A little over two years ago I wrote one of my signature, rambling, poorly-though-out posts about the debt ceiling. We were on the brink back then. Lots of dangerous rhetoric being bandied about. People feared that we were about to cross the Rubicon, and that this country might never recover.
Actually, the mood was pretty blase. No one really took it seriously. It looked like the usual political theater from careerist, ideological dolts on both sides of the aisle.
"It's an arbitrary deadline" we said.
"They'll just push it back again" we suggested.
"No, I'm TIRED, I don't feel like going out, let's just make quesadillas and get drunk in the living room" I said to my girlfriend.
And that's what happened. The GOP even got some choice spending cuts and everyone in the Executive and Legislative branches of our government learned a valuable lesson about political brinkmanship and crying wolf.
Then some nutjobs showed up.
Republicans took the house in a huge power shift, riding on a wave of district gerrymandering and fear about the Affordable Care Act, which I vainly hope we can someday stop calling Obamacare. It just sounds stupid. What we had now in the house was largely a band of political neophytes, resolutely devout in their belief that the ACA would destroy this country. Ambitious, ruthless, and in no way willing to let facts distract them from their aspirations, these are the people that have pushed us into a government shutdown.
People like Ted Cruz (R-TX), whose grandstanding kicked off the current shutdown. His delusions of grandeur are already leading him to think about a 2016 White House run, despite the fact he has been on the national stage for about ten minutes and was born in freakin CANADA.
Also people like Ted Yoho (R-FL), a large animal veterinarian that is used to euthanizing unhealthy behemoths, and also maintains the cognitive dissonance to suggest that the US defaulting on its debt would "bring stability to the world economy" You can't make this stuff up! No matter how much you wish you had and that insane people like this aren't in positions of power.
Anyway, the GOP is trying to keep the conversation focused on the ACA, not the debt ceiling. Mainly because they have an answer to the ACA: No. They don't care that it's the law of the land, they maintain that it is massively unpopular with their constituents and will be nothing but destructive. If only we had these compassionate souls wielding this kind of clout in the run-up to the war in Iraq. I'm sure they would have followed the will of the people.
As it is now, we are in Day 9 of the government shutdown. National Parks are closed and the communities that rely on the revenue they bring in up the creek. Families of soldiers killed in action aren't getting the death benefit that they are due, par for the course as far as the way we treat our military personnel and their loved ones in this country. To top it off, we are about a week away from default. Even if we get out of this one, the precedent has been set. They have learned they can hold this country hostage as a negotiating tactic. I really don't want to be around for the next temper tantrum these people throw.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
A Damn Shame
One of the most jarring things for many people that come to New York City is the proximity. When you're here, everything you might need is right around the corner in almost any neighborhood. All night delis, music venues, restaurants, museums (you won't really go to them, but it's neat that they are there) and stores of all varieties are all within a reasonable distance. After all, many people here don't have a car, or have never driven one, or think that they are a dangerous invention and that the steam engine was as far as we needed to take human ingenuity. That makes for a a very cloistered atmosphere, where everything is right on top of everything else. If you aren't claustrophobic, it's convenient as hell.
Naturally, this means the people are also right on top of each other, and not just in the biblical sense. Remove the walls of the tiny living room I'm writing this in, and I might be surrounded. Ten feet to my left is an elderly couple, twelve feet below me is a professional bachelor from India. Just over my head is a pair of young lovers that like to stomp around the floor at six each morning. You get the idea. Privacy becomes important to people here because it feels so fragile, something that doesn't exist for much of the day. The trains, streets, and places of business are so loud and crowded that any moments you have to yourself become sacred. Invasions of that privacy can range from being a nuisance to being terrifying, but I had a one recently that was simply heartbreaking.
I recently moved from a large apartment building to a converted family house. The walls in the larger place were paper-thin. I could hear my next-door neighbor's kids crying, the young lady upstairs cackling and copulating, and sometimes the superintendent in the basement tied his shoes at a deafening volume. You get used to it.
One of the last nights I was in this apartment I was lying on my bed, staring at my phone, and putting off sleep for no particular reason when I hear George, the old Greek man that shared my bedroom wall, answer his phone. George was hard of hearing, so he talked on the phone pretty loudly. Also, he was Greek, so he probably would have been conversationally yelling most of the time anyway. He answered in English, but didn't go straight into Greek the way he usually did when talking on the phone. My ears pricked up involuntarily.
