tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-288791432024-03-19T03:53:41.463-04:00mind-ambitionRecession-proof opinionatingTimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.comBlogger388125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-35666711311827147812010-02-21T15:52:00.001-05:002010-02-22T13:19:12.208-05:00We're Moving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYmo00Wz2jAiuHextha_1vpGSaq-QeO7nczQfcDLztqmv-uNYo-mz7J45tYxuDuxO0KoqIc1UL5pQEF4wwG32ZKblqiuj3eBsXa5xukEHzHKXvRknu5_DAoSXvtuNqfPkF3ON_w/s1600-h/House_Moving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYmo00Wz2jAiuHextha_1vpGSaq-QeO7nczQfcDLztqmv-uNYo-mz7J45tYxuDuxO0KoqIc1UL5pQEF4wwG32ZKblqiuj3eBsXa5xukEHzHKXvRknu5_DAoSXvtuNqfPkF3ON_w/s320/House_Moving.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Well after almost 4 years of blogging here at Blogger, I've decided to move to a new location. You can now find me at <a href="http://www.mindambition.tumblr.com/">www.mindambition.tumblr.com</a>. Shorter and simpler name, better photo quality uploads, and with more variety when it comes to templates. Also tumblr has a great platform for mobile blogging - even on an iPhone for goodness sakes. That should facilitate more entries (hopefully). <br />
<br />
I hope you'll all join me over there. Ciao for now. : )Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-55061808804156940542010-02-12T15:30:00.001-05:002010-02-12T15:30:40.417-05:00FF - Dial "H" for HornyIt goes without saying that we're living in an age of huge leaps in technology. Multitouch computers, iPhones, GPS guidance systems, satellite television, DVRs, Blackberries, hybrid cars, Google Earth, you name it, we've got it. It shouldn't be surprising, therefore, that technology is taking us to new places in the sexual realm as well. Who among us hasn't lamented not having a suitable phone sex partner on those horniest of nights when we come home lonely, bored, and yes, drunk? <br />
<br />
Well lament no more, dear reader! For today's Friday Funnies, hear ("hear," get it?) technology's answer to all your phone sex needs:<br />
<br />
<object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6mgWES4oBhs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6mgWES4oBhs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-39053726678023686722010-02-09T11:04:00.003-05:002010-02-09T11:07:46.095-05:00What Happens When Your Girlfriend Doesn't Get Her Required Amount of Sleep<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkzfWq2D6-Rn9Y7JsJWI0UHlGbuwUj23x75smJR9Ebe241bss35Oah7_f74zuVZB-ArneiwiTF3saOhYgnAf3phoZ-13P9teE-qq4r_KK17kHDI6tiPYQYuoBXqkzcrXI6fKLkQ/s1600-h/AbComf-foam-mattress-bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkzfWq2D6-Rn9Y7JsJWI0UHlGbuwUj23x75smJR9Ebe241bss35Oah7_f74zuVZB-ArneiwiTF3saOhYgnAf3phoZ-13P9teE-qq4r_KK17kHDI6tiPYQYuoBXqkzcrXI6fKLkQ/s400/AbComf-foam-mattress-bed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
What follows -- because I've been too busy and lazy to write anything in two weeks -- is a guest blog from dear Adrienne, my girlfriend, who, as you will soon see, is in a very bad mood today. <br />
<br />
The backstory is that dear Adrienne lives in a fourth floor walkup apartment that is 2000 years old (yes, it was built around the birth of Christ), with creaky floorboards that she shares with her neighbors across the hall. These two miscreants are fresh out of college, married, unemployed, and drug recreationalists. Because they are unemployed, the aforementioned miscreants are able to have parties on any day of the week, any day that is, that they're not screaming at each other at the top of their lungs because they married too young and are both unemployed, or too exhausted from chasing their yappy rat of a dog around their drug den of an apartment. I saw the boyfriend last weekend, with the yappy rat of a dog cradled in his arms; he's got a beard, is on the waify side, and looks like he could be singing for Grizzly Bear.<br />
<br />
With our cohabitation imminent (!!!), Adrienne has been selling off her belongings on Craigslist like an auctioneer on crack. Last Saturday, I helped her move her bed down the four flights of stairs and into the waiting SUV of a Long Island teacher. (My back and glutes still ache, but that's a story for another day.) Since she now has no bed, her mattress is on the bedroom floor. Last night was her first night sleeping on her new arrangement, and this is where our story begins, stripped from a furiously-typed Blackberry email that is mere hours old. <br />
<br />
<i>Subject: Negative nancy here</i><br />
<br />
<i>So I had to get up at 6 to move car (for first time today-have to move again at 9) so afterward I go back to apt and wander around aimlessly remembering how much noise the fucking neighbors - no that word is too friendly- a-holes next door were making. I look at my bed and see the large brown crystal that is usually on my nightstand is on the pillow next to mine. That's right. In a half-sleep stupor I grabbed the crystal intending to slam it against the wall a couple of times but must have dozed off. That's right. I dozed off until the battery in my ipod died and then the barking, stomping and fighting jolted me awake again. <br />
<br />
So after wandering around the apt for thirty minutes and re-listing my apartment I decided I couldn't decide what to do so I put on my coat and came over here to Big Daddys for breakfast. I walk in-EMPTY!! I have the place to myself. I place my order for oat bran pancakes with the russian waitress who doesn't write anything down, but hey, how hard is oat bran pancakes and two eggs? No, I don't want the potatoes or bacon, but feel free to throw in an extra oaty. Nope, cannot do that, but how about sausage? For gods sake. Just the two cakes and eggs.<br />
<br />
I am just opening my "Wheels of Life" chakra healing book in an effort to bring myself back to neutral when in walks an UES 20 something mom, with a three year old "Chase" and baby "Wade" in a basket. And guess what... Chase gets to pick where they sit! Yes, please, right next to me. Seriously? So then I hear "chasey, baby, how about eggies and french toast!! Mommy loves you!! Your such a big boy!! What should we do today?? Wadey goes for her four month checkup and then we are going to play and nappytime!!! Jesus christ lady, its barely 8:00. What are you on?<br />
<br />
Then the food arrives. Two fat white as my plate pancakes. Umm, are these oat bran? No, you said regular! WTF? Ok, I will send them back she says and asks once more if I want some sausage. What the hell-do you have a box of sausage going bad back there? So now I am eating two oat bran pancakes that surely have spit (or worse in them). While Chase refuses to eat his eggies and waffles smothered in whipped cream and strawberries. UES girl has asked him if he is going to eat those eggies 14 times so far. I am counting. Oh yeah, neil young playing in background. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I couldn't have said it better myself.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-86298195124574298022010-01-31T12:38:00.012-05:002010-02-01T12:27:31.062-05:00Decisive Indecision<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhky7OyoYM6tgIhnphTadCcse4oNmbPHuLSsrthb1E3-wbINpruvsu2AlSD12Bqlhhbb-j15frn5rmo2Dg5KBQ8SeApgcUbsszjBS5EIVcC_rnD5kWQppOwiEIPneIx8PsSAnSNSA/s1600-h/one-way.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhky7OyoYM6tgIhnphTadCcse4oNmbPHuLSsrthb1E3-wbINpruvsu2AlSD12Bqlhhbb-j15frn5rmo2Dg5KBQ8SeApgcUbsszjBS5EIVcC_rnD5kWQppOwiEIPneIx8PsSAnSNSA/s320/one-way.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432993105020798354" /></a><br />
It's a common state of the human condition, I have found, that no one is perpetually happy. I don't know anyone whose life is a steady upward curve, who is so pleased with their current state of affairs that they wouldn't change a thing. In my experience, most people have one or two things they'd change about their life if they could. I've also found that the grass is indeed often greener, but that when it comes to effectuating the change we're all considering, the idea often seems easier than putting it into practice. <br />
<br />
For myself, I've noticed a disturbing trend in this area. Whenever it comes to making a big decision in my life, to making a change that I can believe in, as Obama would put it, I turn into Hamlet murmuring to a handheld skull: "To be or not to be, that is the question." Should I stay or should I go? Unchartered waters or status quo? I usually realize that something is lacking or I need something different in my life but when it comes to figuring out whether the other side of the black curtain is going to make things better or worse, I just can't decide. And if there's one thing that makes me miserable, it's living in a gray area betwixt two worlds. I absolutely hate it. It's like my mind is split in half and I'm paralyzed by uncertainty. Terrible feeling.<br />
<br />
Let me see if I can come up with a few examples. When it was time for me to decide what to do with my life in my early twenties, post-college, I couldn't decide which direction to go. They say it's nice having options, but at the time, it was absolutely maddening. Half of me wanted to volunteer somewhere, maybe join the Peace Corps, and live a simple life, one that was consistent with my values and political beliefs at the time. The other half of me wanted none of that meager living and the certain poverty that would come later. That part of me wanted to travel, wanted financial freedom, wanted a serious career that would justify and reward the hard work I had put into my education for 18 years. <br />
<br />
So what did I do? Well, first off, I delayed the decision for a couple of years so I could think it through. I took two years off, backpacked in Europe, and got a little taste of that meager living that I was seriously considering. I talked about my future with my cousins, uncles, and with my grandmother in Italy, who had seen a few things. Some of them hadn't pursued an education and were struggling to make ends meet. It's not pretty, they said. You can't help anyone before you help yourself, they said. <br />
<br />
When I got back to the States, I picked up my old summer job in the produce department of a nearby supermarket and another job covering high school sports for a local newspaper. (Journalism was another career I was contemplating.) The supermarket job was for money. The newspaper job, which paid almost nothing, was for love. I got to write. They gave me a sophisticated film camera, which I barely knew how to use, and let me take pictures for the stories I was covering. They even used some of the photos I took. Two of my favorites were one I took of a baseball player for a local semi-pro team who was arguing with an umpire after a called third strike. I caught him mid-rant, with his mouth open. It came out great, though it would have been better with a zoom lens. The second one was a picture I took of a bunch of Special Olympian athletes splashing in a sprinkler during a very hot summer day on the track field at the University of New Hampshire. That one they blew up and used to cover the entire top half of the sports page in the next edition. I remember how much pride I felt when I saw my name underneath the picture. "I took that and I barely knew what I was doing. Holy shit. And they USED it!" I felt the same pride when I wrote about local sporting events and saw my name on the by-line. At first, I wrote them like stories, with way too much descriptive language. The editor made me tone them down. "This is a newspaper," he said, "not a fiction class. You need to simplify things into small, digestible pieces for people to read." <br />
<br />
I think back to that time sometimes. It was a transition period, and like I said, I felt miserable a lot of the time because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life professionally. I felt like the newspaper job was just a placeholder, something to make me not feel like a total loser because I had graduated college and was stocking peppers and cantaloupes in a supermarket. But now I wonder what have happened if I had listened to myself a bit more, had a little bit more confidence in myself, and gave other potential vocations a fighting chance. Because I really enjoyed the writing. I didn't take the photography part seriously because I'd never done it before; in fact, I'd never shown the slightest interest in cameras or taking pictures. The camera was too big and too damn complicated to learn. I'd gotten lucky with a couple of shots they'd decided to use. What I cared about was the articles I wrote. What would have happened if I'd tried to become a permanent employee on the newspaper and worked my way up? Or moved to something bigger later, something digital, once that world took off? I wasn't short of opinions, that's for sure. During this period I wrote a satirical piece to another newspaper when the first Gulf War started in 1991. It was a blog, essentially. I cast myself as a lonely bachelor who opposed the war when everyone in the world was supporting it. I still have it in a plastic folder, along with every newspaper article I wrote, including in college, and every picture I took. I'm glad I saved them. <br />
<br />
Life is a one way street. Not too original, but it's one of my favorite sayings, taught to me by my father. (Dad never was too elaborate in his provision of advice, but I've learned that his simple nuggets often were more profound than three hours of heavy counseling by my mother.) Life is a one way street means that there's no looking back; we have to live with the decisions we make. Given the sad state of affairs of the newspaper business, I could just as easily be living in a cardboard box now as have my own nationally-syndicated editorial page. As the Tootsie Roll owl once said, "The world may never know." <br />
<br />
I bring this up because lately I have been contemplating some changes por mi vida, in two areas: (i) what I want to do with the second half of my life work-wise, and (ii) where I want to live. For some time, I've had the stirrings of change deep in my colon about my day job. It's not that I don't like being a lawyer -- it's actually fine a lot of the time. It's challenging, I get to do some writing, albeit of the watered down, non-creative variety, and I'm well paid, which allows me to do other things that I enjoy. But damn, I've been in this rut for awhile now. I don't feel inspired at all. I don't feel like where I'm at is where I want to be. And I've never loved being a lawyer so much that I want to go to bar association meetings, jerk off with other lawyers about cutting edge aspects of the practice, schmooze and make contacts, blah, blah, blah. I don't read about Oliver Wendell Holmes in my spare time. I don't even like watching lawyer shows on television. Fuck all of that. When I have free time, I can think of 1000 other things I'd rather be doing than anything law related. Same for getting on the board of some stupid ass company or non-profit so I can put it on the firm website and hassle my friends and colleagues for donations every fucking year. That's what lawyers are supposed to do though. Shake the tree. EMBRACE the law. CLIMB the ladder to the glory of partnership, more money, and beyond (which is what, exactly? A bigger house?). I've got be honest. Time is the only truly limited quantity in this world, and I'll be damned if I'm going to expend any (or very much) of mine on law-related activities outside of work. I like the law, I'm good enough at it to make a living, but I'm not PASSIONATE about it like some people. I don't eat and breathe the shit. It's the last thing I want to think about when I get home. I'd rather be doing this, working on my other hobbies, or watching a good movie. <br />
<br />
Not to mention that the profession is stressful as hell, particularly when I'm swamped with work and being reamed by demanding clients. It's also full of conflict, arguing with pricks on a daily basis (sometimes even within my own firm), and basically deciding who is going to get what pile of money at the end of the day. And even when you succeed, they still bitch about the bill. As if it was easy to get them their fucking money. As if I found it ENJOYABLE. The law can be interesting and challenging, but it can also be repetitive and dull. The law doesn't keep me warm at night. And as far as loyalty at my firm goes, well, that only extends as far as the "value" I add to the firm. That's the new catchphrase: "value added." Clients want value, so now we're all forced to dance for our dinner and justify our existence, both within and without the firm. In a lean economy, we're also forced to schmooze within the firm, so we can pry out of the bony hands of nervous partners some of the work they've been hoarding for two years for fear of getting shit-canned themselves. All these rainmakers who make the big bucks, who were supposed to be the business generators, well, they've made a lot less rain in the past 3 years. Now we're all thirsty. <br />
<br />
Sound fun to you? I go through phases when I think stacking peppers and cantaloupes wasn't so damn bad after all. By now I could be managing a store for $100,000 a year, have weekends off, and live a more sane life. Or be in upper management and have everyone shit themselves when I come sauntering in to run my finger across the top of the cash register checking for dust.<br />
<br />
Daydreams are nice, but reality eventually sets in. The bills come. A trip to Vail is offered. A new camera lens hits the market. And I want, want, want. I like new things, new experiences, seeing new places. Unfortunately, at the age of 41, I have trapped myself in a lifestyle, the very quicksand that those "Why Go to Law School" books I read before I went to law school said I would face sometime down the road, right around my midlife crisis. I'm nothing if not punctual. <br />
<br />
There are thousands of unhappy lawyers out there. (Poor poor us.) Many of them, apparently like me, stay in the profession because of the money. It's easy if you never had something to not miss it. It's harder to go backwards to not having when you once had. This mix of want and need and dreaming and malaise has created the same uncertainty and stuckness I experienced twenty years ago. I have a split mind once again, which I can barely tolerate. What to do, what to do? Well, for the past three years or so, I've kind of been doing the same thing I did when this happened before: I'm waiting until an answer becomes more clear in my mind. I'm waiting until the clouds part. My answer the last time was to take the Road More Traveled and go to law school. I can criticize that decision now, but in the grand scheme of things, I probably would do it again. I'm risk averse when it comes to money and financial security and that hasn't changed. It's kind of why I'm stuck now. For all my bitching, I'm fairly certain I won't be eating cat food when I'm 70. But what if I don't make it to 70? I have to acknowledge the thing inside me that is ready for a change, some kind of change in my career, some kind of professional inspiration. We shall see where it leads.<br />
