Worshipping at the altar of the Hammer and Sickle

I’m constantly amazed at the world’s ability to demonize (rightfully) Adolph Hitler, and still idolize Stalin, Mao, and Che. The global, and suburban, obsession with Communism baffles me. I mean, I guess I can see that people think it’s this ideal thing where no one is hurt and everyone is equal. Sounds fabulous. Except that no matter how much you want it to be so, not everyone is equal. Just like no one is perfect, as was Hitler’s ideal. These worlds do not exist. Both are antithetical to nature and human nature. They will never succeed. The implementation of either of these ideals results in nothing but murder of the weak by the powerful.

If it’s so incredibly wonderful, why do so many risk their lives to get out? Shouldn’t people be beating Cuba’s or China’s doors down to get into the splendor that is Communist society?

Here’s a tidbit, can you guess how many people have been murdered under Communism’s banner, in the ruling class’ efforts to enforce “equality”? Take a wild gander. 1 million, 2 million, 6 million (the number of Jews murdered under the Third Reich), 15 million, 21 million (all the people murdered under Fascism from 1933-1945)? Nope. All gross understatements. Not even remotely close.

100 million dead so far. And just remember that Castro, Kim Jong Il, the Chinese Government, and the Vietnamese are all still at it. So, please would someone tell me why it’s still fashionable to wear a damn Che t-shirt? It’s not a fashion statement; it’s a political statement that condones mass murder above anything else. Even worse, some people (probably most, actually) know exactly what has happened through Communism's rule.

Anyone remember the movie Max from a couple of years ago? Probably not. It was about Hitler's early years. Ah, but The Motorcycle Diaries? You bet. Oscar nominations and the like.

Thank goodness for The Killing Fields, but that was in 1984 when Communism was our biggest and most feared enemy. No longer. Now Communism is chic.

Bridget Johnson eloquently discusses this Hollywood love of Communism in a column in the Wall Street Journal this week.

Now that "Motorcycle" has ridden into the awards sunset--ironically,
considering the nature of communism, also picking up two Independent Spirit
Awards--the sequel to Che canonization is on the horizon. Filming is scheduled
to start later this year on "Che," a Steven Soderbergh ("Traffic") vehicle
starring Benicio del Toro as the famed Marxist. The plot line as listed on the
Internet Movie Database: "An epic about Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara, who fought for the people."

Annoying as the Che adulation is, a recent comment by a 14-year-old on
an online movie message board was truly disturbing: "I just saw The Motorcycle
Diaries, which further made me question: Why is communism bad? . . .
Young people are told how bad communism is, but we are not told why.
. . . The Motorcycle Diaries showed me how Ernesto Guevara wanted to
help people. . . . But this did not explain why he was such a 'bad'
person and apparently deserved to be murdered by the U.S."

How about a film on the Soviet Union, beginning with Lenin and the 1917
revolution, droning on to Stalin's purges with hundreds of thousands executed by
firing squad, and millions forced from their homes or carted off to labor camps?
We'd see Soviet bloc countries strangled under communist rule, Berlin divided
with concrete and snipers, Nicolae Ceausescu destroying historic Bucharest. We'd
see Soviet terror exported with the scorched-earth policy in Afghanistan.
Red China would make a stellar film that lacks a happy ending--for now.
Viewers would see Mao Tse-tung turn the colorful Chinese culture into a gray,
bleak "worker's paradise" steeped in hunger and executions. We'd see the Great
Leap Forward to devastating famine, murder and destruction in Tibet, women
forced to abort their children, and the blood of student demonstrators spilled
on Tiananmen Square. Complete the Asian film series with the "re-education" by
terror in North Vietnam, the Maoist insurgency in Nepal that has killed
thousands, and the hellish nightmare that is North Korea...

Guevara oversaw executions at La Cabana prison; some of those executed
were his former comrades who wouldn't relinquish their democratic beliefs. "To
send men to the firing squad, judicial proof is unnecessary," he said. He didn't
assuage his barbarity by being a brilliant statesman, either, helping drive the
economy to ruin as head of Cuba's central bank and minister of industries.
"Though claiming to despise money," writes Fontaine, "he lived in one of the
rich, private areas of Havana." Guevara told a British reporter after the Cuban
Missile Crisis that the nukes would have been fired if they were under Cuban
control--which would have wasted all of those future American suburban
revolutionary wannabes.

Thanks also to Slate.com for on of the few negative articles about The Motorcycle Diaries in a sea of adulation.

For more stories on the toll of misery and death that Communism has left in this world, check here, here, here, and here.

Russ, this one's for you

This is just too damn funny. I think everyone will love this, but Russ, in retail hell, will really love this.

http://www.dslreports.com/forum/remark,12922482~mode=flat~days=10

In case you can't download, here's the transcript...


