Monday, October 12, 2015
Grains of salt
Many is the time I have heard the advice "only surround yourself with positive people to create success" but there are many times in life when we aren't afforded the choice of who we are surrounded by. For instance, many of my co-workers can be extremely negative, but I can't blame most of them as they are exhaust from defending our wagon train, which is currently surrounded by the fearsome Apache.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Ride or Die (and then definitely die, eventually)
Adaptability is the key to survival. Darwin said it and AC/DC proved it after Bon Scott died. Being reluctant to change is natural but it can be a severe handicap if we don't know how to handle being outside of our comfort zone. There are people that love to say
"Do one thing each day that scares you"
No, go to hell, I'm not doing that. Why would I do that? I don't want to be scared. I want to sit in my room with the air-conditioning on, staring at my phone and maybe eating Doritos. That's what all of us want.
Unless you mean going on a rollercoaster each day. Then I'm on board.
Much as I hate to admit it, these people are right. The longer you spend in one place, the less likely you are to ever be able to move out of it. If scaring yourself and changing your circumstances becomes the norm, you have a better chance at achieving your potential, or at least not being so boring.
The really fun part about this, though, is that none of us have to do all the work. Life shoves you into uncomfortable positions all the time. A new job, a new living situation, a large man with a claw hammer standing over you with an expression that betrays how little of his medication he's been taking, all of these things can either cripple you or push you to take on the challenge.
With the coming of the warm weather, I got shoved into a few of these kinds of situations. In very short order, I lost a home, a job, and a wife, which is probably a typical order of succession for these kinds of losses, but I for me, it was still new territory. I did what I have always done with trauma, I tried to drown it in an ocean of whiskey. This time, I needed to drown a few at a time and it was going to be tricky not to drown myself in the process.
Now that the weather is hot, I'm coming up for air and realizing that is exactly what I did to myself. It was stressful having to find a place to live, it sucks to be constantly looking for better employment, and it hurt more than anything I have ever known to hear the woman I was going to spend my life with tell me that she no longer loved me. But I didn't roll with the punches. I just added a few of my own. It's only dumb luck that I didn't get myself killed or hospitalized, as that would be even more predictable than the whiskey haze that I let myself drift into.
Suffice it to say I am going to find a way out of this. This crisis will be turned into an opportunity and the negative turned to positive. Not because of some spurious Buddhist quote on a Facebook wall, but because it has to be that way or I will be ground under the heel of natural selection.
After all, I've adapted before. Not like I ever had to start using gills to breathe or anything, but things got bad in the past and I was able to get around it. But maybe that's the problem with this latest set of issues. I can't just get around it. Adapting in this case doesn't mean just changing my life so that whatever is missing isn't needed. I have to create a new life without destroying my old one.
For a minute there, I might have fallen into the cozy trap of self-destruction. I wanted to believe that love was just a lie that people tell each other when they don't want to be alone, but that's just not who I am. It's summertime and I would like to make lemonade out of these lemons.
Anyone that wants to join my basket-weaving class is more than welcome.
"Do one thing each day that scares you"
No, go to hell, I'm not doing that. Why would I do that? I don't want to be scared. I want to sit in my room with the air-conditioning on, staring at my phone and maybe eating Doritos. That's what all of us want.
Unless you mean going on a rollercoaster each day. Then I'm on board.
Much as I hate to admit it, these people are right. The longer you spend in one place, the less likely you are to ever be able to move out of it. If scaring yourself and changing your circumstances becomes the norm, you have a better chance at achieving your potential, or at least not being so boring.
The really fun part about this, though, is that none of us have to do all the work. Life shoves you into uncomfortable positions all the time. A new job, a new living situation, a large man with a claw hammer standing over you with an expression that betrays how little of his medication he's been taking, all of these things can either cripple you or push you to take on the challenge.
With the coming of the warm weather, I got shoved into a few of these kinds of situations. In very short order, I lost a home, a job, and a wife, which is probably a typical order of succession for these kinds of losses, but I for me, it was still new territory. I did what I have always done with trauma, I tried to drown it in an ocean of whiskey. This time, I needed to drown a few at a time and it was going to be tricky not to drown myself in the process.
Now that the weather is hot, I'm coming up for air and realizing that is exactly what I did to myself. It was stressful having to find a place to live, it sucks to be constantly looking for better employment, and it hurt more than anything I have ever known to hear the woman I was going to spend my life with tell me that she no longer loved me. But I didn't roll with the punches. I just added a few of my own. It's only dumb luck that I didn't get myself killed or hospitalized, as that would be even more predictable than the whiskey haze that I let myself drift into.
Suffice it to say I am going to find a way out of this. This crisis will be turned into an opportunity and the negative turned to positive. Not because of some spurious Buddhist quote on a Facebook wall, but because it has to be that way or I will be ground under the heel of natural selection.
After all, I've adapted before. Not like I ever had to start using gills to breathe or anything, but things got bad in the past and I was able to get around it. But maybe that's the problem with this latest set of issues. I can't just get around it. Adapting in this case doesn't mean just changing my life so that whatever is missing isn't needed. I have to create a new life without destroying my old one.
For a minute there, I might have fallen into the cozy trap of self-destruction. I wanted to believe that love was just a lie that people tell each other when they don't want to be alone, but that's just not who I am. It's summertime and I would like to make lemonade out of these lemons.
Anyone that wants to join my basket-weaving class is more than welcome.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Last Day
Four minutes before I kicked the steel gate that was always locked, the alcove it protected strewn with trash, I had been sitting down in a familiar office, listening to someone I'd known for over ten years tell me that I didn't have a job anymore. It wasn't that I hadn't seen it coming, it wasn't that it wasn't warranted. The fact that things had deteriorated to the point where I was being fired from a bar was what stuck in my throat like a pill swallowed without water. That I had been running late and spent the money on a cab to get there on time didn't help. It couldn't get lower than this. I would have to get comfortable at the bottom. I said my goodbyes to the bartenders and the other managers. People I had grown to call friends and now might never see again, because that's the way these things go.
Back to the steel gate.
I walked out of there without a look back. Out onto the street for the last time and up passed the steel gate. I had always assumed that the building was a disused factory, or a workshop that only open during the day. I kicked the gate twice and screamed 'FUCK!' like a man that didn't know what else to do. Behind the wall, three or four dogs started barking, frightened and confused. A man yelled out 'Yo?!' It never occurred to me that it could have been a living space, but the neighborhood had changed. It had gone from trendy to fully gentrified. European money filled the gaps that the American economy couldn't and condos were sprouting like weeds. Every unused room was now a living space, every inch was maximized for profit.
Embarrassed, I tried I walk away quickly. A bearded man with a gut and sandals crashed out of the gate, dragging trash from the entrance behind him.
"What the fuck are you doing banging on my door like that, you asshole?!"
I don't think I had ever been so embarrassed.
"I'm really sorry, I didn't think anyone lived there."
"Even if no one did, you think you got a right to go around banging on doors like the fucking police just because you had a few drinks??"
I obviously wasn't the first to transgress this way.
"No, I don't. I'm sorry, I haven't been drinking. I just got fired and was angry, I had no business taking it out on your door. I honestly feel bad that the dogs are upset." my words fell on the pavement like spent matches.
"These are rescue dogs! All of them! Do you have any idea what they've been through? You know how long it will take to calm them down?" The guy was really working himself into a lather for someone that looked like he had slept most of the day. He took a step towards me, raising a hand like he was going to hit me but slipped on a wet piece of cardboard, catching himself on the same gate he'd just stormed out of, the one I'd abused so thoughtlessly. I didn't laugh or try to hit him. I turned and walked away, maintaining ownership of the situation's general humiliation.
"Stay off this block, jagoff!" He called after me.
It wasn't going to be a problem, I had no reason to come back to this neighborhood now. Just one stop at a bar nearby that I liked, since it was quiet and and I figured I might never have occasion to be in it again. I loped ten blocks to the Pencilbox and propped myself up in the warm candlelight. Their cheapest whiskey burned the little cracks on my lips as I stared at a point in space two feet in front of my face.
At first it all seemed promising. After a couple minutes the three bikers that were laughing as loud as they pleased left. Everyone else talked quietly and the bartender left me alone. Perfect. Then a group of French people came in, sat near me, and giggled about something or other. I couldn't spend the night glaring at them and watching them pointedly fail to tip the bartender. I headed back to my own neighborhood.