<br />
The second big area of indecision for me at the moment is where to live. I have lived in New York City for the past 18 years. I've lived in some decent places, like where I am now. I have also lived in some tiny, run-down apartments that would make you cringe. Apartments that were so old, the paint was crusted over from 2000 landlord slatherings and the shower tiles were buckling from neglect. Apartments where the kitchen could only be called a kitchen because it had a refrigerator and a stove in it. Apartments with impossibly thin walls and ceilings where I could hear my neighbors yelling, fucking, and playing shitty music at all hours of the day. Basically, I have lived in a hotel for nearly half of my life. (More than that if you count my college years.) Why have I done it? Why, to be in New York, of course! Those of you who have never lived here, who have only visited, won't understand this, but outside of Paris, New York is the only city in the world that could make a person want to endure this kind of bullshit -- the cramped quarters, the noise, the stink in the summer -- just to live here. And I have <b>wanted</b> to live here. I have explained why before and won't belabor it now. The energy, the choices in food, the mix of people, the random activities within arm's reach, the feeling I get just by being here, all of these things, just to name a few, make New York special and addictive. Not everyone wants or enjoys the city life, of course, but for those like me who do, it's incredibly hard to think of living anywhere else.<br />
<br />
But lately, that's exactly what I've been doing: thinking of living somewhere else. This feeling, too, has been gestating awhile, though not for as long as the one about my job. I'm not sure of its origin. Many of my friends have left New York for the suburbs. Most of them did it for their families, because they have young kids. Some friends have departed because they lost their jobs or they see a better opportunity somewhere else, in another part of the country. For myself, lately I've been getting sicker of the bullshit and craving another experience, some extended peace and quiet. My last three trips, besides to Italy for my grandmother's funeral, have been to Utah, Burlington, and Vail, all distinctly nature-oriented. I got to hike and ski. I got to breathe clean air. I got to hear the sounds of silence. It was beautiful. I have been craving the outdoors for some reason, and I am NOT the outdoorsy type, far from it. But it's like something in me is telling me, okay, you've been eating red meat for awhile, it's time for some vegetables, or you're going to get sick. The problem is, I'm not a vegan either. If I jump to the country and hate it, then what? I'm stuck in a fucking house with nowhere to go unless I plant my ass in a car. That's one thing I've loved about New York, you can walk anywhere at any time and get home easily. You are always minutes from home, no vehicle necessary. Not so in the burbs.<br />
<br />
On the other side of it, I confess that I'm tired of city living in many ways. I'm tired of hearing my neighbors in particular. Just once I'd like to go to my own bed with 100% certainty that I'm not going to hear ANYTHING all night until I decide to wake up. That never happens when you live in the city. Some douche might decide to slam his drawer or use his treadmill at 1 a.m. Tough titties, you'd better have some good earplugs or a ton of patience. I am distinctly lacking in the latter. I'd also like some SPACE for my shit for a change. I'd like to buy a ginormous 100-pack of Charmin's, the kind that will last me and my ass until 2012, and not worry about where the fuck I'm going to put it. I'd like a real home office, an entire room devoted to nothing but my computer, printer, and ergonomic chair. I'd like more walls to hang my pictures. I'd like a garage that I don't have to rent. Maybe one that will fit TWO cars. Or a ping-pong table! <br />
<br />
I think I'm saying... sigh... that maybe, possibly, implicitly, kind of, perhaps I'd consider the idea of... living. in. a house. Ugh. I've never had one of my own before. I swore I'd never own one. To much work and not my speed. So why now? Well, a big reason for staying in the city -- meeting and having a life with someone -- is now off the table, thanks to Adrienne and where I think we're going. And apartment living with two people -- which we are about to undertake -- is a bit crampy. I could barely stand it here by myself. We'll see how it goes, but I have a feeling we're going to need more room at some point. And truth be told, house living sounds and feels a lot less lousy with her around to share it with. (And Jer too, of course. He can't talk, but I think he'd like a nice yard to shit in every once in awhile, sans leash.) Not a ringing endorsement, I know, but I need to ease into this. We'd be closer to the mountains, so I could ski more. Getting to my parents' house on holidays, etc. would not induce an embolism. I think it would be less stressful in a lot of ways. There's a lot of upside.<br />
<br />
I would definitely miss the city though, I love Williamsburg so much. Plus, I think of myself as a city person, not a Dockers-wearing suburbanite. God, even the thought of that makes me want to vomit. I don't know what I'm going to do. If I get a house, it also probably means I won't ever stop being a lawyer either, and any such plans are on hold until retirement. I've done a little surfing to see what you get for your money in the environs of New York City and it ain't pretty. Let's just say it's not inspiring me very much, and I don't have the bank to afford the kinds of places that DO inspire me. <br />
<br />
So, to sum up: two things I'm thinking about changing in my life. Both involve contradictory feelings in their own right, and both are in opposition to each other financially. Short of me suddenly acquiring the power to teleport, or winning the lottery, something's got to give.<br />
<br />
I should probably think about this some more.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-4993335361743024352010-01-22T12:06:00.004-05:002010-01-22T12:13:24.653-05:00FF - A Haitian SmileEven in the darkest of circumstances, a saved life and a megawatt smile can light a fire in the hearts of people thousands of miles away. <br /><br />No crass jokes or snarky comments today, just good vibes.<br /><br /><object width="416" height="374" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" id="ep"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="movie" value="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=world/2010/01/21/moos.mile.wide.smile.cnn" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000" /><embed src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=world/2010/01/21/moos.mile.wide.smile.cnn" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="416" wmode="transparent" height="374"></embed></object><br /><br />My favorite part is the cheers when they pull him out of the ground, and he opens his arms.<br /><br />p.s. I want that photographer's job. Dang.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-88268971070221342322010-01-16T10:28:00.006-05:002010-01-16T11:36:19.667-05:00Shake Shake Shake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAY_D-TN_gY5WBONmj8s1Y1Qme6io1TwfMv9EnIakiThqA-fiA8qGDAQuExLnWcZ-b2KqKTUfRT2hYocMJEu94gLaTSZ4A6Cs15-oGA4KZeSlW8g3zI9Gxxzt9iAMEBOCYJaOlcw/s1600-h/haiti-palace_1558165c.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAY_D-TN_gY5WBONmj8s1Y1Qme6io1TwfMv9EnIakiThqA-fiA8qGDAQuExLnWcZ-b2KqKTUfRT2hYocMJEu94gLaTSZ4A6Cs15-oGA4KZeSlW8g3zI9Gxxzt9iAMEBOCYJaOlcw/s320/haiti-palace_1558165c.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427373650057623698" /></a><br />Few things put life in perspective like a massive earthquake. They can strike anywhere, at any time, and the average person has no clue when they're coming. Cruelly, it's the poorest countries in the world who are affected the most when an earthquake hits. Poverty means slapdash housing, lax building codes, an absence of political or moral will to fix these problems and construct the kinds of buildings that could withstand a significant earthquake, or at least minimize the ensuing damage. A country can't focus on the luxury of above standard buildings when it can't even feed its own people. Even here in the U.S., the richest country in the world, earthquakes can do massive damage, like they did in San Francisco in the 90s. Even here, housing codes and inspections are not up to par. Just imagine how bad it was in Haiti before this happened.<br /><br />Watching the footage from Haiti has been heartbreaking and nauseating at the same time. Bodies piled on the streets. Kids with dirty, bleeding faces and limbs. People walking around dazed, in shock, not knowing where to go because their homes have been flattened and the aftershocks are still coming. Thousands of people sitting on garbage, tears, desperation, and hopelessness on their faces. After watching an hour of these images last night, I couldn't take it anymore. So I changed the channel. How nice an option that is for some of us. We get to turn it off and forget about it.<br /><br />Now, days after the initial devastation, reports say that people are becoming angry. They are hungry, thirsty, bleeding, and maimed. People are dying on the streets. They are desperate for medical attention that has not yet come. Now, the machetes are coming out. Gangs are forming. There's a sense, as would be the case anywhere else, as was the case in New Orleans after Katrina, that a bad moon will be rising if the situation doesn't improve quickly. And then we'll see baser human instincts come to bear. I hope that doesn't happen. I hope that today will be the day things begin to turn around for these poor people.<br /><br />But it's hard to imagine that happening when I see the massive piles of wires, broken concrete, the metal everywhere, the collapsed houses, schools, hospitals, and office buildings, crushed as if God Himself had dropped them from outerspace. It's hard to imagine how things will improve anytime soon. Before this earthquake, Haiti was the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. Numero uno in the contest no one wants to win. Before this earthquake, Haiti was already on its knees. After this earthquake, Haiti is flat on its back. <br /><br />No one gave much thought to Haiti before January 13th. It, like many third world countries, was spinning around in ineptitude and intractable poverty. The only time we paid attention to Haiti was when some of its people, desperate for a better life, took to the seas on a flimsy boat, only to be turned away in Florida after having survived the perilous journey. When certain people were decrying the return of Elian Gonzalez to Cuba all those years ago, I thought to myself (and sometimes said out loud) if poor little Elian had been from HAITI, we would have sent him back on a speedboat and wouldn't have had any of this political nonsense. Haiti was an utter mess before this happened. It's in the 9th circle of hell now. Ask Pat Robertson. According to him, Haiti is "cursed" with bad luck due to a deal it made with Satan in order to escape colonialism and attain its independence. Funny how he never speaks of an American deal with The Red and Horny One when we fought our Revolutionary War to escape OUR colonialism. Or when we massacred the American Indians who were here first so we could steal their land and achieve Manifest Destiny. No, we are blessed by God. Haiti is cursed. That's convenient. I wonder where that douchebag gets his stories?<br /><br />Politics and delusional maniacs aside, the thing that compels me most about earthquakes is that they are the most natural thing in the world. Literally. I ain't no geologist, but what I recall from 11th grade science class is that earthquakes are caused by a shifting in tectonic plates along the earth's crust. Volcanic explosions in the earth's core periodically lead to a shifting in these massive, ginormous plates that form mountains and the land we sit our asses on when we drink our lattes and drive our SUVs. Since they can't be seen, we forget they even exist. We get surprised when they remind us that no, they haven't gone away, in fact, they are still relevant, were here long before us, and will be here long after we're gone. <br /><br />Earthquakes remind us that the earth is not actually ours. Earthquakes remind us that in reality, we're only renters who are borrowing a small patch of earth for awhile. We build our houses, our apartment buildings, our office skyscrapers on the assumption that it's us who run the show and can do what we want, when we want, and where we want. Earthquakes say "<span style="font-style:italic;">Not so, homo sapiens. You, in fact, are no more important than plants, animals or any other sentient beings who occupy the tiniest surface of this planet. Beneath you, 99.999% of this orbiting ball contains a different, explosive reality, one that is never quiet though you will never see or feel it, save for the occasional volcanic eruption. Beneath you, great changes, changes that would destroy your entire race, happen on a daily basis. And once in a while, you get the wispiest smidgen, a fractional subset of a subset of a fractional lick of the magma and lava and heat living far beneath you: the earth shakes for a few seconds. The earth is not responsible for what happens after that. It's just doing what it does. It's simply reacting to another part of itself. If you are hurt by that, if you think you are special, that you're more important than what is underneath you, a part of this planet that has existed since it was formed, you are in for a rude awakening</span>."<br /><br />Rude indeed. Hundreds of thousands of people are estimated to have been killed in this earthquake, which measured 7.0 on the Richter scale. The dead include the poor, of which there are many in Haiti, and the wealthy -- tourists who were staying at the nicest hotel in Port au Prince. American diplomats, U.N. heads, children, shantytown dwellers, all dead. No one was immune. No one got special treatment (though, in typical human fashion, the search and rescue teams are definitely according special treatment to certain categories of people). We sit here and worry day after day about Al Qaeda and 9/11, Iraq and Afghanistan, and a natural "Act of God" takes the lives of hundreds of thousands of people in a few seconds of shake, shake, shake.<br /><br />Earthquakes show us the better side of ourselves too. A forgotten country like Haiti now has unprecedented attention from the world. Many generous people have donated money to organizations like the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders. The United States has promised $100 million and sent thousands of Marines to keep order. Obama has suspended proceedings for 18 months against Haitian immigrants who are in the United States illegally. People care and want to help. That's the beauty of the human spirit. Unlike earthquakes, our acts are not random. They are purposeful and intentional and when we use them for good, to help rather than to harm, we are elevated to something far greater than ourselves and the meat and bone bodies we occupy. We become spirit. And spirit is something that no earthquake, no matter how powerful, could ever destroy.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-32853071401744606732010-01-15T11:04:00.004-05:002010-01-15T11:23:29.538-05:00FF - Pants on the GroundAre you like me? Do you think that a certain gangsta demographic looks absolutely fucking stupid with their designer jeans pulled down to their knees? How do they stay up? They're made that way, right? They're not real jeans, are they? There's got to be some kindo of velcro or elastic involved. Anyway, I can't stand them. I just saw some punk wearing a pair on the subway, not an hour ago. <br /><br />The foolishness of this look was squarely addressed the other night on American Idol, a show that I rarely watch. On a slow work week, I happened to get home early two nights ago, and tuned in to A.I. to see this 62 year-old gentleman, General Larry Platt, wrap up the show with this disturbingly catchy ditty:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tMwhl4IrPNc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tMwhl4IrPNc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Folks, we have a hit on our hands. A meme. Not seconds later, thousands of people, myself included, updated their Facebook status with some form of the words "fool" and "pants on the ground." Yesterday I couldn't get the song out of my head. <br /><br />Last night, Neil Young, one of my idols, got into the act:<br /><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://widgets.nbc.com/o/4727a250e66f9723/4b50921499acd9af/4727a250e66f9723/ad6737cc/-cpid/422edafa5cb0d1fe" id="W4727a250e66f97234b50921499acd9af" width="384" height="283"><param name="movie" value="http://widgets.nbc.com/o/4727a250e66f9723/4b50921499acd9af/4727a250e66f9723/ad6737cc/-cpid/422edafa5cb0d1fe" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="allowNetworking" value="all" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /></object><br /><br />Damn, Neil makes anything sound good. That was powerful. <br /><br />NOW PULL UP YOUR FUCKING PANTS!Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-66691757000194770382010-01-08T00:23:00.007-05:002010-01-08T11:25:02.876-05:00New Year's Revelations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6CvykVEMrK_fOmkacoDxLnQbRm2Xx1vJ9gQNEzQX9HJTic6RVxUlAORERQKqp3vSlt9CBDU7bwxIUjv_ys8uellvR5pE-P-BucD50s0PSqphvaHJiU7V9SnNrsZx7Gv8sBpibA/s1600-h/ar119895516288958.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6CvykVEMrK_fOmkacoDxLnQbRm2Xx1vJ9gQNEzQX9HJTic6RVxUlAORERQKqp3vSlt9CBDU7bwxIUjv_ys8uellvR5pE-P-BucD50s0PSqphvaHJiU7V9SnNrsZx7Gv8sBpibA/s320/ar119895516288958.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424244061974511154" /></a><br /><br />Well, here we are. 2010. I like the way that number looks on the page. It's clean. It has clarity. I think it's the zeros, they suggest balance, a leveling off. And why not after the year we just had? Michael Jackson dead. Farrah Fawcett dead. Tiger Woods' reputation nearly dead. An economy in the crapper. H1N1 hysteria. The Yankees winning the World Series. And it all ends with a 23 year-old Nigerian jihadi trying to blow up a plane on Christmas day. Could it get any worse? Probs yes, yes it could. But it won't in 2010. How could it with such a symmetrical number driving the train?<br /><br />I don't do resolutions. Okay, I do do them, but they're a lot of pressure and ultimately disappointing, so I'm going to try something new. Here are my New Year's Revelations for 2010. These are things that recently were revealed to me by intuition or perhaps divine communique. I don't question the source. I am merely a conduit to enlightenment, here for your spiritual evolution. Hear then, what I have learned:<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Time keeps on ticking, ticking, ticking into the FU-TURE. </span> Sometimes it's like I can actually feel it ticking by, day after day, hour after hour, feel myself growing older by the second. I'm attending friends' funerals, watching my parents age, become forgetful and wrinkly, looking at myself in the mirror and wondering where the teenage me went. This is the stuff of which midlife angst is made. I read a poll that says that people are happiest at the following ages: 18-24 and 55-65. 