cons for some time now to condemn those who possess the intellectual curiosity to pursue historical perspectives as traitorous America-haters. So, in defense of the notion that acknowledging and learning from the past is, simply put, a healthy thing, I again offer up a passage from Al Franken's last book as an exquisitely articulate response to these simpletons :
"They don’t get it. We love America just as much as they do. But in a different way. You see, they love America the way a four-year-old loves her mommy. Liberals love America like grown-ups. To a four-year-old, everything mommy does is wonderful and anyone who criticizes mommy is bad. Grown-up love means actually understanding what you love, taking the good with the bad, and helping your loved one grow."
My point? Here's another bit of very tidy, succinct perspective from which you'd think we all could learn:
"Thanks for the Memories" (Thanks, Lisa!)
Turn your speakers on and enjoy
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Thanks for the Memories
It's been a common practice of the neo-cons for some time now to condemn those who possess the intellectual curiosity to pursue historical perspectives as traitorous America-haters. So, in defense of the notion that acknowledging and learning from the past is, simply put, a healthy thing, I again offer up a passage from Al Franken's last book as an exquisitely articulate response to these simpletons :
"They don’t get it. We love America just as much as they do. But in a different way. You see, they love America the way a four-year-old loves her mommy. Liberals love America like grown-ups. To a four-year-old, everything mommy does is wonderful and anyone who criticizes mommy is bad. Grown-up love means actually understanding what you love, taking the good with the bad, and helping your loved one grow."
My point? Here's another bit of very tidy, succinct perspective from which you'd think we all could learn:
"Thanks for the Memories" (Thanks, Lisa!)
Turn your speakers on and enjoy
2/3/04
Yes, You All Have Boobs. Get Over Yourselves.
It was just two years ago last week that an ostensibly "aesthetic" decision deprived the world of one half of a classic pair of matching boobs residing at the Justice Department; an institution ever so serious in it’s commitment to protecting America from, well, boobs.
And yet, despite that department’s chivalrous effort to keep us on a clean and virtuous path by tossing it’s $8,000 overcoat across the mud puddle of mammary temptation, we still find ourselves assaulted daily by the would-be charms of a variety of female pop icons, each more desperate for attention than the next. In short, we’re part of a schizophrenic society which spends half its time enabling and applauding psycho-sexually damaged buffoons like John Ashcroft, while spending the other half watching the breathless and sweaty E! network in the dark, all the while praying for a glimpse of J. Lo.’s all too ordinary ass cleavage.
Heavens yes, there it is, out in the open. Ordinary. All the chatter and flather over scantily clad women, marble or otherwise, is rendered meaningless by the entirely ordinary and unexceptional quality of that which is being exposed. That’s right, guys, not only does the Emperor have no clothes, but Lopez’s ass, while certainly a pleasant thing, is not the cosmic be-all and end-all of desire that the New York Post tells us it is. It’s just a nice butt, and that’s all.
Now of course we come full circle to the unfortunate Janet Jackson and the inexplicable display of her right breast at halftime. My question remains: "Why?" It is, quite frankly, not even a very appealing breast. It’s the rather droopy, flabby breast of a woman who’s pushing forty. Thanks but no thanks, Janet.
And yet, America has worked itself into a state somewhere between teenage titillation and righteous indignation over that one unexceptional second of airtime. As a friend pointed out to me this morning, FCC chairman Michael Powell (guess who’s baby boy…) had no problem jumping right into an investigation while blissfully unaware of the irony of his being part of an administration that fights any and all scrutiny of itself… but that’s a blog for another day.
So anyway, what would have been worthy of all this commotion? Just imagine the newly-svelte Anna Nicole Smith dropping her tube top during halftime… I’ll bet Ashcroft’s head would have exploded.
(Oh, and if you're the sort that doesn't believe that Ashcroft is disturbed, please enjoy this little insight into how he conducts his professional life.)
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Yes, You All Have Boobs. Get Over Yourselves.
It was just two years ago last week that an ostensibly "aesthetic" decision deprived the world of one half of a classic pair of matching boobs residing at the Justice Department; an institution ever so serious in it’s commitment to protecting America from, well, boobs.