Dispatcher: Sheriff's department, how can I help you?
Caller: Yeah, I'm over here at Burger King, right here in San Clemente--
Dispatcher: Mm-hmm.
Caller: --um, no, not San Clemente, I'm sorry. Um, I live in San Clemente. I'm in Laguna Niguel, I think that's where I'm at.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I'm at a drive-thru right now.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I ordered my food three times. They're mopping the floor inside, and I understand they're busy. They're not even busy, OK, I've been the only car here. I asked them four different times to make me a Western Barbecue Burger. OK, they keep giving me a hamburger with lettuce, tomato and cheese, onions. And I said, I am not leaving.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: I want a Western Burger. Because I just got my kids from tae kwon do; they're hungry. I'm on my way home, and I live in San Clemente.
Dispatcher: Uh-huh.
Caller: OK, she gave me another hamburger. It's wrong. I said four times, I said, "I want it." She goes, "Can you go out and park in front?" I said, "No. I want my hamburger right." So then the lady came to the manager, or whoever she is--she came up and she said, um, "Did you want your money back?" And I said, "No. I want my hamburger. My kids are hungry, and I have to jump on the toll freeway [sic]." I said, "I am not leaving this spot," and I said I will call the police, because I want my Western Burger done right. Now is that so hard?
Dispatcher: OK, what exactly is it you want us to do for you?
Caller: Send an officer down here. I want them to make me the right--
Dispatcher: Ma'am, we're not going to go down there and enforce your Western Bacon Cheeseburger.
Caller: What am I supposed to do?
Dispatcher: This is between you and the manager. We're not going to go enforce how to make a hamburger. That's not a criminal issue. There's nothing criminal there.
Caller: So I just stand here--so I just sit here and block--
Dispatcher: You need to calmly and rationally speak to the manager and figure out what to do between you.
Caller: She did come up, and I said, "Can I please have my Western Burger?" She said, "I'm not dealing with it," and she walked away. Because they're mopping the floor and it's all full of suds, and they don't want to go through there, and--
Dispatcher: Ma'am, then I suggest you get your money back and go somewhere else. This is not a criminal issue. We can't go out there and make them make you a cheeseburger the way you want it.
Caller: Well, that is, that--you're supposed to be here to protect me.
Dispatcher: Well, what are we protecting you from, a wrong cheeseburger?
Caller: No. It's--
Dispatcher: Is this like, is this a harmful cheeseburger or something? I don't understand what you want us to do.
Caller: Well, just come down here! I'm not leaving!
Dispatcher: No, ma'am, I'm not sending the deputies down there over a cheeseburger! You need to go in there and act like an adult and either get your money back or go home.
Caller: I do not need to go. She is not acting like an adult herself. I'm sitting here in my car. I just want them to make my kid a Western Burger [unintelligible].
Dispatcher: Now this is what I suggest: I suggest you get your money back from the manager and you go on your way home.
Caller: OK.
Dispatcher: OK? Bye-bye.
Caller: No--
[click]

Hocky Love

I know there’s no hockey this season, but there really will be no more Hockey Love. Mitch Hedberg has died.

Lileks ... Again

I should just stop this blogging thing and redirect my site directly to Lileks. I’ll offer some snippets here, but honestly, follow the link to Friday's Bleat. It’s worth the time.

Home to Fargo for Easter...

[Dad]’s in a new house now. I thought I would miss the old house – it’s where I grew up – but I realized right away how glad I was he’d moved. Not just so he could have someplace new and sunny and bright – we’d been trying to get him to move since my Mom died. No, it was just the relief I felt that I didn’t have to go back there again, sleep in my old small room with my junior-high books on the shelves, my Marvel decal of Captain America still stuck to a doorknob, the empty smell of loss in every closet and every room, the dry weight of time holding everything in place. Open any drawer, and there was forty years of compacted history staring up at you. We had every Christmas in the living room. I played piano in the living room every day. When Gnat came last year we hid eggs in the living room. My mother died in the living room.

The new house is modern and bright, lining a cul-de-sac in the endless suburban sprawl of south Fargo. A city that did not exist has grown since I left; the city that was there when we lived on the north side, but it’s frozen, it’s done. It’s over. It cannot grow – the airport on one side, the river on the east, the waste-treatment plant on the north. By his new house stand two gargantuan churches, one built to resemble some peculiar cross between a barn and a European cathedral. Our old church is between North and South, a downtown church across from the old Kraft warehouse, north from the Sons of Norway hall. The congregants who were incredibly old when I was a little kid are still there – fewer in number, sometimes stooped, but often just as ruddy and vital as before. A full house, which was nice. You can’t imagine that the congregation is replacing itself at the needed rate. Once they had Sunday school for every grade, but not anymore, I think.