I went to my local bar right under the train tracks, a cash-only bare-bones Irish pub where you could feel the rumble off the train above through your fingertips on the bar. A neighborhood guy named Danny cheered me up the way he knew best.
"Don't sweat it, you'll take a few weeks, your wife can carry the load. Marriage is like that, you give and take, feast and famine."
It was nonsense, but that was okay. Sometimes nonsense is exactly what you want to hear.
Back to the steel gate.
I walked out of there without a look back. Out onto the street for the last time and up passed the steel gate. I had always assumed that the building was a disused factory, or a workshop that only open during the day. I kicked the gate twice and screamed 'FUCK!' like a man that didn't know what else to do. Behind the wall, three or four dogs started barking, frightened and confused. A man yelled out 'Yo?!' It never occurred to me that it could have been a living space, but the neighborhood had changed. It had gone from trendy to fully gentrified. European money filled the gaps that the American economy couldn't and condos were sprouting like weeds. Every unused room was now a living space, every inch was maximized for profit.
Embarrassed, I tried I walk away quickly. A bearded man with a gut and sandals crashed out of the gate, dragging trash from the entrance behind him.
"What the fuck are you doing banging on my door like that, you asshole?!"
I don't think I had ever been so embarrassed.
"I'm really sorry, I didn't think anyone lived there."
"Even if no one did, you think you got a right to go around banging on doors like the fucking police just because you had a few drinks??"
I obviously wasn't the first to transgress this way.
"No, I don't. I'm sorry, I haven't been drinking. I just got fired and was angry, I had no business taking it out on your door. I honestly feel bad that the dogs are upset." my words fell on the pavement like spent matches.
"These are rescue dogs! All of them! Do you have any idea what they've been through? You know how long it will take to calm them down?" The guy was really working himself into a lather for someone that looked like he had slept most of the day. He took a step towards me, raising a hand like he was going to hit me but slipped on a wet piece of cardboard, catching himself on the same gate he'd just stormed out of, the one I'd abused so thoughtlessly. I didn't laugh or try to hit him. I turned and walked away, maintaining ownership of the situation's general humiliation.
"Stay off this block, jagoff!" He called after me.
It wasn't going to be a problem, I had no reason to come back to this neighborhood now. Just one stop at a bar nearby that I liked, since it was quiet and and I figured I might never have occasion to be in it again. I loped ten blocks to the Pencilbox and propped myself up in the warm candlelight. Their cheapest whiskey burned the little cracks on my lips as I stared at a point in space two feet in front of my face.
At first it all seemed promising. After a couple minutes the three bikers that were laughing as loud as they pleased left. Everyone else talked quietly and the bartender left me alone. Perfect. Then a group of French people came in, sat near me, and giggled about something or other. I couldn't spend the night glaring at them and watching them pointedly fail to tip the bartender. I headed back to my own neighborhood.
I went to my local bar right under the train tracks, a cash-only bare-bones Irish pub where you could feel the rumble off the train above through your fingertips on the bar. A neighborhood guy named Danny cheered me up the way he knew best.
"Don't sweat it, you'll take a few weeks, your wife can carry the load. Marriage is like that, you give and take, feast and famine."
It was nonsense, but that was okay. Sometimes nonsense is exactly what you want to hear.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Get it off your chest
It seems silly, but for months I've been texting a deceased friend. I'm not sure how it started, but at some point during the grieving process I shot a text out there just to feel like I was talking to her again. It just started flowing from there. I've been going on about all the things I could never talk about with anyone else. The embarrassing things. The ugly things. The dark and terrifying things that well up in the mind in the wee small hours. This woman never judged me and, in some ways, understood me better than anyone ever has. Even if it seems a bit immature, doing this has been more cathartic than I would have ever expected.
It never occurred to me they would give her number out to someone else. They aren't as understanding. At least not at 4AM.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Trials of Circumstance (not by P.D. James)
The windows had been sealed, the firewood covered, and the bolt inside the door gave a satisfying click as it found home. Hamilton Starkweather gazed at the pond just south of the summerhouse and reflected fondly on the prior two months. It had been another successful season of swimming, friendly visitations, and well-aged brandy during summer storms. Now it was over. His extended holiday had helped him relax more than he had in years, but he couldn't help but feel melancholy at its passing. Now it was back down to dreary London and the daily malaise of the publishing business.
A figure stalked briskly up the footpath that led from the main road. The hard clacking noise of plastic souls on the worn concrete were like pinpricks in the still morning air.
"Nigel Pellington, as I live and breathe!" Hamilton called out in his boisterous way, recognizing the threadbare peacoat that his friend had been wearing as long as he had known him.
"I thought you'd left for the smoke this past Tuesday, and why on earth is that muffler wrapped around your head, it'll be summer for another six days!"
Hamilton had barely gotten the sentence out when the figure abruptly pulled a antique Luger from the coat pocket. The shot scattered a flock of mourning doves that had been bathing in the pond. They found their formation as they soared over Hamilton Starkweather crumpling onto the lawn.
A figure stalked briskly up the footpath that led from the main road. The hard clacking noise of plastic souls on the worn concrete were like pinpricks in the still morning air.
"Nigel Pellington, as I live and breathe!" Hamilton called out in his boisterous way, recognizing the threadbare peacoat that his friend had been wearing as long as he had known him.
"I thought you'd left for the smoke this past Tuesday, and why on earth is that muffler wrapped around your head, it'll be summer for another six days!"
Hamilton had barely gotten the sentence out when the figure abruptly pulled a antique Luger from the coat pocket. The shot scattered a flock of mourning doves that had been bathing in the pond. They found their formation as they soared over Hamilton Starkweather crumpling onto the lawn.
Pleading out
Most of us are taught that revenge is never the answer, that what you get out of it will ultimately weigh more heavily on you tham anything you dish out to some transgressor. Most of us also pay as little attention as possible to that life lesson, at least as far as the way we think and feel about the people that have done us wrong. It's hard not to imagine terrible things happening to people we think deserve it. Sometimes, we can't help but imagine the satisfaction of doling out retribution. We have plenty of reasons for thinking this way, after all, 'violent revenge movies' is a category my Netflix account suggests pretty heavily to me. Not trying to say that it doesn't have reason to, there are a lot of eighth graders that would be embarrassed to have my taste in movies. I just find it amazing that it's a category.
I'll get to the point.
In late 2012, I lost my friend Megan to someone else's negligence. I had been close with Megan for about half my life. She understood me in ways no one else ever has, and even though I think that was because we were a lot alike (she often referred to me as the older brother she never wanted), many other people would tell you the same thing about their own relationship with her. She had more people that would describe her as their 'best friend' than anyone else I know. This isn't due to any flightiness or phoniness on Megan's part. When she spent time with someone, she made them feel important and needed because, to her, that's exactly what they were. She didn't take the people in her life for granted, and made sure they knew she loved them. Losing her was a devastating blow to a wide and diverse network of family and friends.
There were many people that, naturally, wanted swift retribution. I can't say I didn't. Someone central to our lives, someone that was a piece of all of our heart's was ripped away for nothing other than someone's alcohol-impaired driving. That someone should pay. It was obvious. The fact that this person showed little or no remorse for destroying a unique and cherished life only sharpened our collective resolve that she should pay dearly, and for the rest of her life.
Over a lot of long, sleepless nights, that became less and less of a concrete idea for me. I don't want this person walking around free for the simple danger of her destroying more lives with her reckless disregard, but what would it change for her to know the pain she caused? Nothing. Nothing will bring this precious person back and that's an ugly, pointy fact that has to sit in our guts for the rest of our lives, but if we all got five minutes in a room with no windows with this person, that would invite a new kind of ugliness that we would have to carry around, one that is even harder to shake.
This person recently plead guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter and will serve a year in prison followed by a few years of supervision. That's actually more than I ever expected the criminal justice system to do in this case, and it's actually quite good in a case like this. It still won't change a thing for me. I'm glad this person will have some time to think about her actions, but I doubt that will make her any different of a human being.
There's no justice, after all. There's just us.
I'll get to the point.