And yet, despite that department’s chivalrous effort to keep us on a clean and virtuous path by tossing it’s $8,000 overcoat across the mud puddle of mammary temptation, we still find ourselves assaulted daily by the would-be charms of a variety of female pop icons, each more desperate for attention than the next. In short, we’re part of a schizophrenic society which spends half its time enabling and applauding psycho-sexually damaged buffoons like John Ashcroft, while spending the other half watching the breathless and sweaty E! network in the dark, all the while praying for a glimpse of J. Lo.’s all too ordinary ass cleavage.
Heavens yes, there it is, out in the open. Ordinary. All the chatter and flather over scantily clad women, marble or otherwise, is rendered meaningless by the entirely ordinary and unexceptional quality of that which is being exposed. That’s right, guys, not only does the Emperor have no clothes, but Lopez’s ass, while certainly a pleasant thing, is not the cosmic be-all and end-all of desire that the New York Post tells us it is. It’s just a nice butt, and that’s all.
Now of course we come full circle to the unfortunate Janet Jackson and the inexplicable display of her right breast at halftime. My question remains: "Why?" It is, quite frankly, not even a very appealing breast. It’s the rather droopy, flabby breast of a woman who’s pushing forty. Thanks but no thanks, Janet.
And yet, America has worked itself into a state somewhere between teenage titillation and righteous indignation over that one unexceptional second of airtime. As a friend pointed out to me this morning, FCC chairman Michael Powell (guess who’s baby boy…) had no problem jumping right into an investigation while blissfully unaware of the irony of his being part of an administration that fights any and all scrutiny of itself… but that’s a blog for another day.
So anyway, what would have been worthy of all this commotion? Just imagine the newly-svelte Anna Nicole Smith dropping her tube top during halftime… I’ll bet Ashcroft’s head would have exploded.
(Oh, and if you're the sort that doesn't believe that Ashcroft is disturbed, please enjoy this little insight into how he conducts his professional life.)
Thursday
1/30/04
Computers and Luddites
It’s never much fun finding yourself face to face with your frailties and shortcomings as a human being, and this last week or so has been the very model of a modern major mess… as it were. In other words, I came to realize just how unnecessarily dependant I had become on a certain piece of technology.
…Which was the fear of a whole class of home workers in Nottingham in the early nineteenth century as they faced the onslaught of industrial progress that carried with it the threat of technological dependence. Their reaction? All too universally human in that this increasingly marginalized class followed Ned Ludd’s example of picking up hammers and, in a show of defiance that would shake the growing class of industrial plutocrats to its core, broke a lot of stuff.
By 1813 a group of 17 such technologically challenged Luddites were hanged en masse, which sort of put a damper on things, and yet, those noble seeds of discontent and defiance live on in us yet. In short, when my computer/lifeline to the world was down for a while, I felt pretty cranky about all things mechanical indeed.
Now this is where you say, "But Evan, the Luddites were an undervalued class of traditional laborers whose very livelihoods were being threatened. You, however are little more than a spoiled crybaby who lost the luxury of downloading the Times Crossword rather than having to walk to the corner deli to pick it up yourself."
And I would have to reply that yes indeed, I do have a thing for my Compaq, and that is something with which I’m learning to live. In fact, I’ve even lost the urge to smash the toaster with a really big hammer. That’s right, nobody’s going to hang this technology junkie, cause I’m safely back in the warm, nurturing folds of Mother Conformity. Ahhhhhhh.
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Computers and Luddites
It’s never much fun finding yourself face to face with your frailties and shortcomings as a human being, and this last week or so has been the very model of a modern major mess… as it were. In other words, I came to realize just how unnecessarily dependant I had become on a certain piece of technology.
…Which was the fear of a whole class of home workers in Nottingham in the early nineteenth century as they faced the onslaught of industrial progress that carried with it the threat of technological dependence. Their reaction? All too universally human in that this increasingly marginalized class followed Ned Ludd’s example of picking up hammers and, in a show of defiance that would shake the growing class of industrial plutocrats to its core, broke a lot of stuff.
By 1813 a group of 17 such technologically challenged Luddites were hanged en masse, which sort of put a damper on things, and yet, those noble seeds of discontent and defiance live on in us yet. In short, when my computer/lifeline to the world was down for a while, I felt pretty cranky about all things mechanical indeed.