We sat in the balcony. I took Gnat up a secret passage to a tiny door in the back of the loft, and showed her the rope to the bell. The area looked as strange and forgotten as it did when I rang the bell; like so much of the church it seems to have been sprayed with some sort of time-thwarting fixative. I suppose when you use a place once a week, and only then for an hour or two, it holds up well. I suppose it’s good that we age faster than churches. At first it makes them seem behind the times; eventually they seem outside the times.

Hadn’t seen the padre in a while; we’d caught up in the vestibule. When I came up at the head of the communion line he gave me a wink.

Afterwards, the usual dinner at the Holiday Inn banquet room; ham in alarming amounts. On the way out we ran into my third-grade teacher. My third-grade teacher, friends. She looked about 50. She remembered me: I was such a reader! I thanked her for teaching me, and walked a way a little dazed: I'm 46 years old. And I just ran into my third-grade teacher. Back to Dad’s house to find eggs with Gnat’s cousin. I packed, neatened the room. We'd taken out some afghans the night before - one green, one blue, both knitted by my Grandmother decades ago. I'd curled up under them as a kid; they were later draped around a chair in the living room. Good as new. Can't shake 'em. Sometimes you actually get irritated at the obstinate persistence of inanimate objects; it would be simple if they'd just leave. Because here I am in my father's new house, staring at this letter my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you're touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm, with Grandma knitting in the front room, Grandpa looking for the car keys so he can drive out and check the progress of the crops, Folger's brewing in the kitchen, Eli loping off to the barn to change the oil in the tractor, worrried about a pain he's been having. But you'll get nothing out of them. Gnat has no idea of the blanket that kept her warm, just as Grandma had no idea there would ever be a Gnat. It can drive you nuts, the wishing. But what can you do? You remember, you pass it on, you let it go. In the end it's just a blanket. For all I know Grandma kept the 1893 container because it was practical, and her dad got it from a man at the GAR hall. The only object I think my Dad would ever miss was the piece of shrapnel he got in the war, and had made into a wedding ring.

Coffee and cake until it was time to load up the car and point it east. I’d say we headed home, but Fargo is home as well. From one home to the other, then; from the old home to the new. An apt thing to do on an Easter Sunday, no? Let's ask the pastor of my childhood church:

Lileks ... Again

I should just stop this blogging thing and redirect my site directly to Lileks. Friday's Bleat is another superb tale. I’ll offer some snippets here, but honestly, follow the link. It’s worth the time.

Home to Fargo for Easter. ...

[Dad]’s in a new house now. I thought I would miss the old house – it’s where I
grew up – but I realized right away how glad I was he’d moved. Not just so he
could have someplace new and sunny and bright – we’d been trying to get him to
move since my Mom died. No, it was just the relief I felt that I didn’t have to
go back there again, sleep in my old small room with my junior-high books on the
shelves, my Marvel decal of Captain America still stuck to a doorknob, the empty
smell of loss in every closet and every room, the dry weight of time holding
everything in place. Open any drawer, and there was forty years of compacted
history staring up at you. We had every Christmas in the living room. I played
piano in the living room every day. When Gnat came last year we hid eggs in the
living room. My mother died in the living room. The new house is modern and
bright, lining a cul-de-sac in the endless suburban sprawl of south Fargo. A
city that did not exist has grown since I left; the city that was there when we
lived on the north side, but it’s frozen, it’s done. It’s over. It cannot grow –
the airport on one side, the river on the east, the waste-treatment plant on the
north. By his new house stand two gargantuan churches, one built to resemble
some peculiar cross between a barn and a European cathedral. Our old church is
between North and South, a downtown church across from the old Kraft warehouse,
north from the Sons of Norway hall. The congregants who were incredibly old when
I was a little kid are still there – fewer in number, sometimes stooped, but
often just as ruddy and vital as before. A full house, which was nice. You can’t
imagine that the congregation is replacing itself at the needed rate. Once they
had Sunday school for every grade, but not anymore, I think. We sat in the
balcony. I took Gnat up a secret passage to a tiny door in the back of the loft,
and showed her the rope to the bell. The area looked as strange and forgotten as
it did when I rang the bell; like so much of the church it seems to have been
sprayed with some sort of time-thwarting fixative. I suppose when you use a
place once a week, and only then for an hour or two, it holds up well. I suppose
it’s good that we age faster than churches. At first it makes them seem behind
the times; eventually they seem outside the times.