35-44? Unhappiest. How can that be, one might ask? I can only figure it this way: 18-24 year olds are in college and graduating shortly thereafter. Or if not college-bound, they be clubbin', they be chillin', they all be too stupid and inexperienced to know what's waiting for them in ten to fifteen years. Optimism reigns. Disillusionment is a microscopic speck on the horizon that is imperceptible. The world is a red carpet and they have the young bodies and minds to run it down. Few mistakes, apart from drug overdoses, can break their reverie. 18-24 year olds are demigods. Broke and dependent demigods, but demigods nonetheless. <br /><br />55-65 year olds have seen and done most of what they're going to do in life. They've already worked most of the hard hours they're going to work. They've come to terms with their failures and the dreams and ambitions of their youth that never bore fruit. For the men, sex is not the personal driver that it once was. (Fuck if that'll ever be me!) These AARP inductees possess new identities. They are calm. Sedate. They take painting classes. They play golf, chess, and poker. They enjoy their grandkids, who spark their hearts through toothless smiles, innocent questions, and absurd antics. The white hairs appreciate their health because too many of their friends have already passed. So they're happy riding this life thing out until they, too, succumb to a cough or chest pain that never leaves.<br /><br />What of the 35-44 year olds, then? You'd think we'd be the happiest. We have money, decent jobs, and we pretty much know who we are at this point. Married or single, we get laid with relative regularity, give or take the societal fringe of course. We're independent, we can go and do what we want when we want. No parents to leash us. No osteoporosis to limit us. Why then are we so angst-ridden all the time? <br /><br />Hell if I know. Ask me when I'm 55.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sometimes it's not the place, it's the company.</span> I tried Burlington, Vermont again for New Year's this year. Yeah. I did. It's just too nice a place to stay away from and I had some demons to exorcise. Made a few changes this time though. This time I: traveled there in a Volvo with all-weather tires; brought a snow shovel; wore a brand new Gore-tex lined L.L. Bean jacket that the tag said would keep me warm at -20 degrees Fahrenheit; and stayed there three nights instead of one. Most importantly, however, I was accompanied by my girlfriend of one year (today!), rather than someone I barely knew. And that, my friends, made all the difference. Let it never be said that I don't learn from my mistakes.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">We are never EVER going to stop every single disgruntled person in the world who wants to kill himself and a bunch of other people.</span> I am dumbfounded by the gnashing of teeth that is going on over this Nigerian dude on the plane. It's stunning how a single potentially deadly act can induce mass hysteria for weeks from here to Des Moines. It was a close call, to be sure. He should never have gotten on the plane. Security needs to be better. Intelligence services need to communicate with each other and learn how to distill, digest, and react to the billions of bits of data that fly by every month. It is a herculean task. <br /><br />You know who did that remarkably well? Who had incredibly solid control over their country (and several others)? Who knew where everyone was and what they were doing virtually all the time? The Nazis. Stalin ran a pretty tight ship too, as did some generals in Argentina and Chile in the 1970s. You didn't see too many terrorists in those countries back in the day. Pretty high price tag for that "safety" though, eh?<br /><br />I'm going to make a bold prediction: unfortunately, more Americans are going to be killed by terrorists in the future. It's going to happen on a subway. It's going to happen on an airplane. It's going to happen in buildings, outside of buildings, in the United States and in foreign countries. It's going to happen. I hope I'm not there at the time, but I certainly could be. So could you. Our leaders will and should do their best to protect us and catch the people who want to do us harm, but anyone who thinks that we can stop every single person every single time from killing people when he or she is willing to die him or herself is beyond delusional. We can't even stop disgruntled Americans from killing Americans, in schoolyards, malls, post offices, law firms, brokerage houses, city neighborhoods, and federal buildings. What makes us think we're going to be anymore successful at stopping foreigners from doing it? <br /><br />And why does everyone shit their pants when it's a foreigner -- an AL QAEDA OPERATIVE -- who does it? Aren't they murderers just like every other murderer? Isn't every homicide victim equal to every other? Maybe it's the mass scale of what the Nigerian tried to do that makes it more frightening. Tell me though, how many people in this country have died at the hands of mass murderers since 9/11? There was Columbine, there was that guy at Virginia Tech, there was that nutjob at the Amish school, there was the BTK Killer, there was Ted Bundy. No - Bundy was way before 9/11. So was BTK. Alright, so we've had mass murderers around for a long time in this country. I'd be willing to bet that more Americans were killed in school shootings during the past 8 years than were killed as a result of foreign terrorism.<br /><br />Of course we need to try and stop it. I want to clap and dance a jig every time I find out that a drone has offed some human garbage in Pakistan or Afghanistan. But we need to face reality too. We can't stop everybody. There's a risk associated with being alive: you might get killed. We can't invade every country -- we can't afford it and it's bankrupting us. Bin Laden has said from the very beginning that he wants to bankrupt us. Bin Laden has known all along that when we can't afford our tanks, our drones, our military excursions to Iraq, Iran, and North Korea, when Americans are hungry and can't find work or decent health care because we're spending billions upon billions outside the country on war after war after war, when America shreds the Constitution and creates a police state like the Nazis and Soviet Union in an effort to keep out every brainwashed Nigerian or Yemeni or Pakistani who has so devalued his own life that he thinks dying and killing is the only thing that will make him important, well, that's when he knows that he's as close to a complete victory over the United States as he's going to achieve in his lifetime. That's when he and Al Qaeda will have won. He knows it. He's planning for it. And so far, it's working. Because we overreact to every action Al Qaeda takes. Because we fear death so much that we're unwilling to accept a single casualty -- excepting those to our military forces, and even those we find virtually unbearable -- as the cost of doing business in this "War on Terror." <br /><br />We haven't been asked to do too much in this War since September 2001. The very least we can do is keep our wits, not piss our pants when bad things, terrible things happen -- and unfortunately they will continue to -- and understand that there will be casualties in this War, both civilian and military. It's a War. That's what happens in Wars. People die. When we avoid disaster like we did two weeks ago, we should count our blessings, fix the problems we can fix and accept those that we can't. Because some can't be fixed. <br /><br />Remember, it wasn't airport security, Predator drones, or the billions of dollars spent in Afghanistan and Iraq that stopped the Nigerian on that Detroit flight. It was two alert, clear-eyed passengers who figured out what was happening and brought the hammer down on that asshole. Same for those passengers over Shanksville, PA on 9/11. They died fighting. <br /><br />Damn, that was a rant and a half, wasn't it?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Rants can be cathartic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">At some point, I became the parent of my parents. </span> I'm not sure when it happened, but here we are.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I want to ski again.</span> I left this expensive hobby behind when I moved to the city eighteen years ago. It just wasn't easy to keep it up what with law school, no car for more than a decade, and the long hours I worked earlier in my career. Plus it's hard as balls to get out of the city and up to a mountain on a Friday night. Plus no car. Oh, I mentioned that already. Anyhoo, after viewing the whitecapped Alps during my plane ride home last November and driving by the Green Mountains in Vermont over the holiday, I realized that I really miss skiing. I miss being on the mountain, skis underfoot, and trying to figure out how I'm going to survive the black diamond that I mistakenly thought was an intermediate slope. I don't miss kissing tree stumps with my face or bloody lift tickets, though. I'm going to Vail, Colorado in two weeks, so we'll see how strong this rekindled ski bug of mine really is. I heard they wear helmets now, that's probably a good thing for me. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I crave light.</span> I think I have seasonal affective disorder. All I feel like doing this winter, besides skiing of course, is sleeping. I slept so much over Christmas I felt like a hibernating bear. This winter has been cold so far and the darkness is so damn depressing. I'm going to need to wedge in a beach trip before April, methinks.<br /><br /><strong>In another life, I'm an artist.</strong> If I wasn't so damn materialistic and attached to my thus far cushy lifestyle, I'd be doing full-time what I enjoy in my spare time: writing and photography. Hell, I might even be a painter! I just know in another life, another version of reality in the multiverse, I'm sitting with an easel somewhere, Mandrake goatee on my face, mixing acrylics and painting the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Or, having graduated from the renown MFA program at the University of Iowa, I'm working on my third novel after publishing two lengthy short story compilations. Or I'm a photojournalist documenting atrocities in Darfur. In <em>this </em>life, I catch fluorescent tans in my Aeron chair, work in front of the computer until 11 p.m., and return home only to collapse on my mango sofa from Design Within Reach and click on my plasma t.v. in a vain effort to forget about the stress of my day. Which sounds better to you? I'm just saying, I was probably destined for more arty things, and I got sidetracked somewheres. I think it was when my Uncle Saverio let me borrow his bottle of Paco Rabanne in the seventh grade before a school dance. (I needed all the ammo I could get, you know, to impress the LAY-DEES.) <br /><br />It was all downhill from there.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-56204427092476759362009-12-20T11:50:00.009-05:002009-12-20T13:53:09.947-05:00A Few Christmas Thoughts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCRLsajbvVy5aaegNIT-JARMgFOJWILT29yNc7ZoakzJJc8VSMR4ePrXz3eGoUlS1ZGlW5ldd1JQA7twD6FG9EVxS2lDViX0a5mhGlJRgCQwNasnseuW0Yt3ZLR6sXjzs5mDUHA/s1600-h/cbrown112304.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCRLsajbvVy5aaegNIT-JARMgFOJWILT29yNc7ZoakzJJc8VSMR4ePrXz3eGoUlS1ZGlW5ldd1JQA7twD6FG9EVxS2lDViX0a5mhGlJRgCQwNasnseuW0Yt3ZLR6sXjzs5mDUHA/s320/cbrown112304.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417388710589629058" /></a><br />It's that time of year. A time for all of us to come together in peace and good will and express our love for each other and all of humanity. In that regard, here are a few Christmas (not "Holiday," CHRISTMAS) thoughts I'd like to share:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Do They Know It's Healthcare After All?</span> I've been watching this health care debate for months, through the Great Teabagger Debates, through the name-calling across both sides of the aisle, through the political wranglings with the Olympia Snowes, the Joe Liebermans, the Ben Nelsons, through the lying, hyperbolic Party of No's ("PON") talking heads, the Palins, the McCains, the McConnells, decrying the Death Panels, abortion subsidies, and profligate spending in what they have deemed "Obamacare." I've seen that $260 million insurance company lobby money in action, opposing any change to the status quo that is bankrupting this country. I watched it all. And now, here we are, on the cusp of a Senate bill that is something like 2000 pages long, that no Republican deigned to vote for, a bill that still needs to be combined with a House bill that has some fundamental differences, and which won't take effect until 2014 at the earliest.<br /><br />Where do I come down on this leviathan, this laughably watered down version of what I originally wanted for this country, this bill that was written in substantial part by the insurance companies and their lobbies? I'm for it. I wanted a public option. Nay, I actually wanted a single payer system with a private option. I think health care is a right, not a privilege. I feel that health care is a fundamental benchmark by which any country should be judged. I also don't feel it should be driven by a profit motive. That's just my philosophy. The United States pays more for its health care on average than any country in the world. It is ranked 37th in the world in quality of health care. It also has a shorter life expectancy than many countries who spend far less. It has 40 million people who are not insured. There's something fundamentally wrong with that. <br /><br />I wanted a lot of things. I wanted caps on what insurance companies could charge to customers. I wanted checks on hospital expenses and unnecessary tests. Yes, I could have gone for some tort reform as well. The Senate health care reform bill, passed only by Democrats, addresses some of these problems, too few, in my opinion. But it's better than nothing. It's better than the status quo. It's better than the Big Zero we got from Republicans who held power for eight years after they obliterated Bill Clinton's attempt to pass health care reform in 1995. They did absolutely nothing on this issue. Zero. And now they're pissing all over the first attempt at major transformative legislation that we've had in this country in decades. The PONs nauseate me, I'm not going to lie. Talk about not putting the country first, they wrote the book. And I'd throw plenty of Democrats in there with them. That's why we got the bill we got instead of the bill we should have had. It's not easy to get the 60 votes that were needed to overcome a Republican filibuster. In fact, it's nearly impossible. That's why they're trying to jam this thing through so fast, before the numbers change and the PONs prevent any change from happening at all.<br /><br />We're going to hear a lot in the coming months about how Democrats "own" this bill; how it costs too much money; how it contains x or y or z provision, which is going to sound ridiculous to a lot of people. Most of that criticism is going to come from the PONs, who have something like a 17% approval rating, and whose sole ambition is to regain power and prevent Obama from declaring any form of victory on any front, save Afghanistan. My response to them will be a series of questions: "What were you proposing?" "What did you do to help pass a better bill?" "What compromises did you propose to the Democrats?" "What were you willing to accept from the other side?" And when it comes to money, how much this thing is going to cost, I will ask: "How much did the drug bill you passed under Bush cost the country?" "How much did the Iraq War add to the deficit?" "Was that money well spent?"<br /><br />The fact that we're remotely close to health care reform in this country is a remarkable feat in itself, given our decades of failure on this issue. And I'm a pragmatist at heart. I don't love what will eventually pass, I don't know every single detail of the Senate bill -- no one does -- but one thing is certain: it contains provisions that improve on the status quo, which is untenable by any measure. No more denials for pre-existing conditions. National competition among private insurers, which should lower costs for all of us. Tax breaks for small businesses to make health care more affordable for them to provide. 31 million previously uninsured will now have the chance to have health care. That's something. It's better than what we have now.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Do You Hear What I Hear? </span> Deer Tick: Born on Flag Day. Buy it. A few song recommendations on the album: Friday XIII, Easy, and Houston, TX. If you like gravelly-voiced singers with a little country edge, you'll like these guys. It's good for long drives or subway rides, as the case may be.<br /><br />Another choice: Edward Sharpe and the Magnificent Zeros. Songs: "Home," "Janglin', and "Come in Please." <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Silent Night, Holy Night.</span> If you ever want to feel like you're in your own music video, strap on a pair of sound-free Bose headphones, the kind that go on your ears, not in them, plug them into your musical device of choice, hit play on your favorite song, and start walking the streets of New York City. I'm telling you, it's just like being in your own video. I'm not saying it's completely safe -- it helps to be able to hear things around you when you're walking in New York, particularly in intersections and on subways -- but it's worth trying, even for a few minutes. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Blue Christmas.</span> How bad do you think Christmas is going to be for Tiger Woods this year? Damn, talk about a self-implosion. How do you chase that kind of poon (and a skanky category of poon it is!) for that long, that publicly, and not expect to get caught? Why do people that famous, who have that kind of sexual appetite bother getting married at all? Personally, I hate golf and could never understand the masturbatory fawning over Tiger Woods at all. <br /><br />HE'S A FUCKING GOLFER! GOLFERS ARE NO MORE ATHLETIC THAN PEOPLE WHO SHOOT POOL OR THROW HORSESHOES. MINNESOTA FATS WAS A LEGENDARY POOL PLAYER. GOLF IS A SKILL, NOT A SPORT. GOLFERS ARE SKILLED GAMEPLAYERS, NOT ATHLETES.