In late 2012, I lost my friend Megan to someone else's negligence. I had been close with Megan for about half my life. She understood me in ways no one else ever has, and even though I think that was because we were a lot alike (she often referred to me as the older brother she never wanted), many other people would tell you the same thing about their own relationship with her. She had more people that would describe her as their 'best friend' than anyone else I know. This isn't due to any flightiness or phoniness on Megan's part. When she spent time with someone, she made them feel important and needed because, to her, that's exactly what they were. She didn't take the people in her life for granted, and made sure they knew she loved them. Losing her was a devastating blow to a wide and diverse network of family and friends.
There were many people that, naturally, wanted swift retribution. I can't say I didn't. Someone central to our lives, someone that was a piece of all of our heart's was ripped away for nothing other than someone's alcohol-impaired driving. That someone should pay. It was obvious. The fact that this person showed little or no remorse for destroying a unique and cherished life only sharpened our collective resolve that she should pay dearly, and for the rest of her life.
Over a lot of long, sleepless nights, that became less and less of a concrete idea for me. I don't want this person walking around free for the simple danger of her destroying more lives with her reckless disregard, but what would it change for her to know the pain she caused? Nothing. Nothing will bring this precious person back and that's an ugly, pointy fact that has to sit in our guts for the rest of our lives, but if we all got five minutes in a room with no windows with this person, that would invite a new kind of ugliness that we would have to carry around, one that is even harder to shake.
This person recently plead guilty to the charge of vehicular manslaughter and will serve a year in prison followed by a few years of supervision. That's actually more than I ever expected the criminal justice system to do in this case, and it's actually quite good in a case like this. It still won't change a thing for me. I'm glad this person will have some time to think about her actions, but I doubt that will make her any different of a human being.
There's no justice, after all. There's just us.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Walking Through the Snow
That Thursday was an off day to say the least. The health department had shown their faces early in the night at the bar where I work. One of the owners spent hours pretending to look for paperwork he knew perfectly well he hadn't updated. The charade might have been intended to keep the agents from looking too closely at the kitchen.
There was also an open mic that night. A sharp contrast was set between some extremely talented professional comics and musicians, and some creative roadkill of both varieties. It ended with some tightly rehearsed and excruciatingly annoying comedy songs from a duo that shall remain nameless. The screechy-voiced chanteuse on tambourine saw fit to play their last song with her top off, and acted surprised when told that could cost the bar it's license under the wrong circumstances. Even if that hadn't been the case, I would've told any lie, committed any misdeed to keep my customers from having to look at her bare torso any longer.
A snow storm was raging outside. There are no windows at this bar, so the accumulation seemed even faster to me when I looked out the door. Many places in the area were going to close early, we were following suit at midnight.
I was hungover, sleep-deprived, and training a new barback. These are three things that are normal for any shift, and I found a little comfort in their familiarity. The odd night at work hadn't been enough to distract me from what the calendar said: January second. It had been exactly one year since my best friend died.
His name was Jason William Schwallenberg. We called him Schwalli.
I first met Schwalli when I was 15, we were pretty close by the following year. I feel like I have endless reels of memories of driving around in various Mazdas with him at the wheel, listening to the same cassettes over and over, pounding our fists on the dashboard or stomping our feet in time. He was on the short side, wore glasses, and wouldn't back down to anyone. When guys big enough to make me shit myself tried to get tough, he was always the one to throw it right back in their face. He was always there for his friends, had style to spare, and taught me more about music than anyone else in my entire life.
I spent that Thursday thinking about how I didn't get to see much of him the last few years. He had gotten married and had two little girls, so it was understandable. He wasn't always the most effusive guy, but whenever he talked about his family, you could see they meant everything to him. I was thinking about them a lot as well that Thursday. I hate that his wife never got to say goodbye to him. I hate that his children won't get to grow up with one of the best fathers I can imagine anyone having. I hate that his parents had to suddenly lose their only son in the prime of his life. There's a lot to hate about it, but not much that can be done.
I didn't talk about it with many people that Thursday. I don't live in the town we grew up in, so most people in my life now never met him. But, if I'm honest, the main reason I didn't talk about him is shame. It always seems that when loved ones passed so young, that it should have given me the impetus to take life by the tail, to never waste time on anything, to never worry about petty nonsense or what other's think. Then I look back on the past year, and feel like it didn't take long to get mired in all the same bad habits and let the usual humdrum take back over.
But it isn't about that. It also isn't about me.
It's about trying to hold on to the memory of an unassuming man who might never have known what a profound impact he had on many different lives. It's about remembering to not only tell the people in your life that you love them, but also show them while you have the chance.
I walked home in the snow storm that night looking at all the freshly fallen snowflakes glinting like diamonds in the streetlight and thought about a guy that loved life, family and music. I thought about how I'll never see him again, but hope to keep him in my heart forever. Life is woven together out of love, hope, and beauty, but it's also fragile, short, and can be bitterly cruel. That's why it matters so much.
"The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light."
-Stanley Kubrick
There was also an open mic that night. A sharp contrast was set between some extremely talented professional comics and musicians, and some creative roadkill of both varieties. It ended with some tightly rehearsed and excruciatingly annoying comedy songs from a duo that shall remain nameless. The screechy-voiced chanteuse on tambourine saw fit to play their last song with her top off, and acted surprised when told that could cost the bar it's license under the wrong circumstances. Even if that hadn't been the case, I would've told any lie, committed any misdeed to keep my customers from having to look at her bare torso any longer.
A snow storm was raging outside. There are no windows at this bar, so the accumulation seemed even faster to me when I looked out the door. Many places in the area were going to close early, we were following suit at midnight.
I was hungover, sleep-deprived, and training a new barback. These are three things that are normal for any shift, and I found a little comfort in their familiarity. The odd night at work hadn't been enough to distract me from what the calendar said: January second. It had been exactly one year since my best friend died.
His name was Jason William Schwallenberg. We called him Schwalli.
I first met Schwalli when I was 15, we were pretty close by the following year. I feel like I have endless reels of memories of driving around in various Mazdas with him at the wheel, listening to the same cassettes over and over, pounding our fists on the dashboard or stomping our feet in time. He was on the short side, wore glasses, and wouldn't back down to anyone. When guys big enough to make me shit myself tried to get tough, he was always the one to throw it right back in their face. He was always there for his friends, had style to spare, and taught me more about music than anyone else in my entire life.
I spent that Thursday thinking about how I didn't get to see much of him the last few years. He had gotten married and had two little girls, so it was understandable. He wasn't always the most effusive guy, but whenever he talked about his family, you could see they meant everything to him. I was thinking about them a lot as well that Thursday. I hate that his wife never got to say goodbye to him. I hate that his children won't get to grow up with one of the best fathers I can imagine anyone having. I hate that his parents had to suddenly lose their only son in the prime of his life. There's a lot to hate about it, but not much that can be done.
I didn't talk about it with many people that Thursday. I don't live in the town we grew up in, so most people in my life now never met him. But, if I'm honest, the main reason I didn't talk about him is shame. It always seems that when loved ones passed so young, that it should have given me the impetus to take life by the tail, to never waste time on anything, to never worry about petty nonsense or what other's think. Then I look back on the past year, and feel like it didn't take long to get mired in all the same bad habits and let the usual humdrum take back over.
But it isn't about that. It also isn't about me.
It's about trying to hold on to the memory of an unassuming man who might never have known what a profound impact he had on many different lives. It's about remembering to not only tell the people in your life that you love them, but also show them while you have the chance.
I walked home in the snow storm that night looking at all the freshly fallen snowflakes glinting like diamonds in the streetlight and thought about a guy that loved life, family and music. I thought about how I'll never see him again, but hope to keep him in my heart forever. Life is woven together out of love, hope, and beauty, but it's also fragile, short, and can be bitterly cruel. That's why it matters so much.
"The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death — however mutable man may be able to make them — our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light."
-Stanley Kubrick
Monday, November 11, 2013
Happy Lip Service Day
Every year I make the same tired jokes about Veterans Day. This is usually accompanied by a background anxiety that people will think me glib or insensitive about what people in the armed forces contribute. There are two things I have learned, though:
1) It is impossible to care about what is offending people that have a surface-level sense of humor
2) It is impossible for me to stop making idiotic jokes. No matter how much I want to.