Hadn’t seen the padre in a while; we’d caught up in the vestibule. When I
came up at the head of the communion line he gave me a wink. Afterwards, the
usual dinner at the Holiday Inn banquet room; ham in alarming amounts. On the
way out we ran into my third-grade teacher. My third-grade teacher, friends. She
looked about 50. She remembered me: I was such a reader! I thanked her for
teaching me, and walked a way a little dazed: I'm 46 years old. And I just ran
into my third-grade teacher. Back to Dad’s house to find eggs with Gnat’s
cousin. I packed, neatened the room. We'd taken out some afghans the night
before - one green, one blue, both knitted by my Grandmother decades ago. I'd
curled up under them as a kid; they were later draped around a chair in the
living room. Good as new. Can't shake 'em. Sometimes you actually get irritated
at the obstinate persistence of inanimate objects; it would be simple if they'd
just leave. Because here I am in my father's new house, staring at this letter
my Grandma wrote in wool. You can run your hands along it and pretend you're
touching her; you can imagine the day at the farm, with Grandma knitting in the
front room, Grandpa looking for the car keys so he can drive out and check the
progress of the crops, Folger's brewing in the kitchen, Eli loping off to the
barn to change the oil in the tractor, worrried about a pain he's been having.
But you'll get nothing out of them. Gnat has no idea of the blanket that kept
her warm, just as Grandma had no idea there would ever be a Gnat. It can drive
you nuts, the wishing. But what can you do? You remember, you pass it on, you
let it go. In the end it's just a blanket. For all I know Grandma kept the 1893
container because it was practical, and her dad got it from a man at the GAR
hall. The only object I think my Dad would ever miss was the piece of shrapnel
he got in the war, and had made into a wedding ring. Coffee and cake until it
was time to load up the car and point it east. I’d say we headed home, but Fargo
is home as well. From one home to the other, then; from the old home to the new.
An apt thing to do on an Easter Sunday, no? Let's ask the pastor of my childhood
church:

This about sums it up

My thoughts on the Shiavo case, exactly - and well said.

24

The highlights of TV w/o Pity's recap of last week's show.

Suddenly he remembers that there's a third person who might be interested in what's going on with Grayadder, and he pulls out his cell phone. I assume it's a new phone, since his old one must have been fried by the EMP that went off ten feet away from him. I realize that assumption is based upon the more unlikely assumption that someone at the show remembers that.

Basically, Keeler is keen to declare martial law. Not that I can see how the United States of the 24-verse could be more of a police state than it already is, but I'm always ready to be surprised.

DoDder's following Grayadder's gurney through the hallway to the CTU clinic. The docs try to shake her off, but she insists on making them stop rolling the dying man to surgery so she can say, "I'm here, okay? And I will be here when you get out of surgery." DaD is standing there with a "great, here the fuck we go again" expression. Or maybe he's going for "concerned." Hard to tell. Grayadder peers up at his wife, his expression unreadable through the oxygen mask on his face. So I'm free to assume he's thinking, "Screw you, lady, I've got Kiefer now." He's finally pried from his wife's clutches so his life can be saved, and DoDder and DaD are left alone in the hallway. She hugs her father. Over her shoulder, his expression says, "So bored with this."

Bitchelle looks at Soul Patch, who looks back at her like, "Yeah, remember how no matter who was in charge around here, we really all just worked for Kiefer? Good times."

He went from just been fucked to just plain fucked in less than ninety seconds.

Poor Man's Poor Man's Eric Stoltz takes the opportunity to try to rush her with the room service cart, but she beats him down and ends up on top of him, holding a table knife to his neck. Nice to see a member of the United States military getting spanked by a member of the International Sisterhood of Mercenary Hos.

Bitchelle hands the floor over to Kiefer to explain the cover story, which goes thusly: Kiefer was transporting TerrorMom when his vehicle was attacked by surviving members of TerrorDad's cell at the intersection of Sepulveda and National an hour ago. I'm surprised they're using an intersection that actually exists, but I'm not surprised that it's one that throws my CTU triangulation project completely out of whack again by being way the hell down by Culver City and yet still less than ten minutes away.

Potato Face is finally prevailed upon to come in, thanks to her undying loyalty to the man who got her fired and let her friend get pounded flat while she watched. Bitchelle thanks her. "You're welcome," Potato Face lies, and hangs up with a mighty bitchface.

TerrorTeen protests fearfully. He begs her not to do it as she gets more and more get-a-room-y with him. Kiefer, clearly getting uncomfortable like the rest of us, tells her it's time to go. She makes out with her son some more, then walks out of the room slowly, smiling at him creepily over her shoulder. She even gives him a defiant little head toss. She doesn't look away from his weepy puss until she passes Kiefer in the doorway, who stares at TerrorTeen for a moment before shutting the door. Wow, I don't get what she sees in him, he thinks. It's 8:26:13, and TerrorTeen now has to spend the entire commercial break wiping slobber off of himself.

They share a flirty look before Bitchelle thanks him and they part ways. I wouldn't want to be the CTU employee sitting at the desk they're next to when they inevitably decide to have hot make-up sex in the middle of the floor.

