Experimental

So I Stay.

2011-12-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

When things are good, I have less desire to make a change -- but I can't help blunting my happiness by wishing that I was more able to appreciate it and enjoy it. I'm more likely to be strong when things are good, and this makes me think that I can endure the inevitable bad times to come. So I stay.

When things are bad, I become desperate for something to change -- but I get so wrapped up in hopelessness that I'm less likely to have the energy to do anything about it. Even when I do get the energy, it comes from a negative place of anger and frustrtation; I doubt any urge to change because it seems like self-destruction, like impulsiveness and waste. So I stay.

2011-12-06T15:59:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman.

All summer long, they made each other very happy, and made each other feel like anything was possible.

One day the woman said: build us a house, the winter is coming.

The man said: I'm not good at building things, but you make me feel like I can do anything.

The woman said: my love will give you everything that you need.

So the man began building. And the house started to take shape, and they began to imagine all of the wonderful times that they'd have when it was finished.

And it got later and later in the year, and colder and windier. And the house was far from finished.

The woman said: I can't stay out in the cold much longer. What's taking so long?

And the man said: I'm not good at building things. But keep loving me and I'll make it happen.

And the cold made the man's hands numb and his eyes water. He kept dropping his tools. And the cold made the woman's voice tremble and shiver when she asked about the house. And the house was far from finished.

And the man saw the woman that he loved freezing to death and knew that he couldn't finish the house before the winter. In a sudden fury, he smashed the frame and the house crumbled.

And they both looked at the wreckage and felt the cold.

The woman said: why did you do that?

The man said: I'm not good at...you shouldn't have made me...

And the woman said: You've destroyed my dreams. You broke your promise. I hate you.

The man said: I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.

And the woman said: Whatever. We're done.

send and receive

2011-12-01T03:51:00.000-08:00

checking the email

there are no new messages

and there won't be any more, ever

or maybe one day, once I've finally stopped checking

which is pretty much the same thing anyway.

the biggest joke

2011-08-09T04:12:00.000-07:00

the biggest joke

I was beating myself up

for not being more committed & dedicated

and then you gave up on us

now I'm so terribly alone

with the person that I'm only with

because I'm afraid of being alone

isn't that funny?

my toes were once my friends

2011-03-08T15:13:00.000-08:00

I saw them every day, or close to it. Clipping and knowing exactly when I'd gone too far, or when they were getting in need. I knew every inch of them.

There were the two big guys, one a tough bruiser and one a jovial party animal. The two little guys, one a quick-witted and slightly annoying sort, and the other a homely and quietly humorous runt who seemed to live to serve and be picked on.

There were the other six, fairly similar but each with his own character. One liked reading fiction, another was a history buff. One had been an all-star track guy in school, another was recovering from some sort of chemical addiction (we weren't sure exactly what, I think it was heroin but it may have been only prescription meds). Then there was the guy that liked to think of himself as a real ladies' man, but I never saw him with any better-than-average-looking women. The other one was probably gay, but didn't seem to have much of a need for a relationship. We could go on and on like this.

And now all I have are two feet full of strangers. Aging strangers. Almost alien in their color and consistency, today toughened and yellowed, with sick white patches of dry skin is flaking off. I probably couldn't pick out my feet from a lineup, as long as the other feet belonged to middle-aged Caucasian men (and maybe larger women).

When I clip my nails now it's like shaving off the excess dead skin from an increasingly- protruding cyst. I'm so lucky that I'm no longer young and sensitive enough to find it repulsive. But then again I only do it every two weeks or so.

Did I say they'd once been my friends? Maybe just co-workers or acquaintances, not a serious emotional connection. It's not that I miss them....not as much as I hate these foreign strangers that have taken their place.

Condolences on the Death of a Facebook Friend's Pet

2011-02-18T12:41:00.000-08:00

I don't know what to say. I know the things that I could say, and none of them would be helpful or appropriate.