'"Yannis? That you? What you saying? My brother in Greece died?"
I know it seems unlikely, but he really did give both sides of the conversation like someone in a stage play.
Then the crying started.
I have never been around an old man crying. They are a pretty stoic bunch. George lived alone. His father, who must have been at least 90, had stayed with him until he passed last year. Maybe the fact that he was alone in his place made him feel safe enough to let it out. Or maybe he just really loved his brother. He sobbed into the phone, alternating between Greek and English for the next couple minutes. Then he said he needed to call his sister in Athens. He wept loudly for a few minutes before calling her.
I felt horrible. I felt I shouldn't be listening, that the man should be allowed his privacy for this tragedy. Of course, I was in my own room, in my own apartment. It felt weird to go into the living room because of someone I barely knew that wasn't even in the room with me. Other than all that though, leaving felt like the easy way out, and people who know me can tell you I don't take the easy (or smart) way out of anything.
George eventually called his sister and gave her the bad news. The sobbing started up again in earnest and it went on for what felt like hours. I wanted to do something, but what? I didn't know this man. Just because he was alone doesn't mean he needs me and my sympathy butting in. Not to mention that if I went next door with a bundt cake and said 'sorry for your loss' he would have known I was listening in.
It was one of those moments where this city thrusts someone else's tragedy into your life. It didn't affect me directly, it was really none of my business. It still kept me up all night, long after George finished crying. There's a reason why they tell you New Yorker's don't want to get involved. It's not always because they don't want to be sued.
Naturally, this means the people are also right on top of each other, and not just in the biblical sense. Remove the walls of the tiny living room I'm writing this in, and I might be surrounded. Ten feet to my left is an elderly couple, twelve feet below me is a professional bachelor from India. Just over my head is a pair of young lovers that like to stomp around the floor at six each morning. You get the idea. Privacy becomes important to people here because it feels so fragile, something that doesn't exist for much of the day. The trains, streets, and places of business are so loud and crowded that any moments you have to yourself become sacred. Invasions of that privacy can range from being a nuisance to being terrifying, but I had a one recently that was simply heartbreaking.
I recently moved from a large apartment building to a converted family house. The walls in the larger place were paper-thin. I could hear my next-door neighbor's kids crying, the young lady upstairs cackling and copulating, and sometimes the superintendent in the basement tied his shoes at a deafening volume. You get used to it.
One of the last nights I was in this apartment I was lying on my bed, staring at my phone, and putting off sleep for no particular reason when I hear George, the old Greek man that shared my bedroom wall, answer his phone. George was hard of hearing, so he talked on the phone pretty loudly. Also, he was Greek, so he probably would have been conversationally yelling most of the time anyway. He answered in English, but didn't go straight into Greek the way he usually did when talking on the phone. My ears pricked up involuntarily.
'"Yannis? That you? What you saying? My brother in Greece died?"
I know it seems unlikely, but he really did give both sides of the conversation like someone in a stage play.
Then the crying started.
I have never been around an old man crying. They are a pretty stoic bunch. George lived alone. His father, who must have been at least 90, had stayed with him until he passed last year. Maybe the fact that he was alone in his place made him feel safe enough to let it out. Or maybe he just really loved his brother. He sobbed into the phone, alternating between Greek and English for the next couple minutes. Then he said he needed to call his sister in Athens. He wept loudly for a few minutes before calling her.
I felt horrible. I felt I shouldn't be listening, that the man should be allowed his privacy for this tragedy. Of course, I was in my own room, in my own apartment. It felt weird to go into the living room because of someone I barely knew that wasn't even in the room with me. Other than all that though, leaving felt like the easy way out, and people who know me can tell you I don't take the easy (or smart) way out of anything.
George eventually called his sister and gave her the bad news. The sobbing started up again in earnest and it went on for what felt like hours. I wanted to do something, but what? I didn't know this man. Just because he was alone doesn't mean he needs me and my sympathy butting in. Not to mention that if I went next door with a bundt cake and said 'sorry for your loss' he would have known I was listening in.
It was one of those moments where this city thrusts someone else's tragedy into your life. It didn't affect me directly, it was really none of my business. It still kept me up all night, long after George finished crying. There's a reason why they tell you New Yorker's don't want to get involved. It's not always because they don't want to be sued.
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