Now this is where you say, "But Evan, the Luddites were an undervalued class of traditional laborers whose very livelihoods were being threatened. You, however are little more than a spoiled crybaby who lost the luxury of downloading the Times Crossword rather than having to walk to the corner deli to pick it up yourself."
And I would have to reply that yes indeed, I do have a thing for my Compaq, and that is something with which I’m learning to live. In fact, I’ve even lost the urge to smash the toaster with a really big hammer. That’s right, nobody’s going to hang this technology junkie, cause I’m safely back in the warm, nurturing folds of Mother Conformity. Ahhhhhhh.
1/23/04
Computer Still Cranky...
Second recovery disk didn't work...
Finally sucked it up and brought my XP
machine to the computer hospital...
I hope they're treating it ok...
I miss my friend. Sniff.
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Computer Still Cranky...
Second recovery disk didn't work...
Finally sucked it up and brought my XP
machine to the computer hospital...
I hope they're treating it ok...
I miss my friend. Sniff.
1/20/04:
XP Machine is still down... Bad recovery CD...
Relying on the sleepy old 95 machines I upgraded to 98...
Gonna have to break down and make the
$40 phone call to India...
Losing will to live...
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XP Machine is still down... Bad recovery CD...
Relying on the sleepy old 95 machines I upgraded to 98...
Gonna have to break down and make the
$40 phone call to India...
Losing will to live...
1/15/04
Cranky Computer.
On around 1850, Thoreau said, "Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each." ... a quote which means just a little bit more today, perhaps, as I sit here watching the falling snow. Indeed, a day like today, at just about 8 degrees with six inches of fresh powder on the ground is the sort of day to make one consider the seasons and cycles of life through which we travel: the search for Easter finery on cool spring mornings, the smell of fresh mown grass on pluvial summer afternoons, a crisp blue sky under which we rake the autumn leaves… and Winter, which is when my Goddamned, muther f+%#ing piece of monkey sh#t computer suddenly turns up more addled than the hapless Ronald Reagan and less trustworthy than John Poindexter. @*$%.
In short, it’s time for a disk wipe and fresh install of XP. And actually, it’s just fine that the kids are home for a snow day today as I wouldn’t have gotten any thing else done anyway. (Anybody who’s done a factory restore on their machine will tell you that it is inevitably a miserable, whole day thing.)
Anyway, if Dads on the Couch never reappears, you’ll know the real story of its demise. ( Imagine, if you will, a thirty-something guy hudled in the corner in a fetal position mumbling "Can't... find... ASPI controllers. Gone... all gone... ) Hey, but then again, I’d sure hate to go back to scribbling my absolutely ludicrous flights of fancy with mere paper and pen. "Fresh mown grass on pluvial summer afternoons" indeed.
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Cranky Computer.
On around 1850, Thoreau said, "Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each." ... a quote which means just a little bit more today, perhaps, as I sit here watching the falling snow. Indeed, a day like today, at just about 8 degrees with six inches of fresh powder on the ground is the sort of day to make one consider the seasons and cycles of life through which we travel: the search for Easter finery on cool spring mornings, the smell of fresh mown grass on pluvial summer afternoons, a crisp blue sky under which we rake the autumn leaves… and Winter, which is when my Goddamned, muther f+%#ing piece of monkey sh#t computer suddenly turns up more addled than the hapless Ronald Reagan and less trustworthy than John Poindexter. @*$%.
In short, it’s time for a disk wipe and fresh install of XP. And actually, it’s just fine that the kids are home for a snow day today as I wouldn’t have gotten any thing else done anyway. (Anybody who’s done a factory restore on their machine will tell you that it is inevitably a miserable, whole day thing.)
Anyway, if Dads on the Couch never reappears, you’ll know the real story of its demise. ( Imagine, if you will, a thirty-something guy hudled in the corner in a fetal position mumbling "Can't... find... ASPI controllers. Gone... all gone... ) Hey, but then again, I’d sure hate to go back to scribbling my absolutely ludicrous flights of fancy with mere paper and pen. "Fresh mown grass on pluvial summer afternoons" indeed.