The first thing that I think of is the loss of Hamlet, months ago, and that still makes me cry. But I kinda cry a lot anyway, probably a bit too much for an adult male, right?

Should I tell you it will get better? It won't. "Better" only equals a lack of immediate sorrow, an increasing ability to be distracted. "Someday" you'll achieve a comfortable detachment -- a recognition of memory, or a past emotional connection, that no longer moves you enough to cause much pain.

To me, that sounds natural and productive...and just as sad as the sorrow itself. It reminds me that our deepest loves are arbitrary, even fickle in the long term. Anything that means something to us now will inevitably be rendered more or less disposable, given enough time.

Should I tell you that the two of you will meet again? You won't.

This is the seductive belief that our loved ones are simply 'away', simply existing more or less as they were, but in some other, happier place. Nothing makes me hurt quite as bad as when I imagine that impossible reunion. I want it with all of my heart, nothing would make me happier, but I understand too well that it's just culturally-reinforced wishful thinking. Fuck you, Rainbow Bridge. And while we're at it, fuck the Church and fuck Karma too.

Our loved ones are gone. The brief time that they were here is over. It was deeply beautiful in a way that beats just about anything else life has to offer, and maybe that's partially because of how brief it really was...and partially because it was not widely shared.

On that note, please understand why I didn't join too eagerly in the chorus of well-wishers and respect-payers. I never really knew your animal companion, not even as much as I knew you (which was, all things considered, hardly at all). I am just one of hundreds of names on your 'friend's list', and the time when we could been called friends (i.e., without quotes) was long ago and far away, if it ever really existed at all.

This means two things to me:

1) what right do I have to impose? Sure, you expressed feelings 'in public', a sort of invitation to join in your grief. I'd feel rude and insensitive if I turned down an actual invitation of that sort, but that's not really how 'electronic relationships' work. Please understand that my silence is more reverent than any half-assed message on your 'wall' could ever be.

2) the place that people will tell you to look forward to, where you can remember your loved one without the emotion really affecting your life anymore? I'm now pretty much in that place as far as you're concerned. Time and separation have removed almost all of my capacity to move you, to mean something to you. Whatever remnants you hold on to, from long ago and far away, would they really be honored by infrequent, impersonal, disposable text messages?

Apart from all that, I come back to my own feelings and thoughts about Hamlet.

When strangers (and 'friends') discover that I recently lost a pet, I can pretty much count on either awkward attempts at condolences, or their almost pathological need to share similar experiences. I do understand the sympathy, and the need to relate...but none of you really Know. How could you? You weren't with me during the love, and you weren't with me during the loss. Everything else is objective, impersonal, cerebral -- one or two steps removed, at best.

Hamlet continues to shine for me. That's mine, not anyone else's. Go ahead, call it selfish, call it dwelling...

Saying that he would have wanted me to be happy is meaningless. He wanted to be loved, and he showed what seemed like affection, and he seemed more likely to be happier when I was happy...but I have no illusion that he was complex enough to have 'wished me well'. He was all about 'now', and that now is done for him.

My only worry is that I'll envy him too much. Free of all capacity for suffering, emotional and physical -- that's a big plus. The only problem is that you lose the potential for any more wonderful 'nows' like that, ever again. That's why I feel sad for him, and I guess that's also why I should try not to feel too sad for myself -- so that I'll have more chance to gain (and lose) another Wonderful Now before I'm gone, and maybe offer that chance to others.

But I am sorry, not because I know how you feel, but because I know how I feel.

five months to go, more or less

2011-01-26T12:48:00.000-08:00

So I was browsing the Jeep website last night. I'm thinking about getting another Wrangler Unlimited when my lease runs out, later this year.

They don't have the same green for the 2011 models that my current Jeep has (uh, "Jeep Green"? Why wouldn't they offer that?) but that's really neither here nor there. The point is: when I was checking and unchecking all of the little options, I had to pause at "Smokers Group". You know, the cheap option to include an ashtray and cigarette lighter.

Because by the time I get this new Jeep, I will have quit smoking.