<br /><br />Where was I? Oh yes, Christmas spirit. Tiger Woods. As disinterested as I am in his profession and public persona, I'm very interested in the Shakespearean tragedy of his classic fall from grace. It is epic. Watching commercial sponsors like Accenture (a company with its own history of public fuckups, see, e.g., Arthur Andersen, its former incarnation), who previously elevated this talented GOLFER to regal heights, now scurry away from him like cockroaches tasting the first scent of a can of RAID, has been hilarious. Tag Heuer - gone. I think only Nike is standing by him. I like that. Nikes don't fit me very well -- my feet are too wide so I tend to go with New Balance -- but I admire Nike's loyalty. That takes guts. It will be interesting to see where Tiger ends up now. Like Dennis Rodman said on Larry King last night (yes, we've sunk that far -- Dennis Rodman is now the voice of reason on shit like this), Americans like redemption. They like to give second and third chances to people. Hell, this country was FOUNDED on second chances! The Puritans, who were kicked out of England and helped colonize this country, were the embodiment of the Second Chance. We even gave a second chance to the American Indians we massacred and displaced. We stuck them in reservations where they'd have a chance to prosper by building casinos where Americans down on their luck could have, you guessed it, a second chance, by putting it all on red at the Roulette table. <br /><br />Rodman thinks Tiger will come back stronger than ever. I tend to agree. Probably a few more Blue Christmases for him in the near future though. As for his beautiful wife, Elin? The future for her is so bright, she's got to wear shades. She's going to cash in on a divorce settlement and will be rich for the rest of her life. From what I've read, she's very smart. Her decision to leave this troubled guy (and swing a mean golf club in the process) certainly speaks volumes about her integrity and class. She's gorgeous and will have more than her share of wealthy and eligible suitors. Once the emotional pain and embarrassment of this debacle wear off, she's going to come out in the pole position on all of this. (No pun intended. Okay, actually it was.) Maybe she'll go on Oprah, write a book, et al.<br /><br />And what of the Skanky Hoors Tiger passed the time with? Who gives a fuck? Those glorified escorts have gotten enough press already. Enjoy the 15 minutes. I'm not going to give them more air time in this obscure blog of mine. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">White Christmas.</span> Since I've resigned myself to the fact that the Earth will eventually go the way of Mars climate-wise and the human race is too selfish and shortsighted to do anything about it, I'm not going to spend a lot of time on this. I only want to address a single point. People who STILL claim that there is no global warming going on, in the face of an overwhelming amount of scientific evidence to the contrary, point to every stupid snowstorm or cold snap as irrefutable proof that our climate is operating the same as it ever did. What these idiots fail to understand is that extreme changes in weather, including snow and cold, are a part of the overall change in climate that has become more pronounced in the past fifty years. Overall the planet is warming at an alarming rate. That is measurable and undeniable. In the process, we're having more extreme weather changes than in recent history. As a kid growing up four hours north of New York City, I never remember having to wait until nearly January for the first snowstorm. We just got ours in New York yesterday, December 19th. It was so warm some days in November, it felt like California. I also don't remember the transition seasons being so similar. Spring and fall now are almost the same. The only thing that's different is the color of the leaves on the trees.<br /><br />So to hear fools like Senator Inhofe exclaim that everything is operating normally is not only wrong, it's unconscionable. The right wing likes to gnash its teeth over how the left is mortgaging our children's future by spending all this money on health care and TARP. Why don't they apply this same mentality to the environment? A huge fucking deficit and a national bankruptcy in 2140 won't matter a damn if we have a desert in Iowa and the East and West Sides of New York City are flooded with water. Speaking of water, if you think the wars we're fighting over oil today are bad, I'd hate to be a soldier fighting the Great Water War of 2180. Water is tomorrow's oil. And unlike oil, human beings need water to survive. <br /><br />If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope I'm reborn on an alien planet with beings who bear a more selfless, intelligent view of the good of ALL of their kind. Human beings? Earth? They've got a short shelf life. I really don't want to come back here, eat sand for dinner, and starve to death before I'm five years old.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Wonderful Christmastime.</span> Let's try to end this on a good note, shall we? As I've gotten older, the more I've come to realize that Christmas is more about family than anything else. It used to be about the prezzies. Not anymore. This year my family made the decision -- and a wise one I think -- to buy Christmas presents for my nephew and nieces rather than each other. As our family has grown, Christmas had become more stressful, unwieldy and expensive. This decision took the pressure off of all of us, at a time when we all have less money to spend. And it's brought us back to the real purpose of Christmas, expressing love for each other and spending time together. <br /><br />The thing I'm looking most forward to this Christmas is some quality time with my nephew and nieces, my significant other (our first X-mas together :) ), my parents, my sisters, and brothers in law. I'll enjoy seeing the kids open what I got them. And I'll enjoy experiencing another Christmas with my parents. My grandmother's death reminded me that we are all getting older. There are only so many Christmases left for us to enjoy in good health, with all of us here. My father and mother will not live forever, and there will come a time, hopefully in the distant future but who really knows, when my father's Alzheimers progresses to the point where he becomes so changed that the version of him we are experiencing is a pale comparison to the man we always knew. That time has not yet come, but it will, sadly. <br /><br />One thing I love about photography is that it is one of the only ways we can capture a moment in time in this life. A picture freezes time. It takes us back to a moment in our past, a feeling, a place. By looking at a picture, we're able to taste it again, albeit in a less intense way. <br /><br />That's all I want this Christmas. To freeze time, if only for a day or two. To share memories of Christmases past and make new ones with my family. To share my love with them and let them know how I feel about all of them. That's enough for me. That's all I need. It's all I want.<br /><br />So... to all of my readers, who have stuck by this blog in the face of more intermittent entries, where I sometimes go weeks without an entry due to work and other commitments, I want to thank you for your loyalty, for continuing to read and exchange your thoughts with me. My sincere best wishes to all of you and to your families for a safe and Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year in 2010.<br /><br />T.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-76447320866118546652009-12-04T15:58:00.005-05:002009-12-04T16:11:06.354-05:00FF - Attention Walmart Shoppers a/k/a Why I Shop OnlineIt's that time of year again: Christmastime!!! A time for gathering with family, nestling next to an open fire (or air conditioner, in these days of global warming) with your loved ones, drinking egg nog and reminiscing about Christmases past. It's also a time for SHOPPING for that special someone on your Christmas list. And no one does shopping, no one does CHRISTMAS shopping better than America. With Christmas ads now bombarding our airwaves as early as Halloween, here in America, we can't effing WAIT for the buying to start! Think the economy is a problem? No. Friggin'. Way. <br /><br />Check this shit out from Black Friday 2009:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jo58xkaADzc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jo58xkaADzc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Just look at these animals (enjoy the slo-mo and keep an eye out for the lady whose wig falls off)!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aeSgBL7gpAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aeSgBL7gpAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Ah, the holidays, how I love them so.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-55576327643621077732009-11-07T10:42:00.020-05:002009-11-07T11:40:05.481-05:00Utah PicsMeh - I've been working too much lately to do anything I feel like doing, including writing. So, Blogger's lousy picture software notwithstanding, here are some of my favorite pics from Utah, in what feels like a lifetime ago, to try and remind me what leisure time feels like. All rights reserved, of course. : ) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtJCmdU09I0LU4GsheU4RHESuJldwedoTPZ4zCc_NIfaBVjCWtR23LyDtLAws_0UUPE-nBsTy6QT7hJsrYFOMsKMdhV19KRVCIszzT0Eeei25pGiYlWSu8Auod4tWQW4yjCvU-g/s1600-h/JeepArches.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtJCmdU09I0LU4GsheU4RHESuJldwedoTPZ4zCc_NIfaBVjCWtR23LyDtLAws_0UUPE-nBsTy6QT7hJsrYFOMsKMdhV19KRVCIszzT0Eeei25pGiYlWSu8Auod4tWQW4yjCvU-g/s320/JeepArches.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383561532986539986" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTw33dOsWsKjFZWtKCJ2QSb8RkkU4urwy3pqUVV7SkmEbbnOJEJKgu6LVO8BxQe4Az6ewdGTeDyZQlRkBj3NhU-GMshA88Wi-rR-Wlt44ODnvDIv7bfzTc9GGiEqmO9ORjlCk56g/s1600-h/Delicate+Arch4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTw33dOsWsKjFZWtKCJ2QSb8RkkU4urwy3pqUVV7SkmEbbnOJEJKgu6LVO8BxQe4Az6ewdGTeDyZQlRkBj3NhU-GMshA88Wi-rR-Wlt44ODnvDIv7bfzTc9GGiEqmO9ORjlCk56g/s320/Delicate+Arch4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383561520735662994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxK4xcRLQa6USW_WGDOGMAmuQAo2C-jxqK1DOIA4uJ4QKc2pAa3ho0DSljS8LFcSlCBK1-PV731zYd2f64DnjrtgNhF3bzCoBdweB1LoOwSp1TZBhHfamr_OBXgfBT3_lTIPjaYw/s1600-h/XRoad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxK4xcRLQa6USW_WGDOGMAmuQAo2C-jxqK1DOIA4uJ4QKc2pAa3ho0DSljS8LFcSlCBK1-PV731zYd2f64DnjrtgNhF3bzCoBdweB1LoOwSp1TZBhHfamr_OBXgfBT3_lTIPjaYw/s320/XRoad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401396850027802002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJakxOiSCGwRapYrCCigKe9h5Sr-CHJujgJiSsr9-8Dd8OWNvf8OAv2FO2CChOE6T0Fg7a_d_sDTJgwChcJjz5ozky63TUet_2SzjYpnjWGPIu3ReyDsK3RqySVb7nv1LGmEsMgA/s1600-h/HoleArch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJakxOiSCGwRapYrCCigKe9h5Sr-CHJujgJiSsr9-8Dd8OWNvf8OAv2FO2CChOE6T0Fg7a_d_sDTJgwChcJjz5ozky63TUet_2SzjYpnjWGPIu3ReyDsK3RqySVb7nv1LGmEsMgA/s320/HoleArch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401397939712391490" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVCajmCK3d4blmJwVt9wPRIdO4Mdthzuk-d4bROveddtU-gJTLblG6-DFCbPSbReDZRBj3kGN-opPcgs_R7GYXvzyiOgkTN6y2_jbm9OoxOpZK5w52WF7YczUYCmx07eTrKJgcA/s1600-h/GirlsMesa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVCajmCK3d4blmJwVt9wPRIdO4Mdthzuk-d4bROveddtU-gJTLblG6-DFCbPSbReDZRBj3kGN-opPcgs_R7GYXvzyiOgkTN6y2_jbm9OoxOpZK5w52WF7YczUYCmx07eTrKJgcA/s320/GirlsMesa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383561516441197458" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWoc-jOCyTLhE3AfFmFgd3bCdbAjO0cv6P8OM9A3EpmE-cE1hY2HFddrtEW49TiPFyExOZLluvkvCI07q-9XhPnl8H8bZhjEUfowLulDXDTe6Q3k7oKhV4Z2SJ83HbmGUlukt9w/s1600-h/CragTree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWoc-jOCyTLhE3AfFmFgd3bCdbAjO0cv6P8OM9A3EpmE-cE1hY2HFddrtEW49TiPFyExOZLluvkvCI07q-9XhPnl8H8bZhjEUfowLulDXDTe6Q3k7oKhV4Z2SJ83HbmGUlukt9w/s320/CragTree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383561511631816386" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcrljyFGtqOw02HcLxn3iYFo-FWaohHrA5aHLovj5yokON8F70FBZTKXjRDfrIXzfEN_8zMKEpFJ2tIEboB_srxS4oiF24OY9rR1tmzmHE0eVpDYdc_nqcWc0jN805n4ek-CQ8g/s1600-h/ACBranches.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlcrljyFGtqOw02HcLxn3iYFo-FWaohHrA5aHLovj5yokON8F70FBZTKXjRDfrIXzfEN_8zMKEpFJ2tIEboB_srxS4oiF24OY9rR1tmzmHE0eVpDYdc_nqcWc0jN805n4ek-CQ8g/s320/ACBranches.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383561496263311362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQ8HGl-tUXrDn8jdZ5AlhFFv20BbgVuhIqE8v4gwra223tPgJ2uNKBxuk3ndA6P9HK6kqocEc71K2xZOPwHVUKG87azr_uOkRep2tIAzDLmYozlY6L07CvDoZlIBJ2_OQGWnA8w/s1600-h/Adrienne2Canyonlands.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIQ8HGl-tUXrDn8jdZ5AlhFFv20BbgVuhIqE8v4gwra223tPgJ2uNKBxuk3ndA6P9HK6kqocEc71K2xZOPwHVUKG87azr_uOkRep2tIAzDLmYozlY6L07CvDoZlIBJ2_OQGWnA8w/s320/Adrienne2Canyonlands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401394210272858578" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru6S_ereEdPlWR-ESa7ZMcF0udlCf8uYHuP9yOM33cgBBni1Wou1MP0yDMMmdEmyLfsapGU4HPWtwfnT-WGUapuZIKR3g0gYASQJzaokEM0b7YVNKOTHtC80WrRm7z4WW096lTQ/s1600-h/Hand.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru6S_ereEdPlWR-ESa7ZMcF0udlCf8uYHuP9yOM33cgBBni1Wou1MP0yDMMmdEmyLfsapGU4HPWtwfnT-WGUapuZIKR3g0gYASQJzaokEM0b7YVNKOTHtC80WrRm7z4WW096lTQ/s320/Hand.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401394531375172434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G9lqyK8UO1rOalyk858ro7o438sdhlEjTZgfpgn_e8p74q9byfFsG5GxQChqhVeg6HoXZVJDb14NiKESpCo9nJLVmrAm-m0HfE3EbFoAMLWJnkmUp1mkfbG0wz3YOpucWxTvkg/s1600-h/AdrienneDriving1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G9lqyK8UO1rOalyk858ro7o438sdhlEjTZgfpgn_e8p74q9byfFsG5GxQChqhVeg6HoXZVJDb14NiKESpCo9nJLVmrAm-m0HfE3EbFoAMLWJnkmUp1mkfbG0wz3YOpucWxTvkg/s320/AdrienneDriving1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401400588834573426" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt1ZQMvV14FrFgdDbUaR8Xc0F6rW2Ax27ebIaKVPotU2o9VhTjPX3VnH06VOBhCjGSo6BCyIaTGcGJuigTNXHzR6-rQjHrNrp_9oOyyhhQtCBmX4yvzqq-wcsw4DpUXeXtWRsgw/s1600-h/MV5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt1ZQMvV14FrFgdDbUaR8Xc0F6rW2Ax27ebIaKVPotU2o9VhTjPX3VnH06VOBhCjGSo6BCyIaTGcGJuigTNXHzR6-rQjHrNrp_9oOyyhhQtCBmX4yvzqq-wcsw4DpUXeXtWRsgw/s320/MV5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401401284840613650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Vngx6dOxe9QSOA_yzfVFfHzVqp_wR5CmfVDpN05YlHCSq4P-QPBT17WBW4J0gwGadCPwxvk5q_FO8c0cAcX7kdvSlIU31Q-NHxhKlF2jrbWhY4YqJ7PITOmZb655MKHRo34mEw/s1600-h/ManonHorse.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Vngx6dOxe9QSOA_yzfVFfHzVqp_wR5CmfVDpN05YlHCSq4P-QPBT17WBW4J0gwGadCPwxvk5q_FO8c0cAcX7kdvSlIU31Q-NHxhKlF2jrbWhY4YqJ7PITOmZb655MKHRo34mEw/s320/ManonHorse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401394853118985298" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaVsjv_WitYNmcIl9UIkmjwAap2TQDQHVdfH7dgf6EDzfrJYHVsPWfoCVK9ouV0C3ZQoKcrLEvrWlx7ZkugdjjP9JoTQ0al3_kofZniAt41crs0Cj4TL8IsnNiiarD4Y6QTHiOw/s1600-h/Lizard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaVsjv_WitYNmcIl9UIkmjwAap2TQDQHVdfH7dgf6EDzfrJYHVsPWfoCVK9ouV0C3ZQoKcrLEvrWlx7ZkugdjjP9JoTQ0al3_kofZniAt41crs0Cj4TL8IsnNiiarD4Y6QTHiOw/s320/Lizard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401395016019283154" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pYAz4ptoevyXTAiEYlBW1QsYojRfhBU5yy1KRJTA2Dsd-1WjGUeWRLJ5wqZGX5RJvPyXZBBXUEzSI0_l60psZRXOd4wihNBMuKlgKjxN0ljhUdVFrvMaAgzSFuFI55ycmDapJA/s1600-h/Whoa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pYAz4ptoevyXTAiEYlBW1QsYojRfhBU5yy1KRJTA2Dsd-1WjGUeWRLJ5wqZGX5RJvPyXZBBXUEzSI0_l60psZRXOd4wihNBMuKlgKjxN0ljhUdVFrvMaAgzSFuFI55ycmDapJA/s320/Whoa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401395512009173202" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwMZev2iIdsaEEFHZxuAWTxCzDUgVedD1pcJqn3SZlBymjQjP7VjTqNF2gsIZdNUppeaLQifUdZP12jMvJNSUQ8zvTsUDE5x1OAbLLrYOk4Hp63R6T6zsTTIdVnA1Hgs-IWIkGQ/s1600-h/SlotCanyon1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDwMZev2iIdsaEEFHZxuAWTxCzDUgVedD1pcJqn3SZlBymjQjP7VjTqNF2gsIZdNUppeaLQifUdZP12jMvJNSUQ8zvTsUDE5x1OAbLLrYOk4Hp63R6T6zsTTIdVnA1Hgs-IWIkGQ/s320/SlotCanyon1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401395796663469602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3OkDLpwbDslESJbu1yHDFD5d4X7NTKvOU9vF1VaZIjQ6yKxDCZpTkNMNH_J8JNhmhiAmEVj6iU6NJQZn0Il0x4saslQLzks3dSfCpFpzP2WkgEsjRp-hl2ttRgu6NOW38c7wPw/s1600-h/BlackTree.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3OkDLpwbDslESJbu1yHDFD5d4X7NTKvOU9vF1VaZIjQ6yKxDCZpTkNMNH_J8JNhmhiAmEVj6iU6NJQZn0Il0x4saslQLzks3dSfCpFpzP2WkgEsjRp-hl2ttRgu6NOW38c7wPw/s320/BlackTree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401397605572197618" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgVm7-pnIlPIvE9_D_j_aZN-PdvpvavdjqikOkCB9el3C3sIfJqWSoMOxDXuYZEmqPq8EgyqnOVEdJwFwpwLdFvJYzvHNoR0vwU2PEZfiv97xhcuzhQpTrSSvth3z4albNYnffw/s1600-h/TopRocksBryce.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgVm7-pnIlPIvE9_D_j_aZN-PdvpvavdjqikOkCB9el3C3sIfJqWSoMOxDXuYZEmqPq8EgyqnOVEdJwFwpwLdFvJYzvHNoR0vwU2PEZfiv97xhcuzhQpTrSSvth3z4albNYnffw/s320/TopRocksBryce.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401399399761059410" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHthaI7nU413wTNpQOv2BDwWw6tpuDSoQdHB0UtN55g2S0HUa8ACIo0SCkZOhTwllnWnY2VH5sv5QrQ1_uFjEUvxb1lauh5Qe8fSKwo_FpGTL6eOF6kxq8Sju5AOUn4teTqR8a4g/s1600-h/BryceTop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHthaI7nU413wTNpQOv2BDwWw6tpuDSoQdHB0UtN55g2S0HUa8ACIo0SCkZOhTwllnWnY2VH5sv5QrQ1_uFjEUvxb1lauh5Qe8fSKwo_FpGTL6eOF6kxq8Sju5AOUn4teTqR8a4g/s320/BryceTop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401399711795028354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-RODcmWOctF7jFFWbYJ2vL7erJJqthQbf-5Oic4BuouiH7Lab0IBNk3iJ9Ux6MwpqzL-uLyB-RUrHxncDjgeMBWz2tvssWyGB2DAIo1-kje0pnx8LFYoAMFFtzcgYYpxge5PQw/s1600-h/Turnbacks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-RODcmWOctF7jFFWbYJ2vL7erJJqthQbf-5Oic4BuouiH7Lab0IBNk3iJ9Ux6MwpqzL-uLyB-RUrHxncDjgeMBWz2tvssWyGB2DAIo1-kje0pnx8LFYoAMFFtzcgYYpxge5PQw/s320/Turnbacks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401400238660646514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDrx3YHesUnKB9SPwY8fLF6mPwbP0gNA0qoiw94VH7ixw-9JIIygKk8WnNWBfjRw8KV3cqbEFGD2zXt2txy2WBXOLumkjOtfYhVKYt8C5oWvaA8exjPwsE_8qwW9E6vnsiSpzdg/s1600-h/SunriseMV.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDrx3YHesUnKB9SPwY8fLF6mPwbP0gNA0qoiw94VH7ixw-9JIIygKk8WnNWBfjRw8KV3cqbEFGD2zXt2txy2WBXOLumkjOtfYhVKYt8C5oWvaA8exjPwsE_8qwW9E6vnsiSpzdg/s320/SunriseMV.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401401603736826130" /></a><br /><br />Okay, I didn't take these, but they make me look more cool (at least in my own head), so I'm adding them anyway:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKD9ysWohAyT4BNDzQlJWo5J_S4gB8lG-55rSjXAmlrNnm_AlDW04U5HviNqeby-tY_KU0t2g5iz9rymeTqnbmTArV6nOV55llMipAxRpRVxGj2y0gFSAPlUsCOeAvm46go7v3vQ/s1600-h/TimEdge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKD9ysWohAyT4BNDzQlJWo5J_S4gB8lG-55rSjXAmlrNnm_AlDW04U5HviNqeby-tY_KU0t2g5iz9rymeTqnbmTArV6nOV55llMipAxRpRVxGj2y0gFSAPlUsCOeAvm46go7v3vQ/s320/TimEdge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401396118642959730" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTn2NNB3BiCT4zrJvXXRNL-Dh7yADrNh7pixtFmX177RWU9si-qdbRxpW5Dl_oVpfMkReIGD3zNt9GCJllI6P6nK51kbTpaW-3jdL1mVP7n43OgSYVA2QC8fl9pStDLuNo3tLYig/s1600-h/TimSafari.