The Old Crow: An Introduction

The Old Crow owns a house in North Seattle, of which we rent the downstairs. It is a beautiful house and she works very hard maintaining it and keeping it nice. I’ll post pictures when I get around to it. Check here to see if I’ve done it. Yes, she works hard. As a matter of fact, that’s all she does. Her world is quite small, and very closely managed.

Rumor had it (from her daughter) that the Old Crow married young; back in the days where a high school education was less important than an eligible suitor. As a military wife, Old Crow maintained the home and reared the children. Unfortunately for her (and me) and also important to this story, she never learned anything else.

Old Crow is sharp as a tack. However, the only thing she clutters her mind with is the garbage & recycling schedule, and everyone else’s business. For her communication and social grace are as inexplicable and foreign as brain surgery to me.

Case in point: as I am pulling my car from the garage, she is industriously weeding the front yard—as she always is. I stop the car to fiddle with my cell phone—as I always am. She walks up and stands in front of my window. By the way… this is where most of our communication takes place… one of us in the car, and the other standing in the driveway; either one initiated by her.

Anyway… she simply stands in front of my window. No knock; no ‘roll-the-window-down’ gesture or no wave; just her four-foot-something staring at me through the window. No doubt I rolled down the window with an eye-roll—I hope not, but I think I did.

She says, “[Mrs. eSquared] has a flat tire.”
“Oh”? I say.
She responds, “Yup.”
“Thanks.”

She turns on her heal and goes back to the bush she crawled out from under.
I’m left wondering what just happened.

The interaction that I mentioned in my previous post has come full circle. It is mind boggling. First, a bit of explanation…

To know me is to know that I don’t like hot weather. Furthermore, we have had uncharacteristically hot days lately. Last fall I put a fan in the shed that didn’t work, thinking I would take it to the dump when I accumulate enough crap to make it worth the $20 fee.

So… again, just as I am pulling into the garage, she walks up and stands in front of my window:

Whirrrrrrr (the sound of the window rolling down)
Me: “Hi… hot today huh”?
Crow: “That fan… in the shed.”
(Awkward silence)
Me: “Yeah”?
Crow: “You uews’n it”?
Me: “Uh… I would if I could; but it’s broke.”
(Another awkward silence)
Crow: “OH, (looking surprised) I lent it to the neighbor.”
Me: (growing perturbed) “WHAT”!?!
I narrow my eyes as the voice in the back of my head tells me I can’t reason with her.
Me: “Yeah… it doesn’t work.”
Crow: “Well… he’s an electrician. Maybe he can fix it.”
(More awkward silence)
(Remember, it’s the hottest day of the year, and my repulsion for being hot.)
Crow: “If he can fix it, you want it back”?

At this point, I realize this is not a hidden-camera prank, or an episode from the Twilight Zone. I am face-to-face with the absurdity that is my life.

“Sure.” I say as I pull in to the garage and close the door behind me.

This marathon post is long enough. I’ll finish the story tomorrow… Stay tuned.

Old Crow & Magpie: Preface

People and cultures place birds and animals in certain esteem.  Generally, this regard is based on perceived mytho-poetic qualities in the animal and the psychic projections of the culture.  Shamanic traditions give totem animals para-human abilities.  For example, birds may be able to see in to the future or past to be a warning or reminder.

For my purposes, old crow and the magpie will not imbue shamanic characteristics, or even positive attributes.  On the contrary, rife with my psychic projections, old crow and magpie will assume human characteristics, but only pejorative ones.

Perhaps, dear solitary reader, you are ahead of me.  Over the past three years I have shared the stories I intend to chronicle here in oral tradition.  As I was fuming after my last encounter with old crow, I thought how perfect it would be to share these twilight-zone experiences with you.  

In an attempt for some transparency, let me say this… Both old crow and magpie push mother buttons in me that even my mother doesn’t push.  I realize they are just living their life as they know how.  And occasionally, I even feel sorry for them - however fleeting.  Mostly… they just piss me off.  If I wasn’t so close to the situation, I would think it was hilarious, and then I would praise Fortuna herself that I didn’t have to deal with them.