Yep, that's right. I'd always planned to quit smoking by my 40th birthday, in the same way that I'd always planned to shave my head once my hair started thinning. I don't like to talk about these kinds of things -- just in case talking about it makes it less likely, make it another of the promises to myself and others that I hyped and never kept.

Well, my head is shaved...and 40 seems a good arbitrary choice. A young smoker can balance out the nasty elements with some amount of natural health and grace, but an old smoker is just all-around pathetic. And unlike the 30s, 40 is the age when nobody (except possibly an even older old person) can still call you young.

I also vaguely plan to be more active, sooner or later, and that will require as much health and energy as I can get. Smoking for me has been one excuse for being too sedentary; like junk food and cola, it fits right in with watching TV or sitting at a computer for hours on end. So in addition to the direct health benefits, there are indirect effects to look forward to.

Plus, it's become pretty expensive, and I'm a cheap bastard at heart. I don't dare think of the money that I could have saved over the years...well, to be honest, the money that I could have wasted on other things.

I've never really cared about the damage that I was doing to my body. I always figured that I'd die fairly young no matter what I did. For better or worse, it looks like I still have some time in this world...and I'd rather not spend it with a hole in my throat, a voice box, or carting around an oxygen tank...

...like my mother. Still sad to hear, but it's not exactly a big surprise that she's on oxygen, although she gave up smoking several years ago. I guess quitting doesn't automatically eliminate risk, huh? Maybe I'll have better luck by quitting earlier. And of all of the dead family members, not one death was specifically due to smoking...okay, heart disease took a few. Including a few non-smokers, for whatever that's worth.

All-in-all, smoking is probably the single most consistent embarrassment of my adult life. I feel more ashamed of the habit than I do of my habitual unemployment. It's not the violations against discipline, reason, and my hatred of waste (although those things definitely contribute). It's the symbolic spiteful rebellion against anyone and everyone that disapproves or mocks; it's the stupidest possible expression of my individuality. And the shameful furtiveness that goes along with it. The last thing that I need is another motivation to hide and flee from actual human contact.

At the same time, it's a link to the past -- in general ("remember when most people smoked?"), and to my personal memories of family and home and childhood. It's a link to my teen years, when I first started smoking, and when I first started gravitating towards the less-broadly-acceptable parts of the road less traveled. Not exactly a peer pressure thing, although I'm sure it took the edge off of socializing with other smokers (in many cases, we had little else in common).

In college, it was an artsy, party sort of thing to do. Plus, there was also an element of taboo fetishism creeping in -- smoking and sexuality were somehow linked in my mind, and have been ever since. That's another thing that I'd like to change, or at least minimize, in the time that I have left. I'll probably always be turned on by the sight of a woman smoking, but that doesn't mean that I have to do it myself...

Anyway, I was going to NOT talk about it too much. I could get more frank at this point, but I think I've covered everything well enough. Suffice it to say that I will be quitting smoking when I turn 40 (and not a minute before, lol) and it will be difficult in some ways, but it's almost guaranteed to make me feel better, physically and emotionally, in the long run.

So while I dread having to do it, I'm also looking forward to it...maybe it will help balance out some of the bad things that I know are coming (although I'll probably want to smoke even more once they actually happen...those situations and long-distance driving will be the biggest tests).

choice and innovation

2011-01-23T07:09:00.001-08:00

I just realized that arguments in favor of capitalism have shifted from often promoting "choice" to promoting "innovation" instead.

Good move. It's a little too easy to find evidence to prove that the net effect of production and marketing is actually anti-choice. Even with the Internet's increased room for diverse and niche markets, the slim profit margins of such things mean that the balance of power is still vastly in favor of a small number of big companies.

By focusing instead upon the 'stimulating' effect of competition on innovation, it no longer matters if that innovation only comes from a small handful of sources, or requires big-budget marketing to create a demand in an ambivalent population, or amounts to little more than new ways to create disposable, wasteful, meaningless money sinks.