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTn2NNB3BiCT4zrJvXXRNL-Dh7yADrNh7pixtFmX177RWU9si-qdbRxpW5Dl_oVpfMkReIGD3zNt9GCJllI6P6nK51kbTpaW-3jdL1mVP7n43OgSYVA2QC8fl9pStDLuNo3tLYig/s320/TimSafari.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401396611458507906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OeUgPK5jK053JSSR9NMzqOw4e7uZdsYA9UiExhY7-W00B5xCUa0HFeql9qHnkiTRX39BkthGA4yGCKj0QILw0MKNJxoSuVGCD9NmjffQyfPNaPuiI8ql_p9_lWAee_7QeYmjxQ/s1600-h/TimBryce4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9OeUgPK5jK053JSSR9NMzqOw4e7uZdsYA9UiExhY7-W00B5xCUa0HFeql9qHnkiTRX39BkthGA4yGCKj0QILw0MKNJxoSuVGCD9NmjffQyfPNaPuiI8ql_p9_lWAee_7QeYmjxQ/s320/TimBryce4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401397242894528578" /></a>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-48500139534253936682009-10-24T10:58:00.011-04:002009-10-24T16:56:04.239-04:00Saturday MourningsI don't know why this happens on Saturday mornings when I'm alone. I'll be sitting at my computer, surfing, playing Scrabble on Facebook. Inevitably, I'll go to iTunes and try to hunt down a new song that I discovered the week before that I can't live without. This week it's "Sing" by Peter Joback and Kate Pierson (of B-52s fame) - I think it's a cover of an old 60s song. I'll play the song and all these memories and thoughts of people who have died will fill my mind. Anne, Matt, my Uncle Saverio, my grandmother, images of them in my head, like grainy old film. Anne's preoccupied scowl on Melrose Avenue. Riding on the back of her motorcycle. The way she hung upside down on the jungle gym when we were seven while I practically wet my pants. Matt's freckles. Matt's cackle. Matt lying in his coffin with too much lipstick. My uncle's voice on the phone the day before he died. His beard. His smile. The way he rubbed his teeth with the plastic wrapper from his cigarette box when he was done eating. My grandmother's bear hugs. The ten dollars I got from her every birthday. The indecipherable half-English, half-Italian scrawl she wrote in my birthday card. Her pizzelli she made herself and wrapped in tinfoil and fed us whenever we'd come to visit. How we'd have to have my father translate half the things she said because we couldn't understand a word. <br /><br />I'll think of how they're all gone too early, how their lives ended. How they're not here anymore, how I miss them. How my parents will, one day too soon, not be here anymore. And I'll get profoundly, immeasurably sad. <br /><br />Life sometimes seems quite pointless, doesn't it? Death makes it so. What do we all live for, what's the purpose of it all when inevitably, there will come a day when it's all over and we're not here anymore? When the writer puts a period at the end of our sentence? We try to find meaning for our lives in our jobs, our children, our families, our pastimes, but in the end, the reality we cobble together for ourselves disappears like a mirage that was never really there. <br /><br />On Saturday mornings, when I don't have a certain someone and her dog to keep me company, that's how it sometimes feels to me. I don't say this because I'm depressed, so don't get all squirrely on me and advise me on the merits of Prozac. I'm fine. I'm just telling you about a feeling I sometimes get. Instead of letting it pass like a bad fart, I thought I'd examine it for a change. Problem is, the second I try to do that, it's gone. It's like trying to dissect a zen koan. "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Already, even as I type these words, it's floating away, away, away, into the air. The sad feeling never lingers long. It comes upon me like a wave and rolls away just as quickly. I guess I'd compare it to an emotional orgasm. It's short, quick, and cathartic. Once I squeeze a few tears out, I instantly feel better. But why Saturday mornings? And why is it music, a certain kind of heart-tugging song that brings it all out, if ever so briefly? That unconscious, she is a strange bird! <br /><br />Here's the song and video I was talking about. <br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/z4t6MgdXqWo&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/z4t6MgdXqWo&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />The song is beautiful, to me, anyway. A guy, his girl, and their dog, driving through the Arizona or Utah desert, encountering the angry, the frustrated, the dispossessed, and changing their reality in the simplest of ways. It's a choice they make. And it all starts with a song. It's a simple thought: Just Sing. Singing is I am here. Singing is I exist. The connections we make, the people who touch us, whether they are alive or not. There's a purpose to it all, even if we have no idea what it is while we're here. They keep driving, all the way to New York, all the way to Brooklyn. The exhaust coming out of their car is a happy green and blue. You see how loud and angry it is, how mean the people are to each other. A dog gets squirted on. But a song and people change. Even in the Big City. It ends with a Hark the Herald Angels trumpet player, a man on his apartment roof blasting it out while his cat watches. Mission accomplished, our protagonists drive back West, towards the desert. <br /><br />If only we were capable of that kind of patience and love. Maybe that's why we keep ourselves so busy all the time. Easier to go to work, write that brief, clean the apartment, make lists, check them twice, plan playdates, drive kids to karate, go antiquing, meet that deadline, go shopping, have a glass of wine, zone out to Survivor, or read <span style="font-style:italic;">People</span> magazine to see what hijinks Lindsay Lohan has gotten herself into. A busy mind is an occupied mind, n'est-ce pas? And an occupied mind frets not, at least on the surface.<br /><br />But is an occupied mind really living, or just passing through? Getting to life's core and purpose means opening up and exploring your guts. It means making yourself a little vulnerable. People don't like to do that. Too much exposure. Too much downside. That's probably why the world is the way it is. No one really knows who they are and why they're here. No one really understands why our priorities are so fucked up in the short time we spend here and we spend so much precious time going through the motions of life. And if we stop the blur for a second, if we bother to think about who we are and what we're doing, the amount of time that's already passed and what we've lost and missed can induce a stark melancholy. <br /><br />That's why some of us have Saturday Mournings.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-55956447223247895422009-10-21T12:12:00.007-04:002009-10-21T20:09:02.057-04:00Stupid Human Tricks<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOwiMKJHKHfLAY2VfWKHHnT7Wzv-3D3JNn9BeTKtTp-AhRQW4BixRWNKRyLjeEGUWRWbH46cZOxF3oGqrulj6CeHfHF-ICa8J0-6-xa8SqQBNDG98eomorVIXaR3vdq3KguC6wg/s1600-h/UIzAkPXVmWI6T0METuw%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 212px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOwiMKJHKHfLAY2VfWKHHnT7Wzv-3D3JNn9BeTKtTp-AhRQW4BixRWNKRyLjeEGUWRWbH46cZOxF3oGqrulj6CeHfHF-ICa8J0-6-xa8SqQBNDG98eomorVIXaR3vdq3KguC6wg/s320/UIzAkPXVmWI6T0METuw%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395088740714923378" /></a><br />I've been wondering lately, what motivates some people to do the stupid things they do? Not the everyday, small, stupid things, but the big, macro, showstopping, get the world's attention stupid things. The kind of stupid things that make headlines, that grab your eyes and draw them to the television. The kind that go international and have people in Kamchatka discussing around water coolers the following day.<br /><br /><strong>First up, Balloon Boy.</strong> You watched. I watched. We all watched that jiffy pop inflatable soaring through the blue Colorado sky to parts unknown. What was it? Where would it land? Was there a boy in there? Could there be? Would there be? Did he fall out? Was he clinging for dear life inside of the popcorn basket? I stopped at the plasma t.v. in my office lobby when I was getting coffee and watched the balloon fly for a few minutes on CNN. People were gathered round. There's a kid in there? Waaaaa? <br /><br />Of course, it turns out there was no kid in there, and the whole thing was a hoax perpetrated by a bad-acting, irresponsible, pathetic tool of a father to get himself on television. How sad a person is Richard Heene? What kind of father puts his wife and children at risk and makes liars out of them all so he can get famous? Who teaches his sons to lie on purpose, all for celebrity? We'll see what comes of his boys. My parents have their faults, but they are honest people who value truth and integrity. I once got the spanking of my life for lying to my mother about eating a banana when I actually threw it away. Things are a bit looser in the Heene household.<br /><br />Heene got what he wanted: he's famous alright. Infamous. Right up there with Octomom. But I'm sure he feels bad celebrity is better than no celebrity, eh? All those fake tears, the pretend kicking of the deck chair when the balloon took off. That floppy moppy hair-do, circa 1994. He'll go down in the anals of American history frauds. Or is it annals?<br /><br />Ironically, the only honest one in the family, Falcon a/k/a The Falconer -- the kid who told the truth to Wolf Blitzer in his little Yoda voice -- HE's the one getting ridiculed. For the rest of his life, Falcon will forever be known as Balloon Boy. He'll be 22, graduated from college, interviewing for his firt real job, and he'll say "Hi, my name's Falcon" and they'll say, "Falcon, Falcon, where have I heard that name before? OH YEAH, YOU'RE BALLOON BOY!" Hey, maybe it'll open a few doors for him, who wouldn't want to meet Balloon Boy if given the chance? Sure makes a resume stand out, dudn't it? <br /><br />But it's the parents who should be ridiculed and bitchslapped here. It's Richard and his Yoko Ono wife who should suffer, not the kids. Makes me pine for the old days of tar and feathering. The Heenes would be prime candidates. Yet, I have trouble understanding their motivation, even now. Are people really so fucking desperate to become famous that they'd do something like this? What is in the mind of these people, that's what I want to know. What makes them tick? What defective gene, or millimeter of frontal lobe are they missing that they'd undertake something so dumb, so obvious, as this? Did they really think they wouldn't get caught? I mean, shit, didn't Henne know there was, at best, a 50% chance he'd come out of this looking like a total ass and facing criminal charges? Apparently not.<br /><br />I don't think we've seen the last of them. I think this whole uproar is a part of the Heene Plan to Get Famous. It has to be. He's going to take his licks, maybe do some jail time, ride out the investigation by Child Protective Services, then he'll do a big mea culpa, maybe write a book, do a tour, appear on Oprah, say he's sorry, and THEN get that reality show he's been dying for. By then everyone will have forgotten how much of a dick he is and he'll just be an entertaining footnote in celebrity history, like John and Kate (or is it Joe and Kate? I never watched that fucking show.) And he'll get the last laugh on us. Oprah, Barnes & Noble book tour, The Surreal Life, Celebrity Rehab. It's the American way. <br /><br />The above aside, you know what the real tragedy is here? The next time some poor kid gets stuck in a balloon for REALS, no one's going to believe him. And he'll just float away into oblvion and no one will care. Thanks to the Falcon who cried wolf. Thanks to the Heenes. <br /><br /><strong>Then there's those sweat lodges. </strong>Three people just died in one this week. I guess the concept is you go into this tiny teepee house that's covered in tarp and rocks and they heat it up inside until it gets so hot you want to pull your skin off, and you just stay in there and sweat to the oldies for like 40 hours, until you start having hallucinations, pass out, or drop dead. Where do I sign up?? Found out tonight that the leader -- another one of those pie-eyed cult loonies -- had people fast for two days before they went in and then told them to "push past" the feeling they were going to die and to not fear death. MMMMMkay. Looks like that worked out real well, for three people at least.<br /><br />The Koresh types are well documented. They're everywhere. Poople who want to lead sheep. Maybe they're frustrated politicians, teachers, priests, I don't know. I know enough about them, the cults of personality; what's curious to me is the sheep, those who frequent cults and sweat lodges? Who are these people? The lambs of God, the easily led, the easily slaughtered? Where do they come from? Why are they so fucked up? Why are they so willing to bare their necks to the vampire? That's what I just don't get. I go through life, working, living, sleeping here in New York, thinking life sucks on some days, thinking it's great on others, trying to keep a balance where the positive comes out more often, and making the best of this mediocre existence. But somewhere else, people are deciding that they'd like to plant their New Age ass in a sweat lodge and risk death for a few perspiratory hours. And for what? Enlightenment? By who? Some dude with a mesmerizing stare and a God complex? Heaven's Gate. The Jim Jones cult. The David Koresh cult. So many people willing to surrender their autonomy, their money, their critical thinking, their self-worth to crackpots. Misguided doesn't even come close to describing this. But if you're going to go out, I can think of better ways to "get closer to the Creator" than sweating to death like a bunch of pigs in a stinky teepee or burning to death in a Waco, Texas compound. Maybe Jim Jones had it right. Try the Kool-Aid.<br /><br /><strong>My final example of questionable human behavior that is beyond me are these Oath Keepers. </strong> I just watched their leader joust with Chris Matthews on Hardball. The gist of this new set of rightwing, paranoid wackjobs who have been coming out from under rocks ever since Obama got sworn in, is that they want members of law enforcement and the military (gun-toters all) to take sworn oaths that they will not do certain things -- allegedly unconstitutional things -- if called upon to do so by The Fedral Gubmint. The Fedral Gubmint is dangerous and bad. The Oath Keepers think the Fedral Gubmint is on the verge of declaring martial law, sticking Americans into concentration camps, and taking away their civil rights. We're on the verge of Armageddon, folks! 2012 is almost here! So let's have all our law enforcement types take a sworn oath, shall we? It's right out of the movie Valkyrie, purportedly designed to prevent a dictatorship from taking root if uh, something should happen, for instance, if a bunch of right wing nutjobs should take a shot at the President and certain members of Congress and try to start a uh, REVOLUTION.<br /><br />Now, most of us normal people understand that such a scenario is unlikely in our country. We trust our leaders who are too busy sucking the capitalist teat to try to overturn the apple cart and impose a dictatorship. The Oath Keepers beg to differ. Much like Richard Henne, who thinks the world is ending in 2012, they see trouble on the horizon, and it just so happens to have coincided with the first-ever election of a progressive black man as President of the United States. <br /><br />Purely a coincidence, mind you. <br /><br />Didn't hear about the Oath Keepers too much when Bush was President for those eight years. Didn't see too many people taking AK-47s to political rallies back then either, after 9/11, or when Bush started two wars and recommended an expensive, government-run bailout before leaving office. But now, surprise surprise, they're everywhere. When liberals organize, they have a sparsely attended rally in Washington, smoke weed, wear tie-dyes, and go home. Okay, maybe they break a few windows during G-8 summits. Why is it when rightwingers organize, it always involves guns, conspiracy theories, and paranoia? <br /><br />I for one think these people and those like them forebode something very bad for this country. The kooks are stirring. They're armed, dangerous, and restless. They don't like Obama or Democrats running things, even though the Constitution they claim to support is what allowed these people to take power in a fair and free election. What we have here is a burning cauldron of bad circumstances, indeed. Foreign terrorist trying to kill Americans. Homegrown terrorists plotting something equally as bad, if not worse. Timothy McVeigh, one man, managed to destroy a huge federal building and kill dozens of people in a single April afternoon. What could a dozen do? A hundred? A thousand?<br /><br />Regardless of what you think of Obama and his policies, if something nefarious should happen to him or to other leaders, Republican, Democrat, or Independent, it would do serious damage to this country's psyche. How big a daze were we in after the Kennedys were killed? How long did that last? Sometimes I think we're still not over it. A similar fate for Obama would destroy the hopes and dreams of millions of Americans (those that are left after the tanked economy and the TARP bailout run their course), and call in to question the validity of this so-called democracy of ours. If a person some people don't like can't be fairly elected and take power, then what we have here, folks, is nothing more than a Banana Republic.<br /><br />Of course, the ensuing chaos of such an event would start some serious ass rioting in certain parts of the country, the type of chaos that play right into the hands of the Left Behind and Oath Keeping crew, as well as the equally pathetic anarchists on the left. They're just looking for a way to validate their doomsday scenarios. What we need to do is keep an eye on these paranoid freaks and counter their attempts to instill fear with a bright spotlight and a heavy dose of reality. That's what Chris Matthews was trying to do last night. <br /><br />But I wonder. Who thinks like these people? Who sees a threat around every corner? Lives in fear and propagates fear? And why do they always wear black, like Johnny Cash impersonators? Maybe if they mixed in a little yellow or fuschia, they'd lighten the fuck up and start living in reality. <br /><br />They're everywhere - people behaving badly. Focus on it too long, you start to see a disturbing, completely fucked up world with all kinds of weak-minded, needy, and paranoid people doing irrational things. Maybe it's time I moved to Nepal.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-38280958129686701292009-10-12T20:43:00.002-04:002009-10-12T20:47:47.953-04:00Tears UndergroundI saw a woman crying on the subway a few days ago. She was sitting across from me, diagonal, so I had a clear view of her without being obtrusive. She looked to be in her mid to late 30s, with reddish blonde hair. She looked like the outdoorsy type, the kind of woman who might live in Iowa or Indiana. Her face was puffy and red. Her eyes were wet. She was looking down, not like she was trying to hide her tears, but just enough so that it wouldn't be so obvious. She was impossible to miss though. The car's harsh fluorescent lights hid nothing. Her eyes would crinkle, her mouth would contort, and she'd dab her face with a Kleenex. I watched and watched.