Getting my Shit Together

Many of my mornings recently have been interrupted with this nagging voice in my head compelling me to: “Get your shit together.” The ensuing conversation is merely synapses firing across my caffeine deprived frontal lobe. Supposedly, this is where higher brain functions such as reason takes place. Before coffee in the morning I hold this notion highly suspect. This nanosecond of inner-dialogue goes something like this:

“I need to get my shit together.”
“What shit, and where is it”?
“I dunno… shit, no coffee.”
“Shit… I’ve said shit in every sentence... humm... Where was I”?
“What”?
“Huh… what was I going to do today”?
“Something about shit.”
“Starbucks”?
“Are you kidding? Looking like this”?
“Drivethrough.”
“Ah… d r i v e t h r o u g h.”
“Keys”?
“Keys in pants… I’ll need pants.”

By the time I get back from Starbucks, and the cerebral jumpstart of caffeine, I’ve moved on to planning a day packed with playing Xbox, riding my bike, napping with the cat and both abstract and general ass-scratching.

I go about my day never stringing any connection between the thoughts of Grad School applications, the GRE, gainful employment, meaningful employment, planning my men’s group yearly retreat, studying for the GRE, updating my curriculum vitae, blogging all the fodder that stumbles in my head, reading the stack of books I’ve denied myself for the last four years and cleaning the house all clamoring for attention.

This is the closest thing to a to-do list I’ve done.

I need to get my shit together.

Seaside, Oregon. Part II

Graduation is a funny thing. At least for me it was… well, still is for that matter. One day, seemingly out of the blue, the homework, assignments, papers, reading and even the social aspects of university life just stop. Then, you stand in line for hours, then listen to a lot of blah blah blah, and shake a lot of hands. All the while, literally everyone I know is congratulating me on a job well done. Then there are the parties, gifts, dinners and cards, all complementary and nice. There are even gifts!

Four years ago, I made the decision that education was a life-long endeavor, and that I would go as far as student loans, my marriage and my unremarkable intellect would take me. For me, this means a Ph.D. Education, specifically academia has become not only then means to an end, but a way of life. In many respects, it has been my life for the past four years.

When everyone I know showers me with congratulations and kudos for simply going about the business of my life; it is very confusing.

Dear solitary reader… don’t get me wrong. A baccalaureate degree is something, an accomplishment and a milestone however belated.

Seaside, Oregon Part I

Well… its over. I’ve completed the coursework, finished the finals and graduated. The funny thing is… my brain hasn’t really caught up with my body. Today marks the second week of summer quarter and I feel like I should be there. I need to calm down. The GRE and graduate school will come soon enough.

Now I’m on vacation with family. We’ve rented a house at the beach in seaside. It’s a beautiful place; though the beach is blocks away. The weather couldn’t be better. The Eugene chapter of my family couldn’t make it to the commencement festivities. So when we got into town, we stopped at a park where they hosed me down in silly string. A shower of silly string and bubbles is how this particular clan lets one of their own know they done good.

Now that the actual work for the Policy Journal is finished, I can honestly say I would do it again. Again for the sole purpose of using the lessons learned with the 06 issue and doing it right. In the end, we produced a quality piece of work. However, I shudder when I think of what it could have been had we known what I know now. Primarily, it would have been less work on the back end. Either way… it was both an intensive learning experience, and I am a better person for some of the relationships that were catalyzed in publishing the journal.

Almost exactly four years ago, as I began this journey, I simply could not wait to be on the other side of a baccalaureate degree. Graduating in 2006 seemed farther in my future than I could visualize. The facts, philosophies, books, papers and exams will all fade into the experience of education, the relationships will not. I expect my relationships with the professors, staff and students will remain vivid and organic, always. Overall… I am nostalgic over this closing chapter in my life. My time at UW has been wonderful. My journey of inquiry is has more questions than answers, but the questions are more focused.

It seems human wisdom and compassion has not evolved as rapidly as the intelligence associated with technology and weaponry.

For this reason, perhaps “human stupidity” actually has survival value for our species. If the mean absolute I.Q. were 150 rather than 100, and if there were no correspondingly increased levels of wisdom and compassion, then perhaps we would have eradicated our species from the planet.