The 11 Commandments (Rules of the Earth) of LaVeyan Satanism

2011-01-21T02:32:00.001-08:00

First of all, I am not a card-carrying member of the Church of Satan. LaVeyan Satanism is all about intelligence and individualism, so being a 'member' is a bit like being a 'believer' in atheism...

Anyway, I still find plenty of value in the principles. Intelligence and individualism are two attributes which I value very highly, and which I believe are under an insidious, sustained attack in my society (call it The Modern World, The Western World, whatever).

1. Do not give opinions or advice unless you are asked.

This is especially difficult for me, with my habitual interjections and urge to play "Devil's Advocate". It can be extremely exasperating to hear or read statements of sloppy thinking and outright falsehood. Perhaps I merely desire attention, and/or want to be seen as some sort of authority on certain topics.

I've heard 'Satanist' interpretations that regard this as a more or less disposable rule, which is admittedly consistent to the spirit of Satanism, but seems to miss the point -- which to me is: shut up and listen, and let idiots say and think whatever they want.

If you really believe that what you have to say will be helpful or revelatory, you may consider this as being tacitly "asked".

2. Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.

Basically, 'don't be a complainer'. While I've certainly been accused of 'whining' in the past, I am far more likely to keep my internal conflicts to myself (unless you count my writing, which is only slightly more social than complete silence). I aspire to only express my problems (internal or external) by way of solving them.

The dilemma for me is to recognize when the answer lies outside myself...and if so, where it can best be found. In my experience, friends (even the most sympathetic) simply do not want to hear your random complaints. If you are (like me) helpful by nature, you will ultimately resent being told problems that you cannot do anything about, or if your seemingly-sought advice falls on deaf ears. And pointless commiseration is all too often a way to sink to the lowest common denominator, rather than to rise to either person's potential.

3. When in another’s lair, show him respect or else do not go there.

A man's home is his castle. If you enter someone else's 'space', you are being given the opportunity to see and understand their individual way of living. Again: shut up and listen. You are no longer in a public place.

Even if you observe your host doing or being something in direct opposition to your beliefs, or those of the society in which you both live, you should maintain a respectful tone and behavior. If you find you cannot do this, consider yourself unwelcome.

4. If a guest in your lair annoys you, treat him cruelly and without mercy.

Simply an extension of #3. Satanists do not believe in 'turning the other cheek', and a disrespectful guest is an attack upon the host.

I am personally in favor of mercy, and deplore cruelty (unnecessary cruelty, and a fair amount of so-called 'necessary' cruelty as well; "the truth hurts" is a great example of a rationalization often used to mask your pleasure at someone else's suffering).

However, I sincerely feel that there should be far more leeway for retribution when someone disturbs or mocks your personal space, compared to the same disturbance in a public setting, or in someone else's space. See Rule 11.

5. Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.

This one can be tricky. Like many nerds, I've had a very difficult time recognizing the mating signal, or knowing the right thing to do from there.

On the other hand, unwelcome or even just casual sexual advances are rather obviously disrespectful. I resent being made to feel uncomfortable by such advances, and I regret the negative fallout usually caused by rejection.

I can only imagine how much this is compounded when one feels a potential danger in the situation (the classic example is a woman feeling threatened by a man, but there are many dangers that have nothing to do with physical size and strength, just as there are many women who can take care of themselves against many men. And obviously, not all sexual advances are heterosexual!).

Ultimately, if there is any question that your advances may be unwelcome, you are advised to err on the side of restraint and respect.

6. Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries out to be relieved.

This may be my favorite, simply because it is inherently ambiguous and controversial.

The definition of 'theft' is one which traditionally supports waste -- and by that I mean selfish hoarding, conspicuous displays of affluence and materialism. I place myself at odds with many Satanists by my rejection of the 'holiness' of personal property. I am largely in favor of digital 'pirating' and consider many of the goods of modern industry to be disposable and meaningless, and therefore debatable as personal possessions.