When I was a boy, I wanted to join the Marine Corps. I investigated this option once I grew to the age of eighteen and it became clear that no college with a sentient human working the admissions process would admit me. Sadly, my life took me in a different direction, which, in case you were wondering, is a thing that craven cowards say when they are too spineless to admit their own spinelessness. I don't think a day goes by when I don't regret not going into the Corps. Do I make up for it by contributing to veterans causes? Lobby the government for better care for returning vets and the families of those killed in action? Buy a homeless vet a cup of coffee?
No. I'm an American. Despite a couple days that we set aside to say hollow niceties about people that put their lives on the line, we don't give a shit. We cut their benefits. We make sick jokes about the rampant PTSD caused by stretching a fighting force to it's breaking point. We allow callow, manipulative elected officials send them into nightmarish, unwinnable conflicts we have no business creating, aside from the very good business it will mean for some of their friends. We re-elect these same subhumans as if nothing had happened.
In a world where moral fiber is a devalued commodity, these are people willing to die for their principles. But we've watched our own government treat them as disposable and feed them into a meat grinder for so long that we have followed suit. It's enough to just click 'like' on a picture of men in uniform to 'Support Our Troops' as if that 'like' button will buy diapers for their children.
1) It is impossible to care about what is offending people that have a surface-level sense of humor
2) It is impossible for me to stop making idiotic jokes. No matter how much I want to.
When I was a boy, I wanted to join the Marine Corps. I investigated this option once I grew to the age of eighteen and it became clear that no college with a sentient human working the admissions process would admit me. Sadly, my life took me in a different direction, which, in case you were wondering, is a thing that craven cowards say when they are too spineless to admit their own spinelessness. I don't think a day goes by when I don't regret not going into the Corps. Do I make up for it by contributing to veterans causes? Lobby the government for better care for returning vets and the families of those killed in action? Buy a homeless vet a cup of coffee?
No. I'm an American. Despite a couple days that we set aside to say hollow niceties about people that put their lives on the line, we don't give a shit. We cut their benefits. We make sick jokes about the rampant PTSD caused by stretching a fighting force to it's breaking point. We allow callow, manipulative elected officials send them into nightmarish, unwinnable conflicts we have no business creating, aside from the very good business it will mean for some of their friends. We re-elect these same subhumans as if nothing had happened.
In a world where moral fiber is a devalued commodity, these are people willing to die for their principles. But we've watched our own government treat them as disposable and feed them into a meat grinder for so long that we have followed suit. It's enough to just click 'like' on a picture of men in uniform to 'Support Our Troops' as if that 'like' button will buy diapers for their children.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Horrifying News Roundup!
So many horrible things are happening in this country and around the
world that I have to cram them into a blog entry! It says a lot about
human perseverance and ingenuity that we are always topping ourselves in
depravity and degradation while increasing the speed at which
civilization goes down the tubes. You can't keep us down!
These are the worst links I can possibly provide. If you think you can top me, please don't. Fair warning, that if you try to stay away from the news to maintain your sanity, you should read no further. I'm not putting these together just to gawk and gape at the horror of it all. We are being desensitized a little more each day with every click to the next sickening news story. I picked these out to highlight specific social ills in the hope we can look at each one a little closer and get down to the root cause.
You may have seen these on social media already, but we're going to discuss them here so we can get it out of our systems and don't bring them up at dinner with the in-laws while stuck for a conversation topic.
It's important to act like everything is fine in real life. I'm not kidding. Hang on to illusion. It's getting to be all we've got, especially in a world where:
- a man advertises his desire to watch a stranger beat and rape his 11 year old daughter.
Anthony Brinkman's nauseatingly perverse desire was exposed after police found an ad he had placed online. An undercover officer, posing as an interested party, lured him to the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel (naturally) where Brinkman was arrested. Upon confessing, Brinkman said that he was 'sorry' and 'stupid'.
You didn't break a window with a baseball, Anthony. You tried to violate and traumatize your own child.
I have stopped caring what creates animals like this. Nature, nurture, video games, telenovelas, don't make no nevermind to me. You could make the argument that the internet fosters and feeds this kind of psychosis that would come up with this, but of course, if it weren't for the internet (coupled with a lack of foresight that many of these kinds of scumbags fortunately don't have) they might never have caught Brinkman. The weird thing is, we don't want law enforcement invading our private lives, but no one reading this would care if the police didn't follow protocol when arresting Brinkman and accidentally danced all over him while wearing golf shoes. Which brings me to exhibit B:
- After being stopped for a minor traffic infraction, David Eckert is physically violated and humiliated in a vain effort to find drugs that he isn't carrying in his rectum
This happened back in January, but Eckert's lawsuit was just filed this week, leading to a flurry of reporters' questions for the head of the Deming, NM police department, who, rather than address valid concerns about the ordeal, refer the press to their lawyers, who also refuse to answer any questions. Until they do, the only version of events we can go off of is Eckert's account of being repeatedly rectally violated via enema, doctor finger, and colonoscopic probe and having to defecate in front of officers so that a doctor could examine the stool. All this happened because some patrolman thought he was clenching his butt too hard to NOT be carrying contraband. The cherry on top is that Eckert is being billed for all the procedures. That's right, the hospital that went along with this and performed all these procedures because some jackass in a uniform told them to is threatening him with collection, which is one better than Milgram ever did with his experiment.
Last and most heartbreaking:
-After being in an accident, 19 year-old Renisha McBride is shot and killed while seeking aid at a nearby home.
A message was sent with the Zimmerman verdict. It's been heard by the paranoid, the entitled, and the heartless, the kind of person that responds to a cry for help by shooting a teenage woman in the face. Michigan being a stand-your-ground state, the shooter in question in this case stands a good chance of never being charged in this, unlike in the strikingly similar case in North Carolina from September. The trend is being set, though. Whether you are a civilian or law enforcement, whether you are frightened or just feeling bloodthirsty, you can react with deadly force to any situation as long as certain laws in your state are vague enough.
God help us.
These are the worst links I can possibly provide. If you think you can top me, please don't. Fair warning, that if you try to stay away from the news to maintain your sanity, you should read no further. I'm not putting these together just to gawk and gape at the horror of it all. We are being desensitized a little more each day with every click to the next sickening news story. I picked these out to highlight specific social ills in the hope we can look at each one a little closer and get down to the root cause.
You may have seen these on social media already, but we're going to discuss them here so we can get it out of our systems and don't bring them up at dinner with the in-laws while stuck for a conversation topic.
It's important to act like everything is fine in real life. I'm not kidding. Hang on to illusion. It's getting to be all we've got, especially in a world where:
- a man advertises his desire to watch a stranger beat and rape his 11 year old daughter.
Anthony Brinkman's nauseatingly perverse desire was exposed after police found an ad he had placed online. An undercover officer, posing as an interested party, lured him to the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel (naturally) where Brinkman was arrested. Upon confessing, Brinkman said that he was 'sorry' and 'stupid'.
You didn't break a window with a baseball, Anthony. You tried to violate and traumatize your own child.
I have stopped caring what creates animals like this. Nature, nurture, video games, telenovelas, don't make no nevermind to me. You could make the argument that the internet fosters and feeds this kind of psychosis that would come up with this, but of course, if it weren't for the internet (coupled with a lack of foresight that many of these kinds of scumbags fortunately don't have) they might never have caught Brinkman. The weird thing is, we don't want law enforcement invading our private lives, but no one reading this would care if the police didn't follow protocol when arresting Brinkman and accidentally danced all over him while wearing golf shoes. Which brings me to exhibit B:
- After being stopped for a minor traffic infraction, David Eckert is physically violated and humiliated in a vain effort to find drugs that he isn't carrying in his rectum
This happened back in January, but Eckert's lawsuit was just filed this week, leading to a flurry of reporters' questions for the head of the Deming, NM police department, who, rather than address valid concerns about the ordeal, refer the press to their lawyers, who also refuse to answer any questions. Until they do, the only version of events we can go off of is Eckert's account of being repeatedly rectally violated via enema, doctor finger, and colonoscopic probe and having to defecate in front of officers so that a doctor could examine the stool. All this happened because some patrolman thought he was clenching his butt too hard to NOT be carrying contraband. The cherry on top is that Eckert is being billed for all the procedures. That's right, the hospital that went along with this and performed all these procedures because some jackass in a uniform told them to is threatening him with collection, which is one better than Milgram ever did with his experiment.
Last and most heartbreaking:
-After being in an accident, 19 year-old Renisha McBride is shot and killed while seeking aid at a nearby home.