Is stupidity, itself, the long awaited but unrecognized Messiah?

Erik the Fish

I’m told this skit is attributed to Monty Python, and it certainly sounds like something they would do. However, I can’t verify it.

Customer: Hello, I would like to buy a fish license, please.
Shopkeeper: A what?
C: A license for my pet fish, Erik.
S: How did you know my name was Erik?
C: No no no, my fish's name is Erik, Erik the fish. He's a halibut.
S: What?
C: He is...a...halibut.
S: You've got a pet halibut?
C: Yes. I chose him out of thousands. I didn't like the others, they were all too flat.
S: You must be a looney.
C: I am not a looney! Why should I be attired with the epithet looney merely because I have a pet halibut? I've heard tell that Sir Gerald Nabardo has a pet prawn called Simon (you wouldn't call him a looney); furthermore, Dawn Pailthorpe, the lady show-jumper, had a clam, called Stafford, after the late Chancellor, Allan Bullock has two pikes, both called Chris, and Marcel Proust had a haddock! So, if you're calling the author of 'A la recherche du temps perdu' a looney, I shall have to ask you to step outside!
S: Alright, alright, alright. A license.
C: Yes.
S: For a fish.
C: Yes.
S: You are a looney.
C: Look, it's a bloody pet, isn't it? I've got a license for me pet dog Erik, and I've got a license for me pet cat Erik...
S: You don't need a license for your cat.
C: I bloody well do and I got one. He can't be called Erik without it--
S: There's no such thing as a bloody cat license.
C: Yes there is!
S: Isn't!
C: Is!
S: Isn't!
C: I bloody got one, look! What's that then?
S: This is a dog license with the word 'dog' crossed out and 'cat' written in, in crayon.
C: The man didn't have the right form.
S: What man?
C: The man from the cat detector van.
S: The looney detector van, you mean.
C: Look, it's people like you what cause unrest.
S: What cat detector van?
C: The cat detector van from the Ministry of Housinge.
S: Housinge?
C: It was spelt like that on the van (I'm very observant!). I’ve never seen so many bleeding aerials. The man said that their equipment could pinpoint a purr at four hundred yards! And Erik, being such a happy cat, was a piece of cake.
S: How much did you pay for this?
C: Sixty quid, and eight for the fruit-bat.
S: What fruit-bat?
C: Erik the fruit-bat.
S: Are all your pets called Erik?
C: There's nothing so odd about that: Kemal Ataturk had an entire menagerie called Abdul!
S: No he didn't!
C: Did!
S: Didn't!
C: Did, did, did, did, did and did!
S: Oh, all right.
C: Spoken like a gentleman, sir. Now, are you going to give me a fish license?
S: I promise you that there is no such thing: you don't need one.
C: In that case, give me a bee license.
S: A license for your pet bee?
C: Yes.
S: Called Erik? Erik the Bee?
C: No.
S: No?
C: No, Erik the Half-Bee. He had an accident.
S: You're off your chump.
C: Look, if you intend by that utilization of an obscure colloquiallism to imply that my sanity is not up to scratch, or indeed to deny the semi-existence of my little chum Erik the Half-Bee, I shall have to ask you to listen to this!
Take it away, Erik the orchestra leader!....... A one... two.... A one.. two.. three..four...

I'm not surprised

Your Quirk Factor: 67%

You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal. No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average."

How Quirky Are You?

Hell Hath No Fury

Last night, I got an email from a friend I have lost touch with. It contained a solitary link. It was link to a website that serves as a bulletin board for jilted lovers, predominantly women posting their gripes and warnings about men. The link was about a mutual friend. Here is a tidbit of the 868 word posting: The sad part is that from what I know of him the post (that I deleted) was mostly true.

I am not posting this to be mean or for revenge. It is very serious the damage this person has done to people who have trusted him. NAME DELETED is a very bad person. He has severe psychological problems that damage all who are foolish enough to trust him. At first he seems too good to be true. He says all the things anyone would ever want to hear. He knows what women need to hear. He will seem like the sweetest kindest man. Then the truth slowly sets in. He has fooled so many women over the years. Ask him. He will tell you about all the other women but he will make it seem like it is their fault. He makes up terrible stories to tell people about you. It doesnt matter if you are dating him or are his friend or are his boss or coworker or even family. If you are connected to him in any way he has told vicious lies about you. He blames every problem he has on his ex wife or his boss. He has slandered countless people telling ugly stories to anyone who is compassionate enough to listen. He abuses all that is good in people. He even justifies himself by going to a therapist but he lies to her.