<br /><br />Naturally, I wondered why she was crying. I looked to my right and another woman was looking at her too, probably wondering the same thing as me. I began conjuring scenarios. Was she just dumped? Did she get fired? Did someone die? Did her dog get hit by a car? She wasn't telling. I examined her clothes, as if they might provide a clue. She wore some form of spandex or a leotard, the kind of outfit women wear to yoga or the gym (before covering their asses with a long sweatshirt). She couldn't be coming from work dressed like that, so it was unlikely she was just fired. Probably not dumped either. If he did it in person, at a restaurant (my preferred locale for severing ties), she wouldn't have worn gym garb to the hangman's noose. Of course, he could have done it via email, or text.... I made a mental note. The way she was crying though, portended something more dire. A death in the family, perhaps? A close friend? Had she just received some bad health news? Maybe she'd just come from the doctor where she was told she has herpes. Or HIV. Or cancer. The macabre possibilities grew in my mind, each outcome worse than the last. But she wasn't sobbing the way I'd expect if she'd been given that kind of news. And she probably would have taken a cab, not the subway home. Then again, I'd gotten at 42nd Street. Who knew where she'd come from? Maybe she'd been sobbing up at 125th Street, and I was just catching the tail end of it a few stops later.<br /><br />I wanted to go up to her and ask her: "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do? Why are you crying?" I felt sorry for her. No one likes to see someone hurt or upset, even a stranger. It's rare to see tears on the subway. It's such an intimate space. We were only a few feet apart. It may as well have been a football field. You don't ask strangers such things. Still, I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. I needed to know. <span style="font-style:italic;">What could it be? What caused this? </span> I got off at the next stop, Union Square. The crying woman went on her way to parts unknown. South, to the bottom of Manhattan. Possibly into Brooklyn. Two New York City strangers crossing paths.<br /><br />I hope she feels better today.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-57400623526636627132009-10-02T17:13:00.003-04:002009-10-02T17:17:34.184-04:00FF - To the Ping Pong Victor Go the SpoilsI love ping pong. One of my fondest memories of childhood is playing against my father on our old ping pong table in the garage. It had as many dead spots as the old Boston Garden. Dad pulled no punches. He had a special paddle he'd been using since college. One side was sandpaper, the other was rubber. Dad played me hard and forced me to win on my own merit. That took several years. When I finally did beat him, this is how it felt:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hJn5L1nrkL4&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hJn5L1nrkL4&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Have a great weekend everyone!Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-23144889745986025432009-10-01T01:20:00.002-04:002009-10-01T01:37:14.878-04:00Some Things I've ConcludedIt's easier to stay in shape in Utah than New York.<br /><br />It's not all Don Draper's fault. <br /><br />Organized religion is for the foolish, victimized, and/or lazy.<br /><br />Spring and summer are for photography. Fall and winter are for writing.<br /><br />I occasionally delude myself.<br /><br />Obama could cure cancer and Boehner et al. would say he destroyed the drug industry.<br /><br />Suggesting therapy to anyone over 55 is an exercise in masochism.<br /><br />Few people act without the threat of a lawsuit.<br /><br />Fewer people settle without the threat of significant attorneys fees and/or compensatory damages.<br /><br />No job is perfect; the best one can hope for is to like it at least 75% of the time.<br /><br />Buy used, don't lease.<br /><br />2 is better than 1.<br /><br />The right dog is better than the wrong woman.<br /><br />We live in a world of strict duality.<br /><br />I subscribe to too many magazines.<br /><br />That crick in my neck isn't going anywhere.<br /><br />Too many people like the sound of their own voice.<br /><br />Too many people have sex tapes.<br /><br />Too many people annoy me.<br /><br />Anger is an en-er-gy.<br /><br />The words "blast" and "attack" are overused in the news media.<br /><br />It's not about Republican or Democrat or the good of America, it's about making money and staying in power.<br /><br />If I've got nothing nice to blog, don't blog at all.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-40446201706561871342009-09-17T23:30:00.013-04:002009-09-18T11:15:16.870-04:00Things I Think<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6HNLzoksPLsr4kYW2UYG6cTLVBinY1hTMKatD2U6hQmGY3Wr30KoJODCOTbbgem_Yhukex80xFxNIRU4ertNJP0wIHB1cav12LrqH8FuoRYpOP0czijkr-7oT-6qJvILsR7nZw/s1600-h/2979328686_5e34ec6677.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6HNLzoksPLsr4kYW2UYG6cTLVBinY1hTMKatD2U6hQmGY3Wr30KoJODCOTbbgem_Yhukex80xFxNIRU4ertNJP0wIHB1cav12LrqH8FuoRYpOP0czijkr-7oT-6qJvILsR7nZw/s320/2979328686_5e34ec6677.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382661156082493858" /></a><br />It's been awhile since I did one of these...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Workplace violence.</span> That's what they're calling the case of Anne Le who was found murdered in a Yale laboratory last Sunday, the day she was supposed to get married. A few days later they had a "person of interest." Today they arrested him, Raymond Clark III. Turns out he worked with Le in the lab studying mice and other animals for science. He strangled her and stuffed her body behind a wall in the basement section of the lab. Why? We have yet to learn why. Some people are saying he was a control freak. There are rumors of some kind of dalliance between the two and she was getting married in a few days. But the thing that's got me thinking about this case is the security cameras. They caught her going in and not coming out. They caught EVERYONE going in that morning. Putting aside the stupidity of Mr. Clark's deciding to murder someone in a place that you needed three swipes of a security card to enter, thus severely limiting the number of individuals who could have done the deed, the thing that gets me is that with all the cameras we've got watching everyone's every move, it's getting very hard to get away with murder these days. We're living in Orwell's world. Now. Today. The only thing Big Brother hasn't mastered yet is how to quickly review all that film and analyze it at supersonic speed so decisions about guilt and innocence can be made instantly, a la Minority Report. But he's a quick study and he'll learn. People are so willing to give up their privacy for "security" that they don't mind more and more cameras. In fact, raise your hand if you're RELIEVED when you hear that a camera was used to capture a murdering fuck as it was in this case. I know I usually am. But deep down I know nothing comes for free. There's a cost associated with all these cameras, we just haven't seen it yet. We're almost there though. It's just around the corner. In the meantime, any sociopath with a brain in his head is going to have to learn that he's got to kill people in the country, not the city. Fewer cameras there.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Obama-as-Hitler.</span> Obama-as-Hitler sneaks up on you. You don't expect to see it, so it's a little shocking at first. There's Obama's face, usually cast in black and white, for that 1941 Invasion of Poland effect, and just above his upper lip is that little mustache, the wisp of black hair, a style that Hitler ruined for all men forever. Invariably, the sign on which Obama's Teutonic/African visage appears is wielded by an overweight, middle aged white male or female with a right wing axe to grind. I have yet to see a black person or Jew carry an Obama-as-Hitler sign. Or anyone in Birkenstocks. This all begs the question: Why the comparison to Hitler? Weeeeellllll, you see, people are ANGRY! Vewwy angwy with Obama. No, no, not because he initiated a holocaust against a specific group of people, or targeted a minority and tried to erase them from history. Obama hasn't done THAT (yet). No, he hasn't invaded France. Or even Belgium, though he's up the ante in Afghanistan and Pakistan. We don't blame him for those, since they were started by someone else. But what he's trying to do is ALMOST as bad as these things. Bad enough to justify that little mustache. What is it? I'll tell you. (<em>But I have to do it really quietly because if he finds out, I may get arrested and thrown into a socialist gulag. He's.... It's almost too hard to say. He's.... He's trying to force universal health care down everyone's throat</em>.) THERE, I SAID IT. I DON'T CARE WHO HEARS ME NOW! He's going to balloon the deficit! He's going to tax everyone! He's going to turn America into a SOCIALIST COUNTRY!!!!<br /><br />He's just like Hitler. <br /><br />I ask you though. When it comes right down to it, who's REALLY more like Hitler? Obama, or the guy before him who started two major wars that have resulted in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people, and who locked prisoners of war up in internment camps where they were tortured for years? Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I've been reading about too many gruesome murders lately, but here's my latest stand on the death penalty.<br /></span> I'm for it. In extremely limited cases. Far more limited than those that exist today. I'd impose it in cases where a murder was committed under aggravated circumstances, as defined under each state's law and only when DNA or other evidence unequivocally demonstrated someone's guilt. In other words, I'd raise the standard to higher than beyond a reasonable doubt for the sentencing phase. Circumstantial evidence could not be used. The evidence would have to be direct and conclusive. I think that's a fair compromise. The upside is people like Garrido, Clark, and that sick fuck Hilton in Tennessee I think it is, of recent fame, would be fully eligible. I've said it before, some dogs are rabid and need to be put down. The same should be true for humans, who have far more freedom of choice than a dog.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Hofstra Non-Rape.</span> A couple of days ago, an 18 year old Hofstra University student alleged that 5 men, all black or latino, tied her up and gangraped her in a bathroom. They posted the pictures of these men, boys actually, all over television and the newspaper. The stereotyping began. Only one of them looked somewhat cleancut. The others looked a bit gang-y. I read the story when it came out then the comments on cnn.com. One of them said something along the lines of the following: <span style="font-style:italic;">"Oh, and they all just look so innocent don't they? I heard one of their mothers say he was the 'best' and I wanted to throw up all over my television. Sick bastards. They should castrate all of them, or lock them up and let THEM get gangraped in jail." </span> Strong words, yes. <br /><br />Turns out, however, that the girl was lying. There was no gangrape. The sex was consensual. She was forced to admit it to the D.A. when one of the participants happened to have, you guessed it, a cell phone video of part of the incident that clearly showed that the girl was not being raped or forced to do anything against her will. The charges against the boys were immediately dropped and they were released from jail. (Thanks to those cameras again.) All the more reason why we shouldn't let our Blink! instincts trick us into assuming five gang-y looking boys who find their mugshots on television are automatically guilty of doing what they've been accused of doing. But we'll keep on doing it. We're all too hardwired to stop. But maybe, just MAYBE instead of assuming, we'll think, just for a split second, "Let's wait for the evidence, let's wait a couple of days before we assume anything." That's what I did with Mr. Clark in New Haven. Now I hope he gets his just desserts.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Tough decision. </span> Who would I rather punch in the face, Glen Beck, Bill O'Reilly, or Anne Coulter? Tough call. I think I have to go with Beck. For right now. But maybe if I get them to stand really close together...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Things I could give a fuck about: </span> Kanye West, Kate & Jon, Joe Wilson, swine flu, town halls, <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />WTF is up with Ernie Anastos? </span><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PdnXYWSa56w&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PdnXYWSa56w&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Then this:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vQTd0t-Pxck&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vQTd0t-Pxck&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />The guy's got farm animals on the brain - too funny. But really, who doesn't let a slippery curse word out by mistake every now and then? I'm actually surprised it doesn't happen more often on the news. If I were a newscaster, I'd pull a Ron Burgundy every night and go out with something like: <br /><br /><strong>"You stay cock-y, New York City!"</strong>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-82891847544312614072009-09-15T18:33:00.003-04:002009-09-15T18:40:07.442-04:00Patrick Swayze, RIPAnother celeb gone this summer - I can't remember any other period where so many famous people have died so quickly. I'll remember Patrick from Red Dawn (Wolverines!!!), Point Break, Ghost, and of course, this little gem:
<br />
<br /><embed src="http://www.ebaumsworld.com/player.swf" allowScriptAccess="always" flashvars="pageurl=http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/80561179/&file=http://media.ebaumsworld.com/mediaFiles/video/701527/80561179.flv&mediaid=80561179&title=SNL Chippendales Dance Off&tags=&description=Classic SNL skit with Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze in a dance-off audition for Chippendales.&displayheight=325&backcolor=0x0d0d0d&lightoclor=0x336699&frontcolor=0xcccccc&image=http://media.ebaumsworld.com/thumbs/video/701527/80561179.jpg&username=In_Da_FACE" wmode="transparent" loop="false" menu="false" quality="high" bgcolor="#ffffff" width="425" height="345" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" />
<br />
<br />R.I.P.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-29820064851331274002009-09-05T16:11:00.008-04:002009-09-05T17:04:52.766-04:00Ut-ahhhh<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSP9-oz2ceZxhMxzL0eb7hy9zfGb6BO7YnBL-MWuTsBOWrroFIyq7zX9txFUvIqUBpmE110kUVk4dOYikt1XazI35dP0MI2nMC4hw-er22LAf0jKJVwB3JOGrm7LsKLphZSycQQ/s1600-h/utah_ref_2001%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSP9-oz2ceZxhMxzL0eb7hy9zfGb6BO7YnBL-MWuTsBOWrroFIyq7zX9txFUvIqUBpmE110kUVk4dOYikt1XazI35dP0MI2nMC4hw-er22LAf0jKJVwB3JOGrm7LsKLphZSycQQ/s320/utah_ref_2001%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378089246345739266" /></a><br />Logging in from Utah, where I've been on vacation for the past week with AC. This is the first "active" vacation I've ever done and it's been a lot of fun, though I'll be taking home with me an unwanted souvenir of sore legs and an inflamed perineum from all the driving we've been doing. (Thank you, corn starch!) We flew into Salt Lake City last Friday (not much of a city, IMO) and promptly drove 260 miles to Moab, the birthplace of mountain biking, near the bottom of the state. Moab kicked our ass. We hiked Canyonlands, Arches, drove through the La Sal Mountains, and tried our hand at mountain biking, which did not go as planned. We got up at dawn, after having registered for an intermediate trail with "Moab Adventures" the day before. It turned out to be ridiculously hard. My paved rides in Brooklyn did not prepare me for broken rocks, a steep, uphill climb on slickrock, or loose sand, which was nearly impossible to pedal through. I fell off the bike twice and once landed flat on my back. My partner in crime fell only once - she smartly got off the bike to walk it when she saw trouble ahead. If you didn't know this, falling off a bike on rocks really hurts. Fortunately, I had a padded backpack to break my fall. AC was not so lucky. She wiped out right on an elevated section of slickrock and got a couple of nasty bruises. Seeing the trouble we were having, our 20-something guide, "Bobby," suggested we try an "easy" trail instead. We agreed, and he took us down the road a couple of miles, where he and I (AC had had enough mountain biking for awhile) did an 8 mile ride that was not as easy as advertised, but which was far easier than the hellhole we first selected and went off without a hitch. <br /><br />Utah is really a stunning place to visit. I can't do it justice in words. Soaring red rock, yellow and orange buttes, wide expanses of desert, lots of room to breathe, virtually no traffic, and all the activities you could want to do. I took plenty of pictures, and will post some when I get back. After Moab, Arches, and Canyonlands, we visited Monument Valley, where many westerns (and some non-western) movies and commercials have been shot. It's on a Navajo Reservation, near the Arizona border. Then we drove to Lake Powell, home of the Glen Canyon Dam, to rest our weary bones for a couple of days. Then on to Bryce Canyon, which was mind-blowingly beautiful. We did a 6+ mile hike down into the canyon and then back up. There was this one pass called "Wall Street," which looks a little like the one in New York, except instead of concrete buildings, there were huge red rocks. Bryce was amazing. And as I write, we are sitting in a resort in St. George, waiting for our room. Here we plan to receive a pair of badly needed massages before leaving in two days for Vegas, where we'll fly home to New York. <br /><br />All in all a great, though extremely tiring, vacation. I've never been one for doing "active" vacations - I'm more of a plant my ass on a beach or visit a foreign country kind of guy. But I have to say, this one's been fulfilling on a lot of levels. It brought out the mountain man in me (boy, was he neglected). <br /><br />One strange thing about this trip is that we've run into far more Europeans than Mormons. We saw a few Mormons in SLC, but since then, it's been all Germans, Italians, English, and a couple of Belgians. Everywhere we've gone, all I've heard is foreign languages or accented English. Bizarre. I never knew how popular this area was for Europeans, but I guess that dollar of ours still must be tanking. How times have changed. We also ran into a few New Yorkers escaping the hustle and bustle of city life. When you live in New York, as I do, an escape to wide open spaces now and then is definitely a necessity. Here, I've gotten up early, gone to bed early, and had days full of activity. Here, life doesn't seem to pass by as quickly as it does back home. It's quite nice, actually. When certain people heard we were going to Utah, eyebrows were raised. Utah?? Wha? But let me tell you, there is nothing better than having time on your hands, a car to drive, beautiful scenery all around you, and the open road ahead. It's been fantastic. And there's no better way to get to know someone than take a 10-day trip with them. Alone. With no escape. Not an easy thing to do, but so far, so good. Knock on wood, salt over the shoulder.