I have far more respect for the few cherished possessions of a poor man than I have for the vast inventories of wealthy people and corporations -- to me, 'personal possessions' implies a certain amount of care and attachment, regardless of any printed receipt or legal right.

7. Acknowledge the power of magic if you have employed it successfully to obtain your desires. If you deny the power of magic after having called upon it with success, you will lose all you have obtained.

This is even trickier. Satanism is all about intelligence, and reason will tell you that a belief in 'magic' is an unhealthy superstition that denies the true forces of cause and effect in the world.

However, Satanism's ritual magick may be less akin to primitive superstition than it is to an entirely different set of beliefs. For one thing, the most intelligent among us admit that our understanding is limited about the real forces that compose and influence our existence. A Nobel Prize-winning theoretical physicist may have very little insight into the power of art and emotion, and the sum total of our knowledge (even if it could be generally understood by any given person) is still not comprehensive.

So by 'magic', we may be using a shortcut to express the way in which we can effect changes without a scientific understanding of the underlying processes -- something that each of us does all throughout each day. The next time someone slights magic, ask them to explain how cell phones really work. Unless you're talking to one of the relatively few people who understand wireless digital communication, the answer may as well be 'magic'.

Can we make things happen simply by exerting our will? I believe that I have, and I also believe that there are ultimately concrete causes and effects that could explain such things in more rational terms. They escape pure 'scientific' explanation simply because they may be far too subtle and immeasurable, and not reproducible. Therefore, they can be called 'magic', and one would be a fool to deny them.

The latter half of this rule is also problematic, as one would think that results are results whether or not you deny the actual process that created them. Perhaps the loss is a personal one, in that "what you have obtained" means more than simply the desired result, but also a belief and acknowledgement of the forces that enabled you to obtain it.

You can come up with a system and find success with it, but without an understanding of what makes it work, you are at the mercy of any of the variables changing unexpectedly. This is basically what separates real intelligence from the mere ability to learn the rules well and follow them diligently.

8. Do not complain about anything to which you need not subject yourself.

Very similar to Rule 2. Ask yourself: do you REALLY care about the thing that you're protesting, and does it actually affect your existence in any meaningful way? This is equivalent to "if you don't like the program, change the channel or turn it off".

There are all sorts of things that get me worked up, and half of the time I'm simply looking to get worked up by something, anything. If you have any control over the situation, work to change it more to your liking. If you don't have control, ask yourself: can you simply leave the situation? If the answer is no, then perhaps it's acceptable to complain. I'd still prefer not to complain at all, but sometimes that is the only sort of control you possess.

9. Do not harm little children.

I've read some Satanists who explain that this was included to address the semi-hysterical view that Satanism is synonymous with child abuse and sacrifice. Whatever the case, this is undoubtedly a good rule. Decent people will never struggle to keep it in mind, and anyone unhealthy enough to consider harming children will probably be beyond the capacity to follow such rules anyway. Seems clear cut enough.

However (and this is kind of a huge exception), you may wish to ask yourself to what extent your actions contribute to the harming of children. Perhaps you buy goods provided by a corporation that is indeed harming children, via labor practices, pollution, support of a violent political regime, lobbyists for policies that cause children to suffer, and so on. In that case, you may in fact be harming children simply by your lifestyle. Can you improve this situation in any way?

10. Do not kill non-human animals unless you are attacked or for your food.

Heh heh. Yes, it does say "non-human animals", implying that the rule does not prohibit murder. I'll leave that part alone, because many people immediately object to my view that human life is not inherently sacred or precious. Plus, I think it leaves far too much leeway for a military excuse, which I reject (for one thing, the military is typically anti-intellectual and anti-individualist, requiring a person to violate ethics and reason almost by definition).

One of the extremely attractive aspects of Satanism for me is that human beings are rightly regarded as animals. While we have advantages that some or all other species lack, we also have complimentary disadvantages (who hasn't envied wings, or a hard shell, or the ability to breathe underwater, for example?). The circumstances that enabled us to assume dominance over this period of evolutionary history are too often interpreted as license to impose, squander, and waste. This is a weakness, not a strength, and more people are beginning to recognize this as time goes on.