I am surprised there are such services available for would be lovers. It’s a pretty good idea, and pretty entertaining reading also. The lovely and talented Mrs. eSquared and I spent quite some time reading the comments.

Why am I blogging this? I’m not sure. I like the idea of the community awareness and accountability. On the other hand, it’s a little disturbing to know someone for which such a grievance is posted.

Running the Gauntlet

Spring… the end of the school year is nigh and senior-itis is spreading like a virus. The weather is warming up, and sap is beginning to course through the leaves and branches of trees. Sap is also pasted to the walls in the parking garage, the commons and the hallways of our buildings on campus. Unlike natural sap, the sap that plagues us here at UWB is the posturing of student government hopefuls.

First, I was met at the parking garage by painted posters urging me to vote for this person, or that issue. The most absurd: a relationship with gold’s gym for students. Next I saw an older man combing his hair. As I approached and smiled, he offered me a Gideon New Testament. I politely declined.

As I approached the commons, a candidate (I found out later) was between me and the door. He stood with a silly grin, and no other identifying characteristics. He asked me how I was and I guardedly replied. He told me he will have water here later if I wanted any. I thought… how weird.

I got into class and we had guests. Two of the candidates for student president were there to pitch themselves to us. It was as painful as a root canal. The first speaker (the one who offered the water) bashed his opponent, and never identified himself.

What is the point? I am hard-pressed to find and direct effect student government has had on me; aside from the crap they litter the campus with every spring, and their demands to vote.

I do understand their aspirations to have a notable addition to their Curriculum Vitae. What employer or academic program considers back-slapping and glad-handing as a marketable skill.

Intolerant? Yes. Arrogant, Probably.

A Change of Mind

A Change of Mind

Dear solitary reader…

I discovered, to my shock and horror, that WordPress templates are not customizable. So… it is with a heavy heart - for I was thrilled to have many new gizmos on my blog – that I’ve scuttled my WordPress project. Alas, I will remain here, on blogger.com to publish continuum of my own, from prattling, to ranting.

My Last Blog Post

I am my own harshest critic.

I have been lengthening the distance of my daily blog stroll. In doing this, I’ve come to two separate conclusions. First… there are many people who write really well. They prattle on about the most inane stuff. Second… there are some really good writers out there, just publishing their own little lives, on their own little blogs. I am buoyed by this second conclusion. I’m not actually sure why I blog. Surely, my one intermittent reader doesn’t hang on my every word. In the back of my head, I like to think I am doing us both good by writing my little blurghs.

That’s funny… Microsoft spellcheck is telling me the last word in the previous sentence is spelled right. Humm… I was just being silly. I wonder what it means… Off to dictionary.com. Perhaps Bill knows something everyone else doesn’t. It’s not a word.

The pathetic part? That was the most excitement I’ve had all day. (sigh)

No doubt, the title of this post has piqued your interest. Is he going to quit? Has pussed out? Can’t stand the heat in the kitchen? Well…?

Gather closer, dear reader and I’ll tell you the story. It all began months ago, the end of winter quarter in fact. I built a website for my Senior Seminar class on the Hegemony of Rosie the Riveter. Combined with my other web projects, my student account couldn’t host the site. Not to mention, in another month, I won’t be a student any longer. I needed to find another host.

I’ve been thinking about it lately, buy not willing to shell out the cash for the cache (get it?). While spelunking the caverns of the internet, I found a blog host that I really like: WordPress. So I signed up. As I was setting up the account… formatting fonts, choosing color schemes… arranging tables and boxes just so, it’s much like moving into a new house.

Well… long story short… not only did I buy one domain name, buy two. First, I got digipomo.com. Then, eSquared.us. I thought the digipomo was more of a project name, rather than a personal one for me. Each come with 200MB of storage and 1GB transfers. And 50 email account each.