Lispy Skip is having some trouble with his technobabble, until Potato Face appears next to him with some fresh technobabble. It's not surprising that she knows how to fix it, considering she's apparently developed the ability to teleport. She's also changed her clothes and her hair in the past seven minutes, presumably in the car. She probably should have taken the time to pick out some decent lipstick other than the lavender mess she's wearing now, though. Lispy Skip doesn't seem to happy to see her, so Potato Face smoothes things over by saying Bitchelle called her in because Lispy Skip couldn't handle himself. Way to defuse the tension there.

The doc explains that the second bullet is lodged against one of Grayadder's vertebrae and they're worried about the risk of further spinal injury. Can we just pretend that we've already had the inevitable scene where DoDder weepily says to Kiefer of her quadriplegic husband, "He needs me"? No? Bleah.

Soul Patch asks Potato Face to switch to an infrared satellite view. Potato Face quickly complies. The infrared view of the TerrorTaurus shows one bright blob of heat inside the car, which tells them that he's alone. It also tells me that TerrorProf's car has no engine or exhaust system, and that none of the surrounding cars do either. In fact, they don't even have drivers.

In any case, Potato Face is able to magically magnify and enhance the image of the van enough to read the license plate, but not before putting out my eye with her grinning, pointy teeth.

"Prove it to me," ImhoTerror says, reversing the gun and holding it out to TerrorMom butt-first. "Kill him." Ah, so the gun is empty. He was threatening her with an empty gun, you see. Interesting. TerrorMom treats ImhoTerror to one of her creepy-ass smiles and slowly takes the empty gun. She strokes it erotically as she moves over next to Kiefer, who is dragged back up to a kneeling position. She holds the empty gun to his head while Kiefer waits, eyes closed, pretending he doesn't know the gun is empty. Then she whips the empty gun up to point it at ImhoTerror and dry-fires it. D'oh! She's been in this country five years and never bothered to catch In the Line of Fire on cable? Sloppy. "Just what I thought," ImhoTerror says smugly. Yeah, just what we all thought. Oh, he means TerrorMom falling for it. I didn't think that. Never mind. Kiefer and TerrorMom share a horrified look: TerrorMom because she fucked up, and Kiefer because he can't believe she fell for this. At least I assume that's what she's thinking, since he had to do the exact same thing to Special Agent Charlie Brown last season. People, listen: nobody who mistrusts you is going to give you a loaded gun for you to prove your loyalty with. It's just not going to happen.

ImhoTerror follows Kiefer and his little party off into a splitscreen, which also includes a worried-looking TerrorTeen, as well as a worried-looking DoDder who steps up to meet an approaching doctor, who in turn blows right by her without a word. Heh. Smart doctor. Keeler worries on Air Force One, his hair darker than ever; and Kiefer looks worried as he's loaded into an SUV. As do Bitchelle, Soul Patch, and Potato Face at CTU, because they figure that eventually there's going to be an uprising when people figure out the place is being run by people who don't work there anymore.

Next week on 24: Looks like Kiefer gets shot during a prisoner exchange for TerrorTeen. Unless the promo is misleading. You don't think that's the case, do you?

Easter ... Not what we were expecting

So, I was looking very forward to seeing the in-laws for Easter. No such luck. Didn’t see anyone except Dave, as it turns out. About 2:30 on Saturday afternoon, Dave got sick. He continued to get sick for the next 14 hours. Fearing virus, Stacy went to stay with her parents. I went out to get him some gatorade so he wouldn’t dehydrate.

Also fearing virus, even though I felt fine, I decided not to make an appearance at the Bryant family Easter Fest. I was worried that I may have been carrying something, and with several children under 4, I just didn’t want to risk it. Dave is fine now, he even at a little bit yesterday.
While I was sad that the weekend didn’t turn out as planned, between hovering sessions outside the bathroom door, asking Dave if he needed anything, I was able to completely veg.

You see, while out getting gatorade, I broke down and finally bought the DVD I’ve been wanting since the day it was released. DVDs really, which is why I hadn’t purchased them yet. $20 is one thing, but $40 for the entire first season of Miami Vice had to wait. Yes, that’s right. Miami Vice. That was a show that the family watched when I was a kid. LOVED that show.

I was a little nervous, I must admit, when I put the first DVD in to watch the pilot. I was afraid that it would be so unbelievably dated, I’d be sorry that I bought it.

I was not sorry. Yes, it’s dated. The clothes are horrendous. But the dialogue is still pretty snappy, and the stories are still great. So, while my dear husband was waiting out the stomach virus (or food poisoning?), I was having a Miami Vice marathon. I watched 12 of the 22 episodes. What a blast!

Interesting tidbit: you all know my love for 24. Well, turns out, Joel Surnow who is an executive producer and writer for 24 was also a writer and executive producer for Miami Vice in the first season, at least. Hmmm. I’m curious now to know what else he’s written and produced. Turns out to include: Wiseguy, The Equalizer, St. Elsewhere, Falcon Crest, The Commish, among others. So it seems my mom and I enjoy his writing. We both watched Wiseguy and The Equalizer. The Hagerman Family also watched St. Elsewhere, back in the day.