Plus, I love animals. I find them aesthetically, emotionally, and intellectually satisfying in countless ways. As a leather-wearing omnivore, I nevertheless respect and often regret the sacrifices that are made for my needs and my pleasure. An individual of any species should be able to make a significant contribution, rather than contribute to waste and meaninglessness.

Ideally, I would prefer to eat and wear only what I personally kill, but like most ideals, this is dramatically unrealistic. So I compromise by using 'animal product' as sparingly as my needs allow, and seethe at the thought of the excessive mass-production and waste that goes on simply to provide disposable consumer goods. It's not a happy compromise for me.

11. When walking in open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop, destroy him.

"Open territory" can be defined as public places, but this is not a precisely legal definition (especially with so few places being ultimately public). Part of this rule is meant to advise the common-sense view that looking for trouble usually ends up finding it. Also, don't be a pest.

Mine may be a particularly nuanced view, but I feel that this applies to the 'open territory' so regularly violated by commercial pursuits. Salesmen and advertisers (not to mention missionaries) are regularly encouraged to break this rule. I don't think that it takes too much of a stretch to regard the near-constant bombardment of our senses with commercial pleas as 'bothering us in open territory'. While it may seem like a rationalization, I find it perfectly justifiable to resist, even 'destroy' the sources of this bother.

I don't mean that one should kill door-to-door salesmen, but once you've made a 'good faith effort' to turn them away with respect and courtesy, you have fulfilled your ethical imperative. Any further bother justifies retribution (in my case, that usually involves nothing more violent than humor at their expense, and a rational critique of their product and pitch -- neither of which most salesman have any real defense against!)

shooting

2011-01-10T08:48:00.001-08:00

On Sunday, the media took a short break from their 24/7 schedule of atrocity and outrage in order to blame Republicans for creating a climate of violence. Because random violence against public figures is, as we all know, only as old as the Tea Party.

Everybody's happy with this scapegoat...except, of course, for the scapegoats. But even they can join in agreement that it was the fault of 'extremists' or 'crazies', so that the sickeningly dysfunctional status quo won't feel in any way responsible. This suits the media, this suits government, and this suits business -- and after all, who else matters?

Thanks to the inevitable diversion of taxpayer funds, any subsequent incidents will no doubt be met by increased security for elected officials and other government employees who are clearly more important than the rest of us.

Oh yeah, and keep showing your support and respect for Rep. Giffords' ordeal by insulting the state that she represents, as well as heaping as much scorn as possible onto one of her main beliefs: the right to bear arms.

2010-12-14T17:53:00.000-08:00

Perhaps freedom is giving everyone enough rope to hang themselves.

At the end of the day, those with their feet still on the ground shall inherit the earth.

2010-11-08T09:35:00.001-08:00

"By the time I knew depression was free, and that I didn't have to play trombone to be depressed, I'd imitated its "mood" for so long that I couldn't refuse the Damned Cloud when it did arrive. If you've been imitating the seeming cool, the detachment, and the languor, genuine depression won't be noticed until you tire of your pose. Bored with oceanic despair, you reach for the ladder back into the boat and you drown: no ladder." - Leo Kottke

it's funny because it's true. It's also sad because it's true (and funny)

2010-10-28T09:50:00.001-07:00

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/06/this-is-why-ill-never-be-adult.html

our patronizing revenge against the word

2010-10-20T14:46:00.000-07:00

All their lives, they've never learned the good of the written word.

As little children, books were associated with reluctant bedtime; as schoolchildren, boring old coercion. They'd always rather be playing. Pictures always better, moving pictures best of all.