So, dear reader, if you’re interested in yourname@digipomo.com or yourname@esquared.us let me know. Better think about it now, before they become wildly popular, and Tom Cruise is jumps up and down on Oprah’s couch screaming about my blog.

Coming soon… esquared.us and digipomo.com. Stay tuned.

So… is it my last post? Nah.

If wishes were fishes…

Do you ever have so many things to say... you need to make a list?

There are only two things on my list.

But it’s more complicated than that. I have this post I've been looking forward to writing. It’s first on my list. The second is a list of 100 things about me. Yes, making a list is on my list. It gets worse... lists are on my list… that’s on the list.

So... Why write this post when I could be writing the one I want? Then, I could get to the list, on my list, and check that off the main list. Silly, no?

The post is a reward. I have to get a bunch of Policy Journal stuff to do. I won’t let my self step in until I'm done. I've delayed gratification. I’m not sure why.

Perhaps it’s nap time

Holy Shit... its May!

I can’t believe it. This month, I will finish my Undergraduate coursework, present one of my papers at the Annual UW Undergraduate Research Symposium, and turn 39. Turning 39 is a trip for two reasons. First, I don’t feel 39. I don’t even feel 30. Lastly, and more traumatically, there are no more birthdays between here and 40. Midlife, the great-divide, all-down-hill-from-here… Middle age. Ack!

The more faithful of my readers will notice that I changed the background color of this site. This feels a little warmer and inviting. Tell be what y’all think.

Dusting the Virtual Shelves of the Internet

Today, my little slice of cyberspace will provide a much needed amplifier for something that has been bugging me for quite some time. In the good’ol days… websites were authored by companies and supergeeks. Once you bought a domain name, and found a place to host it somewhere, then you had to code your own HTML. Now, blogs, templates, myspace, and WYSIWYGs make the net accessible to any clown with fingers.

[A tangent] Often, the lovely and talented Mrs. eSquared and I discuss the age where one is compelled to accumulate junk, and display it in the home like trophies. At what age does one see a lil’ darlin salt & pepper set at the goodwill and gasp with excitement? Then do we move from haughty contempt to “won’t this look great next to the ‘gone fishin’ nick-knack on the fireplace mantle”? Both of us have sworn a murder-suicide pact when we get this old.

Back to my point… personal web pages have become virtual display-cases for the useless shit of the internet. Because of the anonymity of the internet, I’m not sure if age is a causal, or spurious variable in this equation. Nonetheless, if you’re wondering, here are some examples of the garbage can fodder that litter the dusty shelves of the internet.

Pop-ups, pop-downs, pop-ins, pop-overs, pop-unders. Yes, I have a pop-up blocker, but there is the very odd instance where one sneaks through. I can appreciate that you might be using a free host (such as tripod or GeoCities). And from the free hosting site's point of view, I can appreciate the need to bring in the revenue. Wait, you know what? No, I can't. Pop-ups suck and there's never any justification for them.

You resized my browser window. I hate that. I've got my browser set just where I like it and now you're forcing me to resize it? Worse yet, you maximized my browser window so I can't just click on the "Restore Down" boxes up top.

You make me have to scroll left and right. Just because I have my monitor's resolution set to 1024 x 768 doesn't mean I want my browser window maximized. In fact, I like to keep Firefox at about an 850 pixel width. Then I put Firefox so it's flush with the right side of my screen. That way I can view my e-mail folders underneath on the left side of my screen. Your site should fit in my Firefox without a left-right scrollbar appearing at the bottom of my browser. Again, this goes with the above item. I hate having to resize my browser.

You have some God-awful color scheme, font colors, and/or fonts. Your whole page is red text on a neon green background. In script. Italicized. That means you're either color blind or 13. Scratch that, a 13-year-old knows better.

Animated GIFs. You have more than one. Yes, your row of 863 waving and blinking smiley faces is very nice, as are the blinking purple stars on your page's background. And your 17 virtual pets. And your And the thousands of dancing hamsters. And the rotating "Sign My Guestbook." And the spinning envelope with "E-mail Me!" written on it. And the flashing "Under Construction!" sign...four of them. (Just so you know, EVERY PAGE ON THE INTERNET is "under construction," since websites are updated all the time. Don't worry, I know you're working very hard on building your site. I promise not to forget.)