The best part is seeing the actors who played some of the non-regular characters: Jimmy Smitts as Sonny’s partner who gets killed in the pilot, Belinda Montgomery as Sonny’s ex-wife (Doogie Howser’s mom), Ed O’Neill, Suzy Amis (The Usual Suspects), Bruce Willis, Michael Madsen, John Pankow (Ira in Mad About You), Evan Handler (Charlotte’s husband in Sex and the City), Joan Chen, John Turturro, Ving Rhames.

So, yeah, that about sums up the weekend.

Also big thanks go to my mom who brought leftovers from her own Easter feast to us last night. Good stuff!

What I aspire to.

I started this little blog for similar reasons to many people. I fancy myself a writer. By jebus, I even have a degree in it! “No!” you might say. Having read this for the last little while, there’s absolutely no way this woman has a degree in anything that would have taught her to string sentences together in an orderly and interesting fashion. But yes. I do indeed have a bachelors in magazine journalism, photojournalism (a little more talent there, I think) emphasis, and English minor. You would think I’m a better writer than this. Hmmm.

Well, regardless of all that, I do believe that I can identify good writing. I feel the same about music; can’t play it, but can hear it. Better about the writing, though. I don’t know enough about music’s guts to really differentiate the great from the legendary. With writing, I can feel lots of different levels. I certainly have my preferences as to style, but even if I don’t like it, generally I can spot some sort of ability. I know this sounds so self-involved and pretentious, but I’m getting to something here. (See what I mean about my own talents. Rambler.)

James Lileks.

That is who I’m talking about. He is not a novelist. He is a columnist and blogger. His is my favorite blog. I don’t visit every day, because it’s really just ramblings on his daily life. Not unlike many of ours. However, about once a week, he says something that just hits me. Usually it’s something that 100 other people have said. But he just has a way of making it different.

Today, was not one of those days. Today he was talking about something I’ve only heard in passing and only heard talked about a couple of times, with very little interest. I cried. Yes, I cried because of James Lileks' description of … Mahler’s Tenth Symphony. No kidding. I put this here, not only because of the writing, but also because the majority of the three or four of you who read my blog are trained musicians. I’m sure you’re more familiar with this symphony than I am, and Lileks’ description may affect you even more. I don’t know. Whatever. On with the goods…

Odd how I keep writing tonight, even though my quotient of things-to-say is
obviously more dribblicious than usual; I blame the Shuffle. A few nights ago I
stopped writing because the Shuffle came up with the first movement of Mahler’s
Tenth, a piece so suffused with regret and farewell it makes the Ninth sound
like the opening number in a vaudeville revue. You realize that the Ninth was
not the big goodbye; that was just Mahler picking up his hat and coat and
walking to the door. The Tenth is hard to take. It’s easy to say “he knew he
was going to die” – well, yes, but the thought does occur to the rest of us from
time to time, and even though he had a bad ticker, it’s possible he intended to,
you know, live to finish it. A suicide note it’s not. If anything, it’s a love
letter to everything about to be lost, and as personal as the sentiments are it
has none of the solipsism you associate with the self-obsessed. (He said,
sibilantly, by the sea-shore.) It’s the sound of someone feeling their life
unravel in the sunshine of an autumn afternoon. Best learned when you’re young,
I think. You can marinate in the pathos, which is like SO TRUE because
everything is GRIM in that noble tragic romantic way the herberts and phonies
never understand. When you’re middle-aged, it’s unnerving: previews of coming
attractions. Hard to listen to in your own dying days, I’d think. Me, I’ll
want the news and Benny Goodman, an assurance I’m leaving the world as messy and ingenious as the day I came in.

Stunning

Memories … blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

So we didn’t play one, but two games last night. The team that was playing after us didn’t have enough girls to play without forfeiting the game. So they successfully guilted me into playing for them. Half of our regular team chipped in for these guys, one of our girls played on the other team, and our first opponent’s goalie played for our opponent in the second game. I shouldn’t have been playing either game, actually. Turns out this cough was still hanging on and only waiting for me to exert the slightest bit of energy. I spent half of both games gagging in the goal, my body trying to decide between coughing and puking. It was so incredibly lady-like of me.

Well, we lost the first game pretty badly, and won the second game by one point. I would say one goal, but since the incredibly insulting rules of this league give two points for a goal scored by a girl, then I can’t say one goal. So one point it is. After all was said and done, I was exhausted, but somehow it felt great. Gotta get back to the gym.