Hard to believe anything good could ever come from writing. Look at the kids that did it too well or too much. Begging for jobs from us now unless they got smart along the way. At least the computer nerds turned out to be useful for making money. Look at the difference between publishing (dead or dying) and tech (unlimited growth) -- much better to pretend that you're a computer guy turned merchant manager salesman investor bully than a book guy turned merchant manager salesman investor bully

Well that's all behind now. They've learned the clever cautions of lip service and (buried grudging) tolerance -- books are like niggers and fags to them. Yeah, sure, we're all friends now. Are they out of range? Cruel laugh...

Look at all of the loser writers, whining about how hard it is. Anyone can do it. I'm sure I could, if I wanted to and had the time. What's the big deal anyway. ___ wrote a book and made money, after all. Marketing sells books, not the shit that's written in them which doesn't matter anyway. Books are like t-shirts and seminars and bumper stickers and plastic toys and cartoon shows and everything else...they're only good if they're bought and sold

they'll pay them back, conscious or unconscious, for all of the old wounds. Forcing them to learn, forcing them to read, forcing them to think about things...pretending those words are worth something that they just can't see, it's all a bluff, teachers and professors and artists all protecting their jobs by being so pompous and mysterious...there's nothing there, and since there's always more of them than ever before and they rule the world they can pay them all back and make sure that everybody knows it

or learns it the hard way

and they've beat their message into a lot of the teacher and professors already, by way of the

real deep true language of the street and the victim and the politics that takes the wind out of your old white sails and says real things that mean something, nothing long or complicated or that a child couldn't understand and okay we'll throw in plenty of nonsense that seems like poetry because that's all it ever was and we can pretend too so there

and the solid righteous pragmatic language of the boardroom and quarterly market report and legal medical useful these things are, unlike your puffed-up nonsense and all of that crap that never made anyone richer or live longer or put hair on my head or a rock in my cock

(and once, long ago when i was smaller, I had a second where I thought the words were becoming something new and strange inside my head and I had to kill it quick it scared me and I won't even let myself remember that now because i was helpless and stupid and small and alone and i'm so much bigger and stronger now and everything makes perfect literal sense or it's meaningless or at least kids stuff not fit for real life adult world)

BMI = BS

2010-10-14T10:01:00.001-07:00

Yep, I'm overweight. I'm not arguing.

I was carrying a little too much weight about 25 pounds ago. Oddly, I'm eating less and better than I was then, but I'm also significantly older (it ain't just the number of years, but the particular time of life) and I'm getting less exercise overall. So no real surprise or confusion as to where the extra weight came from.

Still, I was half-amused and half-indignant when I calculated my Body Mass Index. It was absolutely not accurate, which is an ironically modest way of saying that it gave me a ludicrous result. It may as well have told me that my ideal weight was 45 pounds.

I expected "overweight" as a foregone conclusion, and was prepared for the lower end of "obese". And that's what I got, so no big deal there.

What I didn't expect was when I typed in the weight that I carried for much of my adult life, and it still said "obese". Okay, I thought, so I was a little more out-of-shape all of those years than I thought. So it goes.

What I was confounded by was when I typed in my ultimate target weight -- the weight that I'd need to achieve in order to no longer think of myself as fat at all -- and it only dropped to "overweight". And not the edge of overweight -- the upper end of the range. I'd have to be over 5 inches taller before that weight would be considered "normal".

The two or three times in my life that I was at that weight, I was in pretty bad shape. As far as looks go, my head seemed gigantic and my bones showed through my skin. I was also in a bad frame of mind; even ignoring the fact that I was clinically depressed (up to and including suicidal), I was overly concerned about my health, to the point of neurosis.

I only call it my "target weight" because I imagine that I could potentially get there and maintain it without depression and anxiety, in the best of all possible worlds. I don't really expect to see it before the end of my life.

Of course, now I know that even if I do get there, I'll still be overweight. In fact, I'd be overweight for another 25-30 pounds UNDER that target weight. That's not encouraging.

It's also not realistic, and makes me deeply suspicious. That's something more than just 'somewhat inaccurate'...it's laughably wrong.

I guess if I went by the BMI, I'd have to come to terms with