You have an incredibly elaborate Flash interface for your site. If I see a little "Loading" percentage bar in the middle of my screen, I click close.

Your webpage has music on it. If I'm sitting at my desk quietly, not listening to music or the TV, and suddenly this music comes blaring out of my speakers I'm going to have to clean the skidmarks off my ceiling. Now, there are two kinds of music in this particular violation. The first is MIDI, the internet's elevator music. The second is MP3/WAV/Whatever...an actual streaming song. If you don't know the difference between the two, it's OK. All you need to know is that both types suck. Look, if you want me to listen to your cool music? ASK ME. If I want to, I'll play it. Don't force it on me. Besides, I'm already listening to music. And it's better than yours.

You use the friggin' BLINK attribute. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you only used it once. That's once too many. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.

ur hOLe pAgE iz wRiTTun LiK thS. LiKe OMG! dID u C teh O.c. lasT nItE? I sO hEArT tHat sHw! Like, oh my God, I hope you come down with a serious case of spontaneous human combustion.

Your site requires me to register and log in before I can view the contents. Screw that shit. I've got enough accounts and passwords to keep track of already, thank you very much. Yes, of course there are plenty of web sites where a log-in makes perfect sense - for example, Yahoo!, G-mail, and my bank.

CPTnet
2 December 2005

IRAQ: Most recent reflection by Tom Fox, "Why are we here?"

[Note: The following reflection was written by Tom Fox the day before he was
abducted.]

The Christian Peacemaker Team (CPT) Iraq team went through a discernment
process, seeking to identify aspects of our work here in Iraq that are
compelling enough to continue the project and comparing them with the costs
(financial, psychological, physical) that are also aspects of the project.
It was a healthy exercise, but it led me to a somewhat larger question: Why
are we here?

If I understand the message of God, his response to that question is that we
are to take part in the creation of the Peaceable Realm of God. Again, if I
understand the message of God, how we take part in the creation of this
realm is to love God with all our heart, our mind and our strength and to
love our neighbors and enemies as we love God and ourselves. In its
essential form, different aspects of love bring about the creation of the
realm.

I have read that the word in the Greek Bible that is translated as "love" is
the word "agape." Again, I have read that this word is best expressed as a
profound respect for all human beings simply for the fact that they are all
God's children. I would state that idea in a somewhat different way, as
"never thinking or doing anything that would dehumanize one of my fellow
human beings."

As I survey the landscape here in Iraq, dehumanization seems to be the
operative means of relating to each other. U.S. forces in their quest to
hunt down and kill "terrorists" are, as a result of this dehumanizing word,
not only killing "terrorists," but also killing innocent Iraqis: men, women
and children in the various towns and villages.

It seems as if the first step down the road to violence is taken when I
dehumanize a person. That violence might stay within my thoughts or find its
way into the outer world and become expressed verbally, psychologically,
structurally or physically. As soon as I rob a fellow human being of his or
her humanity by sticking a dehumanizing label on them, I begin the process
that can have, as an end result, torture, injury and death.

"Why are we here?" We are here to root out all aspects of dehumanization
that exist within us. We are here to stand with those being dehumanized by
oppressors and stand firm against that dehumanization. We are here to stop
people, including ourselves, from dehumanizing any of God's children, no
matter how much they dehumanize their own souls.

_______________

The clouds parted; the sun came out, and I screamed

Thank god for backups. Let me say it again… THANK GOD FOR BACKUPS! Its Easter morning and with coffee in hand, I marvel at the clear, blue sky above me after the dramatic presentation of the elements yesterday. Julie is at church, and I have the morning to myself… just me and the kitty.

I make my way into the office (with somewhere between a saunter and a stagger) and continue my quest for software. I recently formatted my laptop, and needed to reinstall my software.

At this point, let me chase a metaphorical butterfly off the trail and into the field a bit. To know me, is to know my prowess for computers, and my penchant for gadgetry. I consider myself pretty net-savvy and exercise caution and discretion when called upon. I have redundant security from firewalls to real-time software protection. It’s not as secure as the Pentagon, (I hope) but then again, I’m not responsible for any National secrets… just my wife’s PhD program documents.