So why the title of this post, you ask? Well, because last season, I ran into two of my former teammates. Their team was the one that I ended up playing against last night. Not only were they there last night (obviously), but as it turns out, one of our coaches is also playing the league. I know we typically lose touch with people because there aren’t enough reasons keep talking, emailing, whatever. Because of that, I wonder why it can be so great to see people you haven’t seen in ages. Certainly it makes sense if seeing them takes you back to a time that was wonderful. This is one of those situations. The years I played soccer as a Tophatter were just so incredible. Add to that the fact that before last season, I had not seen any of those people in more than 10 years. I was so happy to see Carey last night. I may have even been more affected seeing him than when I saw Jen and Leslie (the teammates) again. That’s what I find so interesting. I’m thinking that’s because he was a coach. He is about seven years older than us which was huge back then, but now we are closer in age, if that makes sense. I could always relate to Jen and Leslie, and the way we relate hasn’t changed. But now, I can relate differently to someone who is 36 when I’m 29, than when I was 16 and he was 23. We were talking about our marriages and his kids. There’s something intriguing about that. On the other hand, it’s not like Carey and I talked for more than three minutes at halftime.

I don’t know, is it really just all nostalgia? I guess so.

SPRING!

Spring is here, and so are the rains! That’s ok, though. Thunderstorms are so much fun. Soccer in them is interesting, but they should pass by the time my game happens tonight at 8:30. Hey, if anyone wants to come cheer Arsenal on, the place is Silverbacks Park. You can drink on the sidelines. Some players even drink during the games. Real laid-back place. Just say you’re there for co-ed, not the Latino league tournament. Don Taco has a stand there, though, so you can have dinner, too. See you all there, I’m sure!

Anyway, that’s about all that’s going on with me tonight. That, and House, of course. I’ll watch that when I’m back. I get to come into work at the regular time tomorrow, so that’s good. Had a 2.5 hour phone call with our Indian distributor, starting at 7:30am today. Thought it was at 7, so I was here a bit early. That’s ok, though; I’ve gotten a lot done. I should go home, but can’t interrupt this strangely productive day.

I think the rest of the week is going to be pretty quiet. I’m going to try to get back to the gym tomorrow night. It’s been too long, but I just didn’t want to push it with the cough and all.

A few things to do around the house – final details on painting our bedroom and the base boards around our hardwood floors.

Can’t wait for Easter. Get to see the inlaws for the first time since Christmas. It’s so sad, since they only live 50 miles away. It just hasn’t worked out. We even missed Dave’s Dad’s birthday. Well, we’ll finally get to go on Sunday, so that will be nice. I’m one of the lucky ones who loves my in-laws dearly. I think Dave’s pretty darn lucky, too, with my parents. It’s nice. I’ve been in relationships where this wasn’t the case, and it certainly makes things difficult.

Wow, I really am just rambling here. I’ll stop now.

Catching up

Let’s see, I’m finally getting over this cold that I’ve had for three weeks. Yippeee! Two nights in a row without cough medicine. This is a milestone.

What else. I just found out that a couple of my coworkers also love House. That fabulous show on Fox – Tuesday nights at 9. It’s a must watch. Dr. Gregory House is one of the best characters on tv. No question about it. Currently, he is only beaten out by Jack Bauer. Seems I’m quite the Fox fan. All three of my regular shows are on the network – Arrested Development (characters named Maybe, GeorgeMichael, Gob, and Buster), 24, and House. Two of the most original shows on tv, and one of the most fantastic characters. Wonderful stuff.

Finally, the thing that everyone is talking about: Terri Shiavo. No link because I can't find a single un-biased story at this point. I can’t comment about this specifically because I sit squarely on the fence on this one. I have major issues with Congress butting in after courts in the double-digits have made decisions on this, and the Supreme Court has rejected it. However, the legislative arguments aside, I certainly understand both sides, and not being a neurologist, I just can’t bring myself to come down with either argument. However, what I can do is get a living will put into place. I sat down Friday night to do this. Of course, the simplified verbiage in the questionnaire proved too difficult for me to decifer. So, it seems I’m in for a call to the lawyer to clarify. Scary thing is that she was only 26 when this happened to her. Dave and I should have done this long ago. But we are now, so there it is. I strongly encourage everyone out there to make your wishes known, in writing. Be very clear, so that you’re not left as a pawn between parents and a spouse who disagree.

Speaking of turning 30...

I think Stacy and I have finally nailed down the details of our little shindig.

Eight Years

Interesting realization yesterday. It’s been eight years since I graduated from college. Wow. If I think about it for just a second, it seems like only yesterday. But if I really sit and breakdown everything that’s happened, I realize that, yes, it has indeed been eight years. Incredible. At first, I want to say that it’s depressing. But you know, it’s really not. I’ve done a lot in those eight years. And I’m happy. I’m not saying I’m content, but I’m happy.

I’m never content. I just don’t think it’s in my nature. I always want to be doing more than I am, or I want to have done more than I have. Which keeps me moving forward.

Yep. I graduated eight years ago, and I’m happy. Now, on with the rest of my life (and helping Dave become happy, too). Oh, and did I mention that I’ll be 30 in a few months. Cool.