A message was sent with the Zimmerman verdict. It's been heard by the paranoid, the entitled, and the heartless, the kind of person that responds to a cry for help by shooting a teenage woman in the face. Michigan being a stand-your-ground state, the shooter in question in this case stands a good chance of never being charged in this, unlike in the strikingly similar case in North Carolina from September. The trend is being set, though. Whether you are a civilian or law enforcement, whether you are frightened or just feeling bloodthirsty, you can react with deadly force to any situation as long as certain laws in your state are vague enough.
God help us.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Shut 'em down, shut 'em, shut 'em down
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Building a Tolerance
Yesterday a crazy man shot up a workplace. Twelve people were killed. Eight were wounded. The shooter was taken out by police.
I could have said that sentence at any point in the past ten years and it wouldn't make people blink. Those same words have crawled across millions of television screens so many times that it may as well just say 'Congress fails to achieve consensus on budget.' for all the reaction it inspires in this country.
A man walked into a secure Navy facility yesterday with a shotgun and pistol, rained bullets on people that thought they were in for a typical Monday at work, and it is barely a blip on the radar.
I don't know about you, but I haven't heard anyone talking about this, posting things about this, or staring at their hands in impotent bewilderment over this. It is being taken in stride. That's where we are.
The funny thing is, it feels like the news media is trying to make it the same big deal it always should be. Breathless reports, horrified onlookers, the whole schmeer. The president even pitched in with an address right after the attack, and even trotted out the old chestnut about 'calling for stricter gun control measures'. But even he sounded bored.
It happened. We've gotten used to senseless gun violence in unexpected places. Yay? Is that a good thing? Because we're less horrified by this, maybe we're better equipped to live in the nightmarish world we've created? That's probably the most you can say about it. I would love to believe that this is a unconscious, collective effort by all of us to not allow the shooter to be made into a celebrity by the media. Maybe we are all becoming aware that the way these tragedies play out in the media, the way the shooters are made into celebrities, with their personal lives scrutinized and motives analyzed, is what inspires copycat crimes, and keeps us on this mobius strip of insanity and death. It would make my day to know we are all taking so much responsibility.
But I'm a cynic. The fact is that with Aurora and Newtown so fresh in everyone's memories, this just doesn't have the hook. Isn't scary enough. 'Unstable man who was discharged from the Navy under less-than-favorable circumstances shoots other military contractors' is like a headline you see on the main character's desk in some B-movie. Like someone just threw together all the usual pieces. The fact that these were people with families and lives to lead just doesn't break through the veil. We've seen it before.
And it doesn't get better from here.
I could have said that sentence at any point in the past ten years and it wouldn't make people blink. Those same words have crawled across millions of television screens so many times that it may as well just say 'Congress fails to achieve consensus on budget.' for all the reaction it inspires in this country.
A man walked into a secure Navy facility yesterday with a shotgun and pistol, rained bullets on people that thought they were in for a typical Monday at work, and it is barely a blip on the radar.
I don't know about you, but I haven't heard anyone talking about this, posting things about this, or staring at their hands in impotent bewilderment over this. It is being taken in stride. That's where we are.
The funny thing is, it feels like the news media is trying to make it the same big deal it always should be. Breathless reports, horrified onlookers, the whole schmeer. The president even pitched in with an address right after the attack, and even trotted out the old chestnut about 'calling for stricter gun control measures'. But even he sounded bored.
It happened. We've gotten used to senseless gun violence in unexpected places. Yay? Is that a good thing? Because we're less horrified by this, maybe we're better equipped to live in the nightmarish world we've created? That's probably the most you can say about it. I would love to believe that this is a unconscious, collective effort by all of us to not allow the shooter to be made into a celebrity by the media. Maybe we are all becoming aware that the way these tragedies play out in the media, the way the shooters are made into celebrities, with their personal lives scrutinized and motives analyzed, is what inspires copycat crimes, and keeps us on this mobius strip of insanity and death. It would make my day to know we are all taking so much responsibility.
But I'm a cynic. The fact is that with Aurora and Newtown so fresh in everyone's memories, this just doesn't have the hook. Isn't scary enough. 'Unstable man who was discharged from the Navy under less-than-favorable circumstances shoots other military contractors' is like a headline you see on the main character's desk in some B-movie. Like someone just threw together all the usual pieces. The fact that these were people with families and lives to lead just doesn't break through the veil. We've seen it before.
And it doesn't get better from here.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Torture, muthafucka
I get it, we're angry. We've had another terrorist attack, innocent people were maimed and killed, and we have to go through the whole security clampdown tango all over again. We've been reminded once again that our children stand a good chance of being raised in a world defined by fear. There is no reason or excuse to be glib or dismissive about any of that.
But come the fuck on with the torture talk, already.
Everywhere you look, some internet tough guy is talking about all the things he would like to do to this Tsarnaev kid.
"We ought to waterboard this scumbag and see who his friends are!"
"Hang him by his balls and make him squeal! Nothing is too harsh for this POS!!!!"
"Lemme at 'im! I'll moiderize him for what he done did to all of us!"
(I'm Facebook friends with several cartoon characters from the 1940's)
Now, I understand visceral, hyperbolic reactions. I really wouldn't be me without them. Anyone who has read my impassioned, reactionary, and vaguely threatening open letter to the Motion Picture Academy regarding Elia Kazan's lifetime achievement award can attest to this. What frightens and saddens me is when people look at me like I'm crazy or un-American for pointing out that we shouldn't do that. It's like I want the terrorists to win.
There were a lot of conversations like this in the wake of 9/11, and they came up again when the CIA's 'extraordinary rendition' program for high-value terrorist captives came to light. Thing is, like far too many national attempts at cognition, that conversation never really went anywhere. There are many people that have no issue with torture, and that is usually because they:
1) don't have a clear idea of what torture entails
2) don't think critically about what it does to a person to torture or be tortured
3) never listened carefully to the lyrics of the Jacksons' 1984 hit single "Torture"
There also seems to be a disconnect about why we shouldn't torture people up in here. Little thing called the Constitution, which sports a tasty little tidbit called the Eighth Amendment. It has to do with cruel and unusual punishment and whether or not we should do that (the gist of it is that, no we shouldn't). Don't concern yourselves too much with the details though, because lord knows that people in D.C. don't. Even one of the guys who we used to be able to count on to go against the grain of his own party and say 'Hey, not cool, stop with the torture' is joining the chorus to declare Tsarnaev an 'enemy combatant', effectively negating any rights he has as a defendant.
That's right, John McCain. A guy who was tortured. He wants to see the hurdle of due process removed from this kid's case so that we can do whatever we want to him in a room without windows under the pretense of a need to extract information. You want to make this place a police state, go ahead. I doubt most people would notice anyway.
Just don't act like that doesn't make us exactly like the people that want to kill us.
But come the fuck on with the torture talk, already.
Everywhere you look, some internet tough guy is talking about all the things he would like to do to this Tsarnaev kid.
"We ought to waterboard this scumbag and see who his friends are!"
"Hang him by his balls and make him squeal! Nothing is too harsh for this POS!!!!"
"Lemme at 'im! I'll moiderize him for what he done did to all of us!"
(I'm Facebook friends with several cartoon characters from the 1940's)
Now, I understand visceral, hyperbolic reactions. I really wouldn't be me without them. Anyone who has read my impassioned, reactionary, and vaguely threatening open letter to the Motion Picture Academy regarding Elia Kazan's lifetime achievement award can attest to this. What frightens and saddens me is when people look at me like I'm crazy or un-American for pointing out that we shouldn't do that. It's like I want the terrorists to win.
There were a lot of conversations like this in the wake of 9/11, and they came up again when the CIA's 'extraordinary rendition' program for high-value terrorist captives came to light. Thing is, like far too many national attempts at cognition, that conversation never really went anywhere. There are many people that have no issue with torture, and that is usually because they:
1) don't have a clear idea of what torture entails
2) don't think critically about what it does to a person to torture or be tortured
3) never listened carefully to the lyrics of the Jacksons' 1984 hit single "Torture"
There also seems to be a disconnect about why we shouldn't torture people up in here. Little thing called the Constitution, which sports a tasty little tidbit called the Eighth Amendment. It has to do with cruel and unusual punishment and whether or not we should do that (the gist of it is that, no we shouldn't). Don't concern yourselves too much with the details though, because lord knows that people in D.C. don't. Even one of the guys who we used to be able to count on to go against the grain of his own party and say 'Hey, not cool, stop with the torture' is joining the chorus to declare Tsarnaev an 'enemy combatant', effectively negating any rights he has as a defendant.