<br /><br />Reality, T-minus two and counting.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-47195363213835675532009-08-25T01:12:00.004-04:002009-08-25T09:27:48.526-04:0041 is on the Clock<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOvM7hwHLjj2pZBOK9vVk2lcP4Ia12mwp93Plnsf3LR2QY3-kNYtbS8OHoOik9QwL_s48NI0lpKS7Fr3zM9-Q76geQFMMA-318ajBh4G_tK6UeQdZF1XS6Joy6aZOanudyR19XQ/s1600-h/2455250752_c2e5fb3a5f.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibOvM7hwHLjj2pZBOK9vVk2lcP4Ia12mwp93Plnsf3LR2QY3-kNYtbS8OHoOik9QwL_s48NI0lpKS7Fr3zM9-Q76geQFMMA-318ajBh4G_tK6UeQdZF1XS6Joy6aZOanudyR19XQ/s320/2455250752_c2e5fb3a5f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373766681389154034" /></a><br /><br /><br />I'm 41 today. Happy Birthday to me. My birthday was enough to make me post for a change. Sad I've been so absent, but this summer has been one hectic mofo with work picking up and all the other stuff that's gone on. Strange number, that 41. The "1" still makes it seem small. Small enough to forget that I'm now on my way to 50. Fifty. WTF? Okay, I have time to consider 50 later. For now, let's talk about 40, and the year that was. Last year at this time, I was definitely in crisis mode, not a severe one, not completely debilitating, but most certainly disorienting. I don't know what it was about turning 40, but it threw me. 40's a big fat number. 40 could not be denied. I got used to being 40 around December, when I was in the Caribbean with my family. Actually, I don't think I got used to it as much as I forgot about it. And that's what you do when you get older, you forget how old you are. I never felt 40, whatever 40 was supposed to feel like. And I don't feel 41 now (or won't in 12 hours, the time of day I was actually born). I'm still immature in some ways, still anger too easily about dumb things people do. I still go to bed too late, get up too late. Childish things I still find funny. I laugh just as hard as my 8 year-old nephew about most jokes involving shit, poo, pee, farts, or any combination thereof. Is that a 41 year-old trait? Who's to say? <br /><br />Forty was a year of transition, an eventful year for me. I started the year off having a falling out with a good friend over a situation that at our age, just shouldn't happen. Soon thereafter, I found out that my father is in the early stages of Alzheimer's. I spent time last fall helping my mother track down bills that my father never used to let her see and locate assets and bank accounts that only he knows about. I reviewed the living wills and trusts that my mother had an attorney prepare for both of them. Last fall was fun! I took my first ever cruise and visited St. Thomas, Antigua, Tortola, and St. Lucia for the first time. I boycotted a dolphin swim, to the bemusement of my family. I flew to Nebraska and back in the same day. I spent two weeks on jury duty in Brooklyn and got to experience a different slice of the world. I lost another childhood friend too soon. <br /><br />I also had to face certain physical realities. I bought my first pair of loafers the other day. Loafers are the style of shoe I've always steered clear of because I thought they were goombah, lazy ass shoes meant for old men. But I found a couple of nice pairs on Zappos and they actually look pretty good. (I still won't do penny loafers or those ugly ass tassel kind....oooh, I get the shakes just picturing them.) My feet are thanking me. The hair? As previously mentioned, it's going, going, gone and it ain't coming back. It zigged, so I zagged. You have to go with the flow in life. I'm shaving it close now, and you know what, my melon isn't nearly as deformed-looking as I thought it would be. I dare say I like it better than having lots of hair. Very low maintenance, and I've always been about convenience. My back is another story. If I don't stretch that bitch out and hit the gym at least once or twice a week, it tightens up on me and makes me susceptible to the most absurd of home injuries, like straining a muscle when I reach for my Blackberry alarm clock in the morning. I know my back is going to give me trouble from here on out, but on the whole, I actually feel pretty good.<br /><br />The most significant event of the past year, however, is that I met someone special without any clue that it would happen. Seven months later, she's unlocked a door and shown me a peaceful, stable side of life that I never believed was meant for me (or never seemed to want). My life is a lot richer now, and most days, I have to admit, two is better than one. I say this not to make it sound all strawberries and cream, but what I mean is that when you care for someone and know they care for you, and when they give as much as you give, and you're there for each other and both on the same side, it's amazing how much it opens you up as a person. It's like my Grinch heart has grown to three times its prior size and the tiny birdcage it was in snapped like a dry twig. I've tapped into reservoirs of patience that I didn't know I had and it's made me a calmer, happier person (if for no other reason than to keep HER calm and happy). That's a joke! Okay, so maybe I haven't become funnier. Every night now, no matter how late I get home from work, I water the flowers and plants that she bought for my balcony. And a few nights ago, when she wasn't feeling well, I walked her dog (Jersey Adler a/k/a Jer Jer) all by myself and even picked up his five, saddle brown poo logs (a quantity I'd never seen him emit before and which I'm sure he intentionally saved for me) for the very first time. All of this is baffling because I actually don't mind doing any of it. Me, a hermit by trade, doesn't mind having a woman and her dog in his one bedroom apartment with increasing regularity and doesn't mind picking up that dog's shit (once in awhile).<br /><br />Something's amiss. Or very right. Better late than never, that's what this new 41 year-old says.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-111881942404723332009-08-21T12:09:00.004-04:002009-08-21T12:14:48.325-04:00FF - Why Doesn't This Ever Happen on the J/M/Z?Gonna post something substantive real soon, but for today's FF, I ask, why this get-naked-on-the-subway fun doesn't ever happen on MY train? <br /><br /><script src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/js/2.0/video/evp/module.js?loc=dom&vid=/video/offbeat/2009/08/20/moos.naked.new.yorkers.cnn" type="text/javascript"></script><noscript>Embedded video from <a href="http://www.cnn.com/video">CNN Video</a></noscript><br /><br />It's been so damn hot in New York lately, I'm seriously thinking about doing this myself, just to cool off.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-72560424452533722822009-08-14T17:45:00.005-04:002009-08-14T18:07:07.584-04:00FF - Slip N' Slide<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyOIEU5V9oDHqhv-Jqjtqi2ZA-iotMUVhBb1tCmY8H_T_w493w-loNyu9Wo1kINsMgMpgqibfsESPw0sQ67lqVkhNOyc909wKXZf5fp1vBlB8l55qEBFWHBaiaUDjhY1dRyH0QUQ/s1600-h/slip-n-slide%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyOIEU5V9oDHqhv-Jqjtqi2ZA-iotMUVhBb1tCmY8H_T_w493w-loNyu9Wo1kINsMgMpgqibfsESPw0sQ67lqVkhNOyc909wKXZf5fp1vBlB8l55qEBFWHBaiaUDjhY1dRyH0QUQ/s320/slip-n-slide%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369943146645967266" /></a> Shee-yit. It's f'n August and I haven't been to the beach ONCE this summer. Except for that trip to Montauk in June. What the hey?? I actually prefer the beach in winter when everyone's freezing their tits off, but still, I can't believe the summer is almost gone and I haven't ventured to the beach at all.<br /><br />Which regret has spawned daydreams of summers past, when I was carefree and had all the time in the world. Remember Slip N' Slide? Just a thin sheet of plastic with some water on it for you to slide on. Watch out for those rocks! Lay that baby down on the wrong part of the lawn, and you'll have a raspberry on your boo-tox through Christmas. And they were always too short, like 10 yards and that's it. The world craved more!<br /><br />In memory of the Slip N' Slide and endless summers past, for today's FF, I present a video or two of people showing some SNS love. <br /><br />For these first two, you really have to love American ingenuity. Why go out and buy some fancy expensive yellow plastic when you can make your own in privacy of your own abode? <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DMggpCsw91M&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DMggpCsw91M&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This one is borderline insane but looks fun as hell.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oyYy1VMB_Cg&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oyYy1VMB_Cg&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This one's for the boys (ahhhhh summer).<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1FRLDuwaCVM&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1FRLDuwaCVM&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />This one I so WANT to believe is real.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3wAjpMP5eyo&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3wAjpMP5eyo&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />This last one is just stupid. And that's where we'll leave it.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Lw7Ef-89SsM&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Lw7Ef-89SsM&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-48362031246125627622009-08-11T15:38:00.005-04:002009-08-11T16:29:42.349-04:00Photophelia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_OWzB7rKGkUG_DArnTRUA9to2lOT7bLo9WKH-2e6tEn7RQOPzNLTcS-WuHm2feO7CaboJACL_jt1ThYrRrvfe_ETvhlAwfq8mEPErz4-0-h9WBFyrwdRZqxtiIyhQJPtaL6nlA/s1600-h/7bfaf_olympus_ep1_review-550x372%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_OWzB7rKGkUG_DArnTRUA9to2lOT7bLo9WKH-2e6tEn7RQOPzNLTcS-WuHm2feO7CaboJACL_jt1ThYrRrvfe_ETvhlAwfq8mEPErz4-0-h9WBFyrwdRZqxtiIyhQJPtaL6nlA/s320/7bfaf_olympus_ep1_review-550x372%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368793103640470450" /></a><br />Well, it appears that photography has supplanted writing as my passion du jour, at least for now. I don't know if it's a passing phase or what, but all I've felt like doing lately is taking pictures and learning about photography. I think it may be because I'm a time-obsessed, visual person, and there's something about capturing a moment in time and an image that compels me that I really like. Writing, on the other hand, takes so much more time and thought and preparation, unless I'm letting loose and just writing whatever the hell is in my head. Maybe I need to do more of that. Writing is also solitary, it takes you out of the world, puts you in a room by yourself with your own thoughts. The way I'm built, I get entirely too much of that, on a daily basis. With photography, you're out there in the world, on the street, documenting everything. It's more socially immersive than writing. I like that. <br /><br />That said, I'm still an amateur. I never took a photography class in college and never worked with film, so I'm kind of learning as I go here. I never realized how F'ing complicated real digital cameras are if you don't want to let the camera do it all itself, what with that white balance and exposure and F stops and metering and ISO and shutter priority. And don't even get me started on Photoshop! I've had it a year; I bought it thinking I could just follow the instructions on the DVD. Not even close. The instructions, if I could find them, wouldn't help me at all. So I've been hunting and pecking and self-learning. Last week, I finally bought a dumb it down book to learn how to use it. The book is like 900 pages. Learning Photoshop is a bit like trying to learn calculus again. <br /><br />While most people are happy doing the ol' point and shoot, once you've used a real camera and seen the results, it's hard to go back. I want more control. I want to get better. I haven't felt that way about anything since I took my first Gotham Writing class three years ago. Another disadvantage of using a real digital camera is that DSLRs are heavy as hell. I have a Nikon D200, which I bought before my trip to Japan in 2006, and it weighs over 3 pounds when you put a lens on it. Because it's so heavy, it's not easy to carry on my way to work every day for those spur of the moment shots around the city. In fact, I discovered that even though I live in one of the most photographed cities in the world, I was only taking pictures when I decided to make a day of it and lug out the D200. I wasn't taking any candids or fun shots, which is half the fun of photography. So a few weeks ago, I dropped some cash on the brand new Olympus EP-1, which is a little bigger than a point and shoot, but it comes in this new format called Micro Four Thirds, which is halfway between the compact point and shoots (Nikon Coolpix, Sony Cybershot) and a big DSLR like my Nikon. That's a picture of it up there. It doesn't have the huge sensor or mirror of my DSLR, but the sensor is way bigger than the miniscule one on a point and shoot. More importantly, it has the capacity to change lenses, which you can't do with a P&S. While clothes may not make the man, a good lens can make the camera. <br /><br />I don't have any EP-1 shots ready to post yet, but will do so soon. In the meantime, attached for your viewing pleasure, are some of my favorite pics from this past summer using my Nikon. As I said, I'm still learning, and unfortunately, Blogger's software washes them out quite a bit when I post them on here, but you'll get the idea. (Click on them to see full size).<br /><br />This is Jersey a/k/a "Jer Jer," A.C.'s French Bulldog, hanging at the dog run on the Upper East Side. Jersey has brought a great deal of fun into my life (not as much as A.C., but close). He enjoys rubber bones, marking his territory in strange lands, doggy treats, Del Frisco's porterhouse leftovers, wrestling, doing the Indy 500 around the apartment, cooling off his undercarriage, and sleeping in my bed. Notice his wagging tongue, which practically blurred out the entire picture, and the Red Sox collar that I bought him. Love that dog. He's going to get his own post one of these days.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkgd8Ui6cVjAUX8Lv2LjvjZ85FBF_vcjquk8W7rAMX4NJ2b5Ki7D0rm2iTilY1h3wiUVHsSaMY4fIN2xL-5z7SFRkdqF-FZHkWPQczWWwiS721dHtvNddPrZb6gRUP_42oRuG5w/s1600-h/Jersey+4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHkgd8Ui6cVjAUX8Lv2LjvjZ85FBF_vcjquk8W7rAMX4NJ2b5Ki7D0rm2iTilY1h3wiUVHsSaMY4fIN2xL-5z7SFRkdqF-FZHkWPQczWWwiS721dHtvNddPrZb6gRUP_42oRuG5w/s320/Jersey+4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368567812435587842" /></a><br /><br />Lighthouse & flag @ Montauk, last June.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVDACtam8Km3igMqFmHvbImzw6-m0UFq5rLyFY7bXYFeLux2jgHN9KonggceWb8vyZqPy1G3nNN8vqsY8CZpYmNK8dlpCM3_2PX-5XgdJIYmLcPbMuEa6hRQzusUvNrFm63sGMQ/s1600-h/Lighthouse+%26+Flag.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHVDACtam8Km3igMqFmHvbImzw6-m0UFq5rLyFY7bXYFeLux2jgHN9KonggceWb8vyZqPy1G3nNN8vqsY8CZpYmNK8dlpCM3_2PX-5XgdJIYmLcPbMuEa6hRQzusUvNrFm63sGMQ/s320/Lighthouse+%26+Flag.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368569328540378242" /></a><br /><br />New Yankee Stadium, my first visit when they played Boston in May, back when the Red Sox were still winning. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1qYKV4RPC7EfZ313g6yTnzfsDwhl5XgAnj8_1DdNS0XBb-2Pidqst9KeiA_hEILwGTWKJUn9OGhfElFJTGxr-XO6bOWiKtMQPDn2sUNFlPTQ7lBTRk9l5Th1FEdjz9neo0NNdQ/s1600-h/Warmups.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1qYKV4RPC7EfZ313g6yTnzfsDwhl5XgAnj8_1DdNS0XBb-2Pidqst9KeiA_hEILwGTWKJUn9OGhfElFJTGxr-XO6bOWiKtMQPDn2sUNFlPTQ7lBTRk9l5Th1FEdjz9neo0NNdQ/s320/Warmups.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368571997707388994" /></a><br /><br />Montauk pier.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM__SehfhAYA2-LYModkNdHwQrEdgsc8yUiRfFY5wJeCExRg9oJhIKM8OE8CUQcx4cBnM4YVL2kk8Ntq0eAUwG9NgaOCdoKRTxJAyhdpTTsoLNVXIHnKeKZ9qdiQk92TAU3jNGEw/s1600-h/Pier+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM__SehfhAYA2-LYModkNdHwQrEdgsc8yUiRfFY5wJeCExRg9oJhIKM8OE8CUQcx4cBnM4YVL2kk8Ntq0eAUwG9NgaOCdoKRTxJAyhdpTTsoLNVXIHnKeKZ9qdiQk92TAU3jNGEw/s320/Pier+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368572621867468546" /></a><br /><br />Ortiz kid. Exposure's off, but I still like the picture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGdaaae2bUTOXniM5L7SD6qQN6zUTKohjLrllPCWNW1EB3cXKhNKPcVLaOrHikNzTUdbtrrFCWfBXpz-iwkKZFTu0-snXl9FsZtVW8Eu8nlvhQiJgupsm4XuWd3JWEv9uaeCz35w/s1600-h/Ortiz+Kid.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGdaaae2bUTOXniM5L7SD6qQN6zUTKohjLrllPCWNW1EB3cXKhNKPcVLaOrHikNzTUdbtrrFCWfBXpz-iwkKZFTu0-snXl9FsZtVW8Eu8nlvhQiJgupsm4XuWd3JWEv9uaeCz35w/s320/Ortiz+Kid.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368570119292220466" /></a><br /><br />Yankee Scoreboard.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmX7uE7t8fccSEaPX768_rK763zf7DgNQNatg1xZNbW1aY_U3DBCH6k-jUu-fDYZ1lvnray1F2qpnUX1Fo_N-GVyQBxPEQCMXFBVTGQxeALQrrbgGLPRSOnLaGDXx8Qlkdv8xDw/s1600-h/Yankee+Scoreboard+1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLmX7uE7t8fccSEaPX768_rK763zf7DgNQNatg1xZNbW1aY_U3DBCH6k-jUu-fDYZ1lvnray1F2qpnUX1Fo_N-GVyQBxPEQCMXFBVTGQxeALQrrbgGLPRSOnLaGDXx8Qlkdv8xDw/s320/Yankee+Scoreboard+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368571502318011442" /></a><br /><br />Chambers Street subway stop. I couldn't duplicate this if I tried. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvfcduk7IlpEJuB9cAsrl5XxgnZII8XMCJeBh9ZjzkEGujdRSkZ_OQOrN5Yplx0YQtZImAWs7j-7iNI6gTaggifpVBahvQZk2Z2sGRwOfPRxnnaz7H5LG0QuZ-p_z67F2-bBHOA/s1600-h/J+Train+Chambers+Street.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvfcduk7IlpEJuB9cAsrl5XxgnZII8XMCJeBh9ZjzkEGujdRSkZ_OQOrN5Yplx0YQtZImAWs7j-7iNI6gTaggifpVBahvQZk2Z2sGRwOfPRxnnaz7H5LG0QuZ-p_z67F2-bBHOA/s320/J+Train+Chambers+Street.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368570640351925970" /></a><br /><br />Williamsburg sunset. So purdy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLDa-LoP6eV5P-jCNBOzyXgFnV1xfxkvGtHEeKRGZgNzEq7tjS2wOhJVZMQZg4KE_FNTQ1b1y_cgfQ5-93Lygs_4FhRk0Fj6_Tf3pZ2NusVyYuY9Uf_XIffHPH4UY83GQ0fchaQ/s1600-h/WBurg+Sunset.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGLDa-LoP6eV5P-jCNBOzyXgFnV1xfxkvGtHEeKRGZgNzEq7tjS2wOhJVZMQZg4KE_FNTQ1b1y_cgfQ5-93Lygs_4FhRk0Fj6_Tf3pZ2NusVyYuY9Uf_XIffHPH4UY83GQ0fchaQ/s320/WBurg+Sunset.