Ok… back on the trail… I wanted to download a download manager (yes, I see the irony here). In order to get the free program, - (clue #1 I missed) I needed to download a different program first (clue #2). Perhaps I was insufficiently caffeinated; not paying attention or just plain dumb… I don’t know, I clicked the button and the hard drive began to make a lot of activity noise. Not the soothing whirr that it normally whispers as it is fetching a file, or executing a command. This was more like a pepper grinder… with a motor. Then the pop-ups started.

The first one was NOT the gentle warning one might expect. Perhaps I watch too many Navy movies:

Ensign: Sounding excited: “Sonar to COM… come-in COM.”
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Go ahead Sonar.”
Ensign: “Uh, Skipper… we have an unidentified sonar ping at zero-two-niner, over.”
Captain: “Ok Ensign, keep an eye on it.”

- Minutes later -

Ensign: High-pitched, nearing panic “Sonar to COM… come-in COM.”
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Go ahead Sonar... take it easy son.”
Ensign: “Wehavetwotorpedoescomingin… ETAforty-fiveseconds”!
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Take evasive action.”

If this were my ship… this is what this communication might have sounded like

Ensign: High-pitched, completely panicked, “SonartoCO”!
Glub… glub… glub… glub

I was able to fire off a screenshot of the warning I got before I was eatin’ seaweed…

Blogging, Inspiration and Intentions

Recently, I was invited (more or less) to read someone’s blog that I respect. Respect for many reasons, the greatest of which (or right now) is her writing. I’ve always enjoyed her prose, but reading her blog gives me a greater appreciation for her sense of humor and her craft as a writer.

What this means to me, here and now, is the inspiration. When the sun is shining, there’s money in the bank, the cars are both working well, and I don’t have an assignment looming over me, I fancy myself a decent writer. However, I am not disciplined in the slightest. The primary reason I don’t write in this silly blog, is I have great difficulty figuring out what to write about. I have the same problem approaching a paper, or even an essay question. Once I get going, and find my stride, I’m pretty good.

Unfortunately, its taken me this long to figure this out. How can I endeavor to improve my writing, if I never, ever practice writing? So… my intention is to use this forum to write about serious shit, silly shit and, of course, just shit.

Eighth Grade Math

Well... it took me 24ish years, but I finally passed 8th grade math. See Mr. Higbee... I did it!

You Passed 8th Grade Math

Congratulations, you got 10/10 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Math?

Popular Culture at 2am

No doubt – I have bored my reader away from my months of silence. So, I’m virtually assured I will be the only contributor and reader of my blog.

It’s 1:45 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’m watching some really bad show on E about penitentiary romance, “Love Behind Bars.” I wonder if Foucault had this in mind when he wrote of the Carceral in, “Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison.”

I am overwhelmed by the utter lack of substance we have as a culture. Yet at the same time, we have a most imperialistic culture. Like the BORG, from Star Trek the Next Generation, the American “popular” culture relentlessly overwhelms aspects other culture.

Commercials at 2 am consist of sixteen-year-old girls in bathing suits pretending that all they do is ‘hook-up’ on a phone chat club. I can’t decide which part of this little charade most mystifies me. The fact that there are phone hook-up places (that compete with the internet); they make enough money to pay the sixteen-year-old and the advertising time; or there are legions of pubescent boys dialing the phone. Who knows.

The single most nauseating feeling I have about the whole thing is the insufficient distance between shit like this and myself.

Clearly, the critical path of logic and decision the brought us, as a culture, to this abysmal position is long, crooked and sinuous. I believe in both chaos and tipping point theory. What if there were a way to locate the pivotal decisions that contributed to our cultural architecture.

I don’t believe in time-travel – at least as we’ve conceived it at this point. However, what if there were a way to change the trajectory of the production of culture. I’m not suggesting anything as drastic, or fictional as messing with the ‘time-space continuum.’ Given this concept, and the impossibility of time travel, what can I do to change the trajectory of popular culture today? What degree of change will have significance?