That's right, John McCain. A guy who was tortured. He wants to see the hurdle of due process removed from this kid's case so that we can do whatever we want to him in a room without windows under the pretense of a need to extract information. You want to make this place a police state, go ahead. I doubt most people would notice anyway.
Just don't act like that doesn't make us exactly like the people that want to kill us.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Penn State of Delusion
I was sitting in a bar last night ( I'm getting really good at it) where every television had a different college football game on it. I didn't pay too much attention to it, even though the bright colors and graphics on the magic talking box can usually distract me pretty easily. There was important, drowning-out-the-voices-in-my-head-with-liquor business to attend to, and a game is not as important as making sure I don't follow the impulse to start prank-calling the mayor's office of Kansas City, MO again. I couldn't help but notice, however, that one of these games had Penn State playing in it, which I guess was surprising because I didn't think they were still a thing.
"Didn't they dissolve that school? Break it up into smaller, less scandal-plagued institutions so that the kids could go on learning and the State of Pennsylvania can go on gouging people that think their dumbass kid has a future?" I asked the bartender.
"Please, for the last time, stop making dreamcatchers out of straws and napkins, finish your drink and leave." was his less-than-helpful reply.
But I couldn't get my mind off of it. I couldn't move on from it. I read all the articles about people at Penn State in the wake of the Sandusky scandal. I read how they wanted to focus on the school and all the good things they think it offered the world. I knew they wanted healing, closure, blah blah etc.
Seeing them on the screen though, with their 'We are STILL Penn State' T-shirts made it a little too real for me.
Guess what, alumni, students, and faculty? THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOUR SCHOOL SPIRIT AND SHUTTING THE HELL UP IS THE BEST WAY TO START HEALING.
I don't mean your own healing, you have nothing to heal from. There were people who had unspeakable crimes perpetrated against them when they were children. Crimes that your venerable seat of learning saw fit to cover up, because....football. Maybe, for just a year or two, you could go without school spirit. Play your games, drink your beer, objectify and marginalize your female students, dumb down your curriculum to keep pace with the staggering ignorance that plagues this country, and all the rest of us will work on accepting that you still exist and receive state funding.
Maybe I'm just a grouch, or maybe it's because I hate football, people watching football, and watching people watch football.
Maybe I'm also biased because I never went to college, never was really a part of anything that I could feel proud of, and just simply can't stand it when anyone talks about the storied legacy of two dozen mouth-breathers standing in a field wearing the same colors.
The fact remains however, that Penn State needs to learn about shame. Lord knows I had to. If they need a few pointers, I'd be happy to take a school to school.
"Didn't they dissolve that school? Break it up into smaller, less scandal-plagued institutions so that the kids could go on learning and the State of Pennsylvania can go on gouging people that think their dumbass kid has a future?" I asked the bartender.
"Please, for the last time, stop making dreamcatchers out of straws and napkins, finish your drink and leave." was his less-than-helpful reply.
But I couldn't get my mind off of it. I couldn't move on from it. I read all the articles about people at Penn State in the wake of the Sandusky scandal. I read how they wanted to focus on the school and all the good things they think it offered the world. I knew they wanted healing, closure, blah blah etc.
Seeing them on the screen though, with their 'We are STILL Penn State' T-shirts made it a little too real for me.
Guess what, alumni, students, and faculty? THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOUR SCHOOL SPIRIT AND SHUTTING THE HELL UP IS THE BEST WAY TO START HEALING.
I don't mean your own healing, you have nothing to heal from. There were people who had unspeakable crimes perpetrated against them when they were children. Crimes that your venerable seat of learning saw fit to cover up, because....football. Maybe, for just a year or two, you could go without school spirit. Play your games, drink your beer, objectify and marginalize your female students, dumb down your curriculum to keep pace with the staggering ignorance that plagues this country, and all the rest of us will work on accepting that you still exist and receive state funding.
Maybe I'm just a grouch, or maybe it's because I hate football, people watching football, and watching people watch football.
Maybe I'm also biased because I never went to college, never was really a part of anything that I could feel proud of, and just simply can't stand it when anyone talks about the storied legacy of two dozen mouth-breathers standing in a field wearing the same colors.
The fact remains however, that Penn State needs to learn about shame. Lord knows I had to. If they need a few pointers, I'd be happy to take a school to school.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Flash Mobs are the new Flash Mobs
You kids won't rememeber this, as it was more than twelve minutes ago and we all have devolved our attention spans to the level of goldfish, but waaaay back in 2005, before every single news event was tinged with the metallic taste of impending apocalypse, flash mobs had a very different meaning than the one they have been ascribed today. A flash mob back then was simply one hundred and eighteen dorks agreeing to meet in a city plaza at an appointed time to do absolutely nothing but exist there as a group. It was roundly (and correctly) dismissed as hipster bullshit and the people with jobs, families to love, and lives to lead all quickly stopped paying attention.
Now these same productive citizens may need to again take notice of this phenomenom. The London riots, we are told, were assisted by social media. Mobs of no-good teens in Philadelphia, Wisconsin, and just yesterday, Maryland have gathered, supposedly with the assistance of twitter and the like, to wreak havoc. The growing fear in this country is that the trend will escalate until we see the kind of lawlessness witnessed by the UK earlier this month.
To all this I have to say, REALLY? Are you THAT fucking surprised? You raise these little bastards on a steady diet of sugar, immersive violent media, and a compelte lack of accountability and consequences, and you can't believe it when they act like a herd of yaks drunk on four loko? Know who we can blame (this blog is mostly about blame)? YOU. You didn't care. You looked the other way when you saw kids acting up on the bus and no one was smacking them for it. You didn't write your congressman or call your alderman or throttle your local school board when you saw that many high school graduates were reading at a second-grade level. You bought your nephew Call of Duty when you knew damn well he couldn't possibly fathom what it means to go to war and kill someone. You think they can tell the difference between real and make believe??? They like Drake and Katy Perry! They are basically all functionally retarded now and THEY are the future of this country, insofar as it has one.
Point being, all of us dropped the ball in a big way for the past generation or so. These kids don't really get what the trade deficit or national debt is, they just know it means they are screwed. They may be idiots, but they know who made them that way. Lock your windows.
Now these same productive citizens may need to again take notice of this phenomenom. The London riots, we are told, were assisted by social media. Mobs of no-good teens in Philadelphia, Wisconsin, and just yesterday, Maryland have gathered, supposedly with the assistance of twitter and the like, to wreak havoc. The growing fear in this country is that the trend will escalate until we see the kind of lawlessness witnessed by the UK earlier this month.
To all this I have to say, REALLY? Are you THAT fucking surprised? You raise these little bastards on a steady diet of sugar, immersive violent media, and a compelte lack of accountability and consequences, and you can't believe it when they act like a herd of yaks drunk on four loko? Know who we can blame (this blog is mostly about blame)? YOU. You didn't care. You looked the other way when you saw kids acting up on the bus and no one was smacking them for it. You didn't write your congressman or call your alderman or throttle your local school board when you saw that many high school graduates were reading at a second-grade level. You bought your nephew Call of Duty when you knew damn well he couldn't possibly fathom what it means to go to war and kill someone. You think they can tell the difference between real and make believe??? They like Drake and Katy Perry! They are basically all functionally retarded now and THEY are the future of this country, insofar as it has one.
Point being, all of us dropped the ball in a big way for the past generation or so. These kids don't really get what the trade deficit or national debt is, they just know it means they are screwed. They may be idiots, but they know who made them that way. Lock your windows.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Well and truly screwed
Wow, it's been a while.
This blog smells funny too, I left a sandwich here after my last post, but that's why God made Lysol.
Anyhoo, we are all completely up shit creek. Again. Or...still, I forget which.
Why? We are bumping our heads on the debt ceiling and Washington wants to do absolutely nothing about it.
That's right kids, it's INTERNET FEAR MONGERING. The best mongering of all.