Quote for Today

If there is anything the nonconformist hates worse than a conformist, it's another nonconformist who doesn't conform to the prevailing standard of nonconformity.
-- Bill Vaughan

Comments

It seems I can’t comment on Russ’ or Dave D’s blogs. I’m getting an error message that their blogs aren’t found when I try. So, since that’s the case, I will comment here…

Regarding a statewide smoking ban, this was my comment to Russ yesterday:
Politicians don't give two *&^%s about what impact their legislation has in the real world. If they cared, they wouldn't ban smoking in bars in the first place. Smoke is annoying, and it annoys many people, and those people complain often. So they ban it. But it has nothing whatsoever to do with what science says about the effects of secondhand smoke. See below. Hat tip to Radley Balko...

“Australian medical researcher Raymond Johnstone looked at epidemiological data and determined that the rate of death from cancer among the wives of non-smoking men was 6 per 100,000. The rate of death among the wives of smoking men was 8 per 100,000. That means that the absolute risk of cancer due to the kind of prolonged exposure to secondhand smoke endured by a spouse is 1 per 50,000.
Now if you're an alarmist, you'd phrase that statistic like this: "SECONDHAND SMOKE CAUSES 33% MORE CANCER DEATHS."
If you're a realist, you'd phrase it as Johnstone does:
‘The most one can say about the alleged link between passive smoking and lung cancer is that if there is one, the it is so small that it is difficult to measure it accurately and the risk, if any, is well below the level of those to which we normally pay attention’
In the swell book The Tyranny of Health, Michael Fitzpatrick notes that you're more likely to get cancer from eating Japanese seafood (six times more likely), drinking tap water (two and a half times more likely), or eating mushrooms (fifty percent more likely) than you are from being the nonsmoking spouse of a heavy smoker.”

So if the non-smoking spouse of a heavy smoker’s chances of getting cancer increase so minimally as to be scientifically insignificant and difficult to measure, then what do you think science says about a non-smoking waiter or patron who spends less time bars than we can assume spouses spend together?

The politicians also never take into account that if there was such a large crowd of people who do not want to go to a bar with smoke, then smoke-free bars would be everywhere and would be successful. Why not give the market time to sort this out, instead of legislating us all into oblivion? If all the non-smoking obsessives spent as much money opening non-smoking restaurants and bars, as they have pushing legislation, they could be making a tidy profit. Offering an alternative is not their agenda. Banning all smoking is.

Don’t be surprised when coffee and alcohol are next. Personal responsibility has nothing to do with it. The government is here to make sure we don’t hurt ourselves.

Now, regarding Dave’s post about the conversation with the cleaning lady…

My daily conversation at 5:45 goes like this
Cleaning Man: Hello, Lady (in charming hispanic accent)
W: Hi, how are you?
CM: Good, how are you?
W: Good, thank you.
CM: Have a good night, Lady.
W: Thank you, have a good night.

Sometimes, the conversation begins with “Hola,” instead. I find it cute, but then again, I’m not kicking a nicotine habit. So, I can understand Dave’s frustration.

Kayaking through the marshes on St. Simon's. 

Adam and Dave riding on Jekyll's beach. 

Little gator friend at Harris Neck. We saw lots - at least 12. Most of them were about 4 feet long. The little ones were close to the shore, about 4 feet away. There were also two humongus ones about 100 feet out, sunning themselves on islands.  

Cough cough, hack hack

Will try to post pictures from the trip tonight, but we’ll see how that goes. You see, there’s a bottle of cough medicine with codeine in it, waiting for me at the pharmacy. It literally has my name on it. I can’t wait to meet him. Yay.

So, yeah, that’s really my big news. I’ve been sick for over a week now, and finally got my ass to the doctor, after my 5th night in a row of waiting up in fits of coughing. No fun. And now I’ve pulled a rib muscle from it. Joy.

In spite of this, the daytime is generally cough-free, and so I was able to enjoy the majority of our trip to St. Simon’s Island. We went down to Amelia Island (our puppy’s namesake), rented bikes and rode around Jekyll Island, rented kyaks and paddled around St. Simons, then stopped in Savannah (a friend’s dog’s namesake) and walked around. So you’ll see, there was a lot of doing things around islands. Probably not great for my bronchial issue, but I wasn’t going to spend my vacation in the hotel room.

See ya

Off to St. Simon's Island in a few moments. But only after printing all 72 pages of my tax return! Damn you gub'ment!

National Retail Sales Tax
Private Account Social Security

Damn you Republicans, you're just as bad as the Dems. It's all about power with you poeple. Not anything else. You gotta get yours for your constituents. I'm revoking my membership to the Republican party when I get back from my little holiday.

Until then, I will relax and celebrate our 3rd anniversary for a few days.

See y'all on the other side.