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368571142443645842" /></a><br /><br />A&W sign near Lake Placid. Great friggin' burgers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53i5dF1WS7GuQTw7YFTUysPdf5KttMdGFTRoNK_10hyphenhyphenUXye-XjhoLCZX9k2xtN8ExHRFjYi0DFrLflq1jlAalYfvYLwj-VRTgf6eF4BdUp9-RdvNoNl6I7MPQyi2AqK2gM1Ayrw/s1600-h/A&W.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg53i5dF1WS7GuQTw7YFTUysPdf5KttMdGFTRoNK_10hyphenhyphenUXye-XjhoLCZX9k2xtN8ExHRFjYi0DFrLflq1jlAalYfvYLwj-VRTgf6eF4BdUp9-RdvNoNl6I7MPQyi2AqK2gM1Ayrw/s320/A&W.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368572977345616962" /></a><br /><br />Ski jumper #1. We were tooling around the ski jumps, checking them out, and all of a sudden we saw these guys practicing, in the middle of summer! So I whipped out the camera and tried to capture a few of them in the air. It wasn't easy and impossible to use an autofocus when they were moving like that. These are the only ones that came out halfway decent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOgCv4jYkWKLJWSOlPWQXqKyBwdnW8nZZT5v-mXZrnBMLANvO5YJF-VZQv_t1ziZuI3kb2tlr2Zt5euENs4GR0UDhzHRWC8GYLbiWfWqYvNTfI8gCBlriEh2XBUCiH-3CyOzWEQ/s1600-h/Jump4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCOgCv4jYkWKLJWSOlPWQXqKyBwdnW8nZZT5v-mXZrnBMLANvO5YJF-VZQv_t1ziZuI3kb2tlr2Zt5euENs4GR0UDhzHRWC8GYLbiWfWqYvNTfI8gCBlriEh2XBUCiH-3CyOzWEQ/s320/Jump4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368573275657420722" /></a><br /><br />Ski jumper #2.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWFjAHqBTTUI3XKs23UHW3NjZ8TzwGin8ucWYkyndMh9e9R1rMimVOa7l-fo7RgPRJbo4ZJg6tliZubXQItPIYZYKajRTUM5Cpjy8-OwQek3pBgDcpkDELW6aA3yhGtVtmpB2Nw/s1600-h/Jumper5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZWFjAHqBTTUI3XKs23UHW3NjZ8TzwGin8ucWYkyndMh9e9R1rMimVOa7l-fo7RgPRJbo4ZJg6tliZubXQItPIYZYKajRTUM5Cpjy8-OwQek3pBgDcpkDELW6aA3yhGtVtmpB2Nw/s320/Jumper5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368573614940648114" /></a><br /><br />Ski jumper #3.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtl4LSrk0d0RN2H4FgF-CsoH-1IDslBr1h8Fi9QGGeH08-3Q_zVB5ZDdx4Y_fTrCl7xgTbF9YrJWDCC0EIuTCFvWqVgdS_af1BJ_hLqOBh9ZeLKpX0a_Ne-6IDyEVmVYeoEYLMw/s1600-h/Jumper7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPtl4LSrk0d0RN2H4FgF-CsoH-1IDslBr1h8Fi9QGGeH08-3Q_zVB5ZDdx4Y_fTrCl7xgTbF9YrJWDCC0EIuTCFvWqVgdS_af1BJ_hLqOBh9ZeLKpX0a_Ne-6IDyEVmVYeoEYLMw/s320/Jumper7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368575542514329602" /></a><br /><br />Wait. I didn't take this. How did that get in there?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQ4eJxOofynZdIc21ExaHJGFRhQeJ_Re5eYnj5f2BrvXyhthaxii_zT2dYCPPDM1vduucPQUarF2UV_JbGbZ__LGj2I4c8MGaUVMnh9AvpU4rQ3SaSq5QKTV7aTWrwQsBuYobDQ/s1600-h/Tim+Champ1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqQ4eJxOofynZdIc21ExaHJGFRhQeJ_Re5eYnj5f2BrvXyhthaxii_zT2dYCPPDM1vduucPQUarF2UV_JbGbZ__LGj2I4c8MGaUVMnh9AvpU4rQ3SaSq5QKTV7aTWrwQsBuYobDQ/s320/Tim+Champ1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368573883086223858" /></a><br /><br />On the ski jump. I just thought the numbers looked cool.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGFPWwL46UU6s1PlujEzxpoTrSirR0KSgZQXWWo-yilbcPL0h027gcdGKvJneJ0ybCcV-sxMg7szt0aXhzKlndzC4YIf8bbJldEnH-b6E5UmL2QQZpB8MPhWzW52MJVVIiXY5Xg/s1600-h/Numbers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWGFPWwL46UU6s1PlujEzxpoTrSirR0KSgZQXWWo-yilbcPL0h027gcdGKvJneJ0ybCcV-sxMg7szt0aXhzKlndzC4YIf8bbJldEnH-b6E5UmL2QQZpB8MPhWzW52MJVVIiXY5Xg/s320/Numbers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368574972661766706" /></a><br /><br />Fifth Avenue, looking uptown, late July.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz94NUtQNG2QjM8HkPj-Kj1vbadUXGqbbuZNbDlZlJvkTZWFKpUjOIHtNM8B4rkXe7MIBq4sZE_6apjtKZskwSmI8wrS7Aj_5K9jKiGzR__9uR39-_DkscI9zEwh8pcXb7q0RAEA/s1600-h/5th+Avenue2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz94NUtQNG2QjM8HkPj-Kj1vbadUXGqbbuZNbDlZlJvkTZWFKpUjOIHtNM8B4rkXe7MIBq4sZE_6apjtKZskwSmI8wrS7Aj_5K9jKiGzR__9uR39-_DkscI9zEwh8pcXb7q0RAEA/s320/5th+Avenue2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368575990690603362" /></a><br /><br />6th Avenue, near Saks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMgLc8L27TO1gMOkLSfaP-XDnGUnOcU6aQSauALAqudQtuA7pN272PTgkf5UIGkstRwuL8b4_5Vx-w2GmABftgPNP9AhcvREX1xV1kBn2FL8a9EvQN-lZ9CN4t1ml_9G0nuNcEw/s1600-h/6th+Ave2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMgLc8L27TO1gMOkLSfaP-XDnGUnOcU6aQSauALAqudQtuA7pN272PTgkf5UIGkstRwuL8b4_5Vx-w2GmABftgPNP9AhcvREX1xV1kBn2FL8a9EvQN-lZ9CN4t1ml_9G0nuNcEw/s320/6th+Ave2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368576248085358210" /></a><br /><br />Back to Yankee Stadium, Old Timer's Day game.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDOej1I88SQ7RG1hEfUZYWNK7EsbooyjXEAIqdQICO4YJsChRS9bY6xszvyYrdhQ8BTPkVW9Gpd_QhGbm-eynHTCDrSYiqQsqq6wMRuMUHICNa9PH39LETOSXH6SYSJCwwESc9g/s1600-h/Pitching.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDOej1I88SQ7RG1hEfUZYWNK7EsbooyjXEAIqdQICO4YJsChRS9bY6xszvyYrdhQ8BTPkVW9Gpd_QhGbm-eynHTCDrSYiqQsqq6wMRuMUHICNa9PH39LETOSXH6SYSJCwwESc9g/s320/Pitching.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368577737320199890" /></a><br /><br />Yankee Stadium from the subway platform on my way home. I really like this one.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgpoAJVsR19bFLQi7luW3Ep_B0y6-YAOoTBol9ln8YINRZRaDTw0V9vFoqMgX8SlilXY_kR3kriado26XjI3CvY36ormOFNlXt6kCF2emv3WMj4GQmxgkWN4aPp9Xbu1-uTtUTg/s1600-h/YankeeStadiumWhole.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgpoAJVsR19bFLQi7luW3Ep_B0y6-YAOoTBol9ln8YINRZRaDTw0V9vFoqMgX8SlilXY_kR3kriado26XjI3CvY36ormOFNlXt6kCF2emv3WMj4GQmxgkWN4aPp9Xbu1-uTtUTg/s320/YankeeStadiumWhole.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368578068452345938" /></a><br /><br />Chrysler Building. One of my favorites.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnGbC2pi7laDyHlrHWMaMqipI7QvkVTeKiIpUN6k2-CZpV0kGxAhuMnFenpUjOFYlg7qqnjNSc8vtNVQmtyHX717V0Qy-e_JqLlHFBTlwe7ujqVhldDo3ygPNtYs6Jtmy8V1u-Q/s1600-h/Chrysler2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 193px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRnGbC2pi7laDyHlrHWMaMqipI7QvkVTeKiIpUN6k2-CZpV0kGxAhuMnFenpUjOFYlg7qqnjNSc8vtNVQmtyHX717V0Qy-e_JqLlHFBTlwe7ujqVhldDo3ygPNtYs6Jtmy8V1u-Q/s320/Chrysler2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368576527828199010" /></a><br /><br />And last, but not least, my beautiful niece, with Dad in the background. I love the look on both of their faces.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DvzdkqaqVHH2VQe18Jh4QI2mnAg9SuuohFJ_x0OaZgTctC2-3purbeF7vQyW360T4T4KTkean0I7z1VePfSYWhg0x2QPiE4MNMTY1Wp7CuQclK14KiE5JPY6aiFCD6jUy1pnJQ/s1600-h/Ori.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5DvzdkqaqVHH2VQe18Jh4QI2mnAg9SuuohFJ_x0OaZgTctC2-3purbeF7vQyW360T4T4KTkean0I7z1VePfSYWhg0x2QPiE4MNMTY1Wp7CuQclK14KiE5JPY6aiFCD6jUy1pnJQ/s320/Ori.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368576891075253634" /></a>Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-26140909209122185242009-07-30T22:57:00.009-04:002009-07-31T19:06:32.975-04:00Dog Day Afternoon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCge4DA3P2t7EcjuvIrNB_p7Kb_v0nPknj-6GjoYwScDtMntOISE9HPBojcnD-iZQYW4G0RyBpd6yzLOT-ingQwjl6NpDv9jA3v1tG1C2Mf16IssWfFo0ceQb8h_h1EEz65NqLQ/s1600-h/up-dog_day_afternoon_3_lg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCge4DA3P2t7EcjuvIrNB_p7Kb_v0nPknj-6GjoYwScDtMntOISE9HPBojcnD-iZQYW4G0RyBpd6yzLOT-ingQwjl6NpDv9jA3v1tG1C2Mf16IssWfFo0ceQb8h_h1EEz65NqLQ/s320/up-dog_day_afternoon_3_lg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364466030828248082" /></a><br /><br />This is the part of summer I hate. It's gotten sweaty-balls hot here in NYC the past week or so. Too hot to make you feel like doing anything. So hot, in fact, that I'd rather be in my office working than walking the streets surrounded by scantily clad women. (Can I write that now? Will she get pissed? Guess I'll find out.) And writing about BEING hot is so lame, but I just walked home from the subway, and it's all I can think about. Woe unto me.<br /><br />If you've never been to New York, I can't describe for you how disgusting it feels to drag yourself into the bowels of the Brooklyn Bridge subway stop in the middle of 80% humidity and then be blasted in the face by a wave of impossibly <span style="font-style:italic;">hotter</span> air originating from God knows where. (Mercury, maybe?) For some reason that stop has no air conditioning, or even a fucking fan, and I have to encounter it every day on my way to work. "Bloody hell," as they say in the Olde Country.<br /><br />So where were we? Ah yes, The Dog Days. In the dog days of summer, a black Harvard Professor of African Studies gets mistaken for a burglar in his very own home. Then, when the cops show up and ask him offensive questions like "Do you live here?" and "Is there anyone else in the house?" and "Could you please step outside?" said black Professor of African Studies at Harvard gets arrested when he gets angry and starts acting all disorderly and shit. Problem: said professor is a personal friend of one Barack H. Obama, who happens to be El Presidente of Los Estados Unidos, and who, reportedly, is also African-American. Oh sights and wonders, what fun ensues! <br /><br />Without knowing all the facts, El Jefe Barack says at a press conference that the police acted "stupidly," and promptly immerses the country in another racial crisis. How many crises is that now? Let's see. We've got the Health Care Crisis. We've got the Economic Crisis. We've got the Iraq War Crisis. We've got the Afghan War Crisis. We've got the Illegal Immigration Crisis. We've got the War on Terrorism Crisis. We've got the Social Security Crisis. We've got the Bailout Crisis (though that's linked to the Economic Crisis, so it probably shouldn't be treated as a separate crisis.) If you're a conservative, you need to add the Socialism Crisis, the Government Gun Theft Crisis, and the Liberal Supreme Court Crisis. That's a lot of crises we're dealing with here in America. And now, throw on top of it all this silliness with Sgt. James Crowley of the Cambridge Police Department and Professor Henry Louis Gates of Haaaahvid University. <br /><br />If you're looking for my opinion on this -- and why else would you be here? -- my view is that Crowley was doing his job, but that Gates had a right to be pissed about being questioned as to what he was doing in his own house. But before I can fully judge these two gentlemen, it's necessary to keep a couple of things in mind. First, I'm not a cop and I'm not a black man, and I think the life experiences of both men in these respects were critical to what happened. <span style="font-style:italic;">Objectively</span>, I think Gates let his anger get the best of him and was unnecessarily hostile to a guy who, from all that I've heard and read, was just doing his job, responding to someone who called about a possible burglary. Crowley didn't know who else was in the house and he followed protocol. The caller referred to two people. I don't think Crowley said anything to Gates that warranted the reaction he got. <br /><br />So where did Gates' reaction come from, then? From his own experience as an African-American man in the 20th and now 21st Century, first of all. Who knows what he's been through in his life? Who knows what many law-abiding black men go through when the first thing people assume about them in a given situation is that they have bad intent? That must get old after awhile. And for someone to question his right to be in his own house, well, put that together with maybe one or two or three or ten shitty experiences with white people or cops in his sixty-plus-year old life, and maybe then one can begin to comprehend his overreaction. I'm not saying that what Crowley did was wrong, but that his questioning and intrusion may have been PERCEIVED by Gates as racist. And if you've read <span style="font-style:italic;">Blink</span>!, you know that this situation presented a classic case of instantaneous perception run amok. It wasn't about objectivity; both men were going on their instincts -- instincts that have racial edges to them -- and this is where it led them. Gates' reaction was OBJECTIVELY unreasonable, but SUBJECTIVELY, I can understand it, though I don't condone it. If any white person had acted that way with Officer Crowley, said those things about his mama, you have to think that they would run as high a risk as Professor Gates of being cuffed and stuffed. But maybe not. Maybe Crowley would have been more patient with a white person, not because he's a racist, but because of the primal, instinctive biases we all carry around, the ones that <span style="font-style:italic;">Blink</span>! talks about. And maybe Gates would have been more patient if he was confronted by a black cop, instead of a lily white Irish guy like Crowley. <br /><br />I also think that Gates' potential arrogance came into play here. He's a Harvard Professor who has a personal relationship with the President of the United States. You don't think that gave him some intestinal fortitude in this situation? That it contributed to Gates' thinking that he could shoot his mouth off in a situation where most people would have shut up as soon as it was clear that he belonged there? I think Gates' arrogance and self-perception had as much to do with this incident as his race.<br /><br />As for Crowley, I think he was too touchy himself and could have Gates' tirade go, even with all the bile and disrespect coming out of Gates' mouth. If he was that pissed off at the end of it, he could have warned Gates once more and written him a nice fat ticket. Hit him in the wallet. To arrest someone in their own house when they were minding their own business before the cops showed up, seems excessive to me, and unnecessarily escalated an already hot situation. But maybe someone else got in his face recently. Maybe he was annoyed to be there at all. Maybe he heard one too many insults from a civilian that day. Or that week.<br /><br />And how about the neighbor? The concerned citizen who reported the incident in the first place? I originally thought she was a racist busybody, but the facts don't bear that out. I listened to the call she made to 911, and she actually came off pretty sane. She didn't live there and called on behalf of <span style="font-style:italic;">someone else</span>, an old lady in the house who thought she saw two people breaking into Gates' home. On the call, she expressly said that it could be nothing, that it could be people who live there who are having trouble getting inside. On the other hand, before you go and call the damn police, don't you observe awhile and try to get some more information? Or maybe you go out there and see what's going on. It was broad daylight for goodness sakes. <br /><br />And doesn't it beg the question: Does anyone in this country know their fucking neighbors anymore? We've become a nation of shut-ins who play video games, write blogs, watch t.v. and who only associate with our close friends and family. What happened to community? Where have the neighborhoods gone? No one knows anyone anymore. I can understand that somewhat in New York where everyone's crammed together like sardines and anonymity is a means of escape (and safety), but in the suburbs? In Cambridge? Even my parents in New Hampshire, who live in a super rural town, don't associate with their neighbors much. Only the ones across the street, that's about it. I'm not sure what this means, but you have to believe that if people interacted more and recognized each other's face, maybe we'd not only have safer neighborhoods, we'd avoid stupid misunderstandings like the one between Officer Crowley and Professor Gates.<br /><br />After removing his foot from his mouth, Obama, to his credit, tried to turn this into a "teachable moment," by having the feuding fogles over to his house for a beer. Forced to pick an American brand, Obama went with Bud Light. Pathetic. Gates chose Red Stripe, which is brewed in Jamaica. Shocking. [UPDATE: turns out it was actually Sam Adams - a last minute change.] And Crowley went with Blue Moon, a favorite of mine, which he sipped with a slice of orange in his glass. And Joe Biden joined them, because he had nothing better to do. We'll never know what was said. From the pictures I've seen, it doesn't look like there were too many smiles around that table. <br /><br />We know that no one apologized. God forbid. It seems everyone expects an apology these days. Contrition. I wonder why that is? Why do the words "I'm sorry" carry so much weight? They're just words. If you go punch someone in the face and then a month later say you're sorry, does it change the fact that someone got punched in the face and got hurt? How many "I'm sorrys" could Bernie Madoff dish out right about now? And yet, everyone WANTS an apology. They want to hear one. Obama should apologize to Crowley and the Cambridge Police Department. Crowley should apologize to Gates. Gates should apologize to Crowley. I'll tell you what's behind it. The people calling for an apology usually have no personal involvement in a situation, and they do it because they perceive the act of giving an apology as a form of weakness. A concession. A chipping away at the veneer of pride that carries us all through life. I've never viewed apologies that way. I actually see them as evidence of strength and power, not the opposite. If you're so fragile that you can't survive an apology and learn from the circumstances that led to it, then to me, that's evidence of weakness, not power. Try telling that to Bush, who never apologized for anything. And now Obama, who won't apologize for anything in this situation. He's so verbally proficient, though, that he can throw enough words at something to make it SOUND like an apology. He's just that good.<br /><br />So what have we learned from all this? Fuck if I know. It's so damn hot in here that I'm totally rambling. I have no idea what I just wrote.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28879143.post-91451095205773079812009-07-24T10:34:00.003-04:002009-07-24T10:41:00.617-04:00FF - Wedding Dance PartyThere's a craze sweeping the land. It's wedding season, you know. But in today's world, it's not enough to push all your cards to the middle of the table and say "I'm all in." Now, you're expected to cap off your wedding day with some carefully choreographed dance moves, preferably with all members of your wedding party included. <br /><br />Don't know what I'm talking about? Watch and learn: <br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4-94JhLEiN0&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4-94JhLEiN0&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />That one was pretty good, and in a church no less.... Try and work in some retro Michael Jackson, however, and you're asking for trouble:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OPmYbP0F4Zw&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OPmYbP0F4Zw&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Alrightythen.Timhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07534406701337157342noreply@blogger.com1