Everyone knows that as soon as this country defaults, all senior citizens on Social Security will immediately starve to death and government agencies will become independent fiefdoms that only grant building permits, driver's licenses, and supply contracts to wealthy lords and vassals that swear fealty to them. Most frightening of all, every last one of us is going to be enslaved by the Red Chinese. You've seen how they treat their own citizenry, how do you think they are going to treat us?
But seriously folks....this same tired farce has played out time and again. A deadline is set on large policy decision, and both parties posture and stall so that they can paint the other as slow to action and out of touch. Essentially the legislative and executive body are like two naked fat guys fighting in front of childen: everyone watching it knows it's wrong, no one wants to get close enough to do anything about it. Why do we put up with it? Because we are all technology obsessed, internet-absorbed dullards? That argument doesn't wash anymore. Look at what other countries do with their internets, they organize revolts and remove firmly entrenched despots! Sure some people have gotten killed, but how do YOU make omelettes?
This blog smells funny too, I left a sandwich here after my last post, but that's why God made Lysol.
Anyhoo, we are all completely up shit creek. Again. Or...still, I forget which.
Why? We are bumping our heads on the debt ceiling and Washington wants to do absolutely nothing about it.
That's right kids, it's INTERNET FEAR MONGERING. The best mongering of all.
Everyone knows that as soon as this country defaults, all senior citizens on Social Security will immediately starve to death and government agencies will become independent fiefdoms that only grant building permits, driver's licenses, and supply contracts to wealthy lords and vassals that swear fealty to them. Most frightening of all, every last one of us is going to be enslaved by the Red Chinese. You've seen how they treat their own citizenry, how do you think they are going to treat us?
But seriously folks....this same tired farce has played out time and again. A deadline is set on large policy decision, and both parties posture and stall so that they can paint the other as slow to action and out of touch. Essentially the legislative and executive body are like two naked fat guys fighting in front of childen: everyone watching it knows it's wrong, no one wants to get close enough to do anything about it. Why do we put up with it? Because we are all technology obsessed, internet-absorbed dullards? That argument doesn't wash anymore. Look at what other countries do with their internets, they organize revolts and remove firmly entrenched despots! Sure some people have gotten killed, but how do YOU make omelettes?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Keep the vote in!
Apparently it's time for another dog-and-pony-show election season in this country, I can tell because every square inch of the media is filled with biased analysis, wishful punditry, and the continuing acquiescence to political consultants that turn each of these contests into a robust spinning and disinformation competition.
For our part here in NY, we have the gubernatorial race to keep us marginally entertained until they approve the proposed Death Race league. This one is a tale as as old as time, a crazy man (Carl Paladino) versus a politically entitled man (Andrew Cuomo).
Background, for those that need it: Andrew is the son of former Governor Mario Cuomo, has a good head of hair, is the State Attorney General and only betrays his fear of failure in his father's eyes with a half-creepy smile.
Carl is a lunatic business owner from upstate with virtually no political experience. He shows little concern for social mores when it comes to making personal threats, forwarding racially and sexually offensive emails, and having children outside the bonds of marriage. How is this formerly marginal figure even showing up on the radar, you may ask? Silly rabbit, he did it by seizing on the extremely constructive, helpful environment of vitriol and blind rage among the constituency. It's now the easiest way into the political sphere these days.
I'm trying to remember another fringe figure that tried to capture power this way,
Madolph Mitler.....Badolph Kilter....nah that ain't it...
Anyway, the man promises 'blood on the floor' in Albany, capturing the frustration that voters have felt towards the unfettered corruption that has defined the state capitol for years. It's a nice sentiment, and I would like to take it literally, but me, I'm sick. However, it really is just an empty promise from a man with aspirations above his station. Believe me, I know what those sound like.
Andrew, for his part, had a great strategy. Columnists said he was too quiet and complacent and needed to respond to Carl's insane accusations and bellicose shenanigans. Andrew just sat back and let the nutjob talk himself into a corner. I employ this strategy at work as well as in the subway.
Carl's comments that Andrew should never have taken his kids to a gay pride parade because of "they wear these little speedos and grind against each other." That's pretty much all it took. However you may feel about kids watching dudes touch on other dudes in the middle of the street, Carl is dead in the water now. The only people that will back him up publicly on these comments are ultra-conservative Orthodox rabbis. And these guys aren't even going to vote for him, they know you can't rely on a kook, not for your plumbing, not for the state of New York.
For our part here in NY, we have the gubernatorial race to keep us marginally entertained until they approve the proposed Death Race league. This one is a tale as as old as time, a crazy man (Carl Paladino) versus a politically entitled man (Andrew Cuomo).
Background, for those that need it: Andrew is the son of former Governor Mario Cuomo, has a good head of hair, is the State Attorney General and only betrays his fear of failure in his father's eyes with a half-creepy smile.
Carl is a lunatic business owner from upstate with virtually no political experience. He shows little concern for social mores when it comes to making personal threats, forwarding racially and sexually offensive emails, and having children outside the bonds of marriage. How is this formerly marginal figure even showing up on the radar, you may ask? Silly rabbit, he did it by seizing on the extremely constructive, helpful environment of vitriol and blind rage among the constituency. It's now the easiest way into the political sphere these days.
I'm trying to remember another fringe figure that tried to capture power this way,
Madolph Mitler.....Badolph Kilter....nah that ain't it...
Anyway, the man promises 'blood on the floor' in Albany, capturing the frustration that voters have felt towards the unfettered corruption that has defined the state capitol for years. It's a nice sentiment, and I would like to take it literally, but me, I'm sick. However, it really is just an empty promise from a man with aspirations above his station. Believe me, I know what those sound like.
Andrew, for his part, had a great strategy. Columnists said he was too quiet and complacent and needed to respond to Carl's insane accusations and bellicose shenanigans. Andrew just sat back and let the nutjob talk himself into a corner. I employ this strategy at work as well as in the subway.
Carl's comments that Andrew should never have taken his kids to a gay pride parade because of "they wear these little speedos and grind against each other." That's pretty much all it took. However you may feel about kids watching dudes touch on other dudes in the middle of the street, Carl is dead in the water now. The only people that will back him up publicly on these comments are ultra-conservative Orthodox rabbis. And these guys aren't even going to vote for him, they know you can't rely on a kook, not for your plumbing, not for the state of New York.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
When smoking is outlawed, we can only bum smokes from outlaws
I have been a regular smoker since I was 15. I have never once portrayed this as the smartest move I could have made. It has wrought a lot of physical and cumulative financial damage. It has made my clothes smell like tobacco, which is worse than the mothball and circus performer sweat smell that would usually permeate my wardrobe. I am at risk for any number of diseases and any personal insurance I buy would be way more expensive than some prissy non-smoker.
But guess what? It's my right to be this stupid. We are in America.
I've been reading about how NYC Mayor Generalissimo Bloomberg wants to ban smoking in public parks. I don't know how often you use the public parks in NYC, but the biggest problem with them probably isn't cigarette smoke.
People on methadone passing out? Weirds out the tourists.
Hippies that think they are musical geniuses? Ruined a nice day or two.
But cigarettes? Is this how far we are going to take this nanny-state crapola??
Apparently, yes. People love the idea. Non-smoking people, of course, but they're the ones whose rights matter, just because they are breeding and voting and not hacking up phlegm at the newsstand every morning.
Erosion of personal liberties means nothing to these people because they want to feel safe, and that illusion of safety can be granted by a megalomaniacal self-made billionaire that managed to get a city council shit-scared enough to let him run for a third term. Also he eats kittens. In front of children. In a cabin he has in Vermont specifically set aside for these kinds of activities.
Who's to blame? We are. We let it happen. We are apathetic and bored with politics. The NY state primary on the 14th had a turnout of about 10% of registered voters, which means about 5% of the voting-age population actually bothered. They are mostly retirees, because the rest of us are too involved in our Twitters, iPads, and facebookings.
(shakes fist, mixes self a Harvey Wallbanger.)
But guess what? It's my right to be this stupid. We are in America.
I've been reading about how NYC Mayor Generalissimo Bloomberg wants to ban smoking in public parks. I don't know how often you use the public parks in NYC, but the biggest problem with them probably isn't cigarette smoke.
People on methadone passing out? Weirds out the tourists.
Hippies that think they are musical geniuses? Ruined a nice day or two.
But cigarettes? Is this how far we are going to take this nanny-state crapola??
Apparently, yes. People love the idea. Non-smoking people, of course, but they're the ones whose rights matter, just because they are breeding and voting and not hacking up phlegm at the newsstand every morning.
Erosion of personal liberties means nothing to these people because they want to feel safe, and that illusion of safety can be granted by a megalomaniacal self-made billionaire that managed to get a city council shit-scared enough to let him run for a third term. Also he eats kittens. In front of children. In a cabin he has in Vermont specifically set aside for these kinds of activities.
Who's to blame? We are. We let it happen. We are apathetic and bored with politics. The NY state primary on the 14th had a turnout of about 10% of registered voters, which means about 5% of the voting-age population actually bothered. They are mostly retirees, because the rest of us are too involved in our Twitters, iPads, and facebookings.
(shakes fist, mixes self a Harvey Wallbanger.)
Friday, August 27, 2010
Fight the Power! (company)
I was on the train this morning, doing my usual routine of reading over people's shoulders and eyeing attractive women in the creepiest manner possible, when I saw some smarmy ads placed courtesy of the local NY energy concern, Consolidated Edison (ConEd for those without a moment to spare). There were multiple choice questions regarding energy conservation, with three goofy answers and one obvious one. 'Cause that makes learning fun! This example is from memory so bear with me:
Brooklyn residents can save the most energy by:
A) staying in bed when hungover
B) eating their neighbors' garbage instead of cooking
C) keeping the AC on a low setting
D) braining a cheating spouse with a tire iron, instead of a plugged-in appliance such a curling iron
Now, even if you don't live in NYC, I think you probably have experience at some point in your life with a public utility that is run like a gangland racket. ConEd is just such a utility. These people have a serious set of onions hanging on them to be this pedantic towards their customers. They are constantly raising rates, dragging their feet on updating the grid, and generally stretching their middle finger to the fullest at all the people that hand them money month in and month out.
A few years ago, I was living in Sunnyside, on the western side of Queens, where the Reggaeton is loud and so are the women. Along with several other neighborhoods, we were with little or no power for about two weeks. My neighbors thought I was a rich man when I told them one of my outlets was working.
It was summer, naturally, and hotter than Satan's chili. Businesses struggled, a few failed. ConEd showed up with.....an ice truck. Know when an ice-truck was a helpful thing in NY? The Depression. That's where they sent us back to. Crises such as these can bring people together, though. Once the power went on, there was a meeting of the neighborhood elders. I was invited, since my working outlet had made me quite the local luminary. The agreement was made to never discuss the details of our survival with any outsiders. The houses we chopped up for cooking fuel, the fair-skinned individuals selected for sacrifice to Ba'al, the heftier community members that were eaten, all of this will be taken to my grave.
There were also incidents around that time of people being electrocuted simply by standing on metal plates ConEd had placed over work sites, and also managed to run current through. A lady died. Did anyone lose their job? Get a pay reduction? A stern talking to?
Course not, public service and accountability are mutually exclusive in New York, as in many populous places in America. The people at the top are still raking in ridiculous salaries for doing nothing. Thomas Edison, for whom the utility is named, would be turning over in his grave, if not for the fact that he also liked ripping people off and is also not in a grave but shambling about Menlo Park, NJ in a unspeakable state of living death (there have been sightings).
AAAH! 'DEYS ALL CROOKS!!
(shakes Grandpa fist, goes back to VHS tape of Sonny Liston fight)
Brooklyn residents can save the most energy by:
A) staying in bed when hungover
B) eating their neighbors' garbage instead of cooking
C) keeping the AC on a low setting
D) braining a cheating spouse with a tire iron, instead of a plugged-in appliance such a curling iron
Now, even if you don't live in NYC, I think you probably have experience at some point in your life with a public utility that is run like a gangland racket. ConEd is just such a utility. These people have a serious set of onions hanging on them to be this pedantic towards their customers. They are constantly raising rates, dragging their feet on updating the grid, and generally stretching their middle finger to the fullest at all the people that hand them money month in and month out.
A few years ago, I was living in Sunnyside, on the western side of Queens, where the Reggaeton is loud and so are the women. Along with several other neighborhoods, we were with little or no power for about two weeks. My neighbors thought I was a rich man when I told them one of my outlets was working.
It was summer, naturally, and hotter than Satan's chili. Businesses struggled, a few failed. ConEd showed up with.....an ice truck. Know when an ice-truck was a helpful thing in NY? The Depression. That's where they sent us back to. Crises such as these can bring people together, though. Once the power went on, there was a meeting of the neighborhood elders. I was invited, since my working outlet had made me quite the local luminary. The agreement was made to never discuss the details of our survival with any outsiders. The houses we chopped up for cooking fuel, the fair-skinned individuals selected for sacrifice to Ba'al, the heftier community members that were eaten, all of this will be taken to my grave.
There were also incidents around that time of people being electrocuted simply by standing on metal plates ConEd had placed over work sites, and also managed to run current through. A lady died. Did anyone lose their job? Get a pay reduction? A stern talking to?
Course not, public service and accountability are mutually exclusive in New York, as in many populous places in America. The people at the top are still raking in ridiculous salaries for doing nothing. Thomas Edison, for whom the utility is named, would be turning over in his grave, if not for the fact that he also liked ripping people off and is also not in a grave but shambling about Menlo Park, NJ in a unspeakable state of living death (there have been sightings).
AAAH! 'DEYS ALL CROOKS!!
(shakes Grandpa fist, goes back to VHS tape of Sonny Liston fight)
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Coincidence? Bah!
A dear friend emailed me this link earlier today.
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/ct-talk-eng-slaughter-column-20100826,0,225489.story
It was a really odd coincidence, since I had gone to sleep last night thinking of Clarice Starling's titular childhood experience in "The Silence of the Lambs". No, I had no good reason thinking about this at bedtime. The mind takes us to odd, dark places in the wee small hours.
I was thinking about all the pain we cause in order to serve ourselves young, tender meat. I ain't no hippie tree-hugger, I hate patchouli and white people dreads and I understand that we eat animals in order to keep them from eating us. All the same, the idea of all the many thousands of tiny lambs bleating as they are slaughtered in the most painful way possible (at least in the kosher tradition) gave me pause.
Getting rid of the factory farms and the methods in which the meat industry operates is next to impossible. They got the juice and are integral to our economy as well as the average diet. It's not really a secret that their products can be hazardous, (this USDA report from last April ain't great news http://www.usda.gov/oig/webdocs/24601-08-KC.pdf )but very little is ever done to curb their practices or tighten their oversight, mainly because they give a free side of beef to every FDA and FSIS inspector.
I'm not going to get in to how the cow farts have contributed to ozone depletion. We all know about it, and it's a little too predictable that we would bring about such a vulgar apocalypse.
Alls I'm saying is, we've made progress on the veal front, no one likes what goes on there. Maybe we can work on all the other animal children we eat, just let them get to adulthood before we slaughter them, like college interns or graduates that join Teach for America
http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/opinion/ct-talk-eng-slaughter-column-20100826,0,225489.story
It was a really odd coincidence, since I had gone to sleep last night thinking of Clarice Starling's titular childhood experience in "The Silence of the Lambs". No, I had no good reason thinking about this at bedtime. The mind takes us to odd, dark places in the wee small hours.
I was thinking about all the pain we cause in order to serve ourselves young, tender meat. I ain't no hippie tree-hugger, I hate patchouli and white people dreads and I understand that we eat animals in order to keep them from eating us. All the same, the idea of all the many thousands of tiny lambs bleating as they are slaughtered in the most painful way possible (at least in the kosher tradition) gave me pause.
Getting rid of the factory farms and the methods in which the meat industry operates is next to impossible. They got the juice and are integral to our economy as well as the average diet. It's not really a secret that their products can be hazardous, (this USDA report from last April ain't great news http://www.usda.gov/oig/webdocs/24601-08-KC.pdf )but very little is ever done to curb their practices or tighten their oversight, mainly because they give a free side of beef to every FDA and FSIS inspector.
I'm not going to get in to how the cow farts have contributed to ozone depletion. We all know about it, and it's a little too predictable that we would bring about such a vulgar apocalypse.
Alls I'm saying is, we've made progress on the veal front, no one likes what goes on there. Maybe we can work on all the other animal children we eat, just let them get to adulthood before we slaughter them, like college interns or graduates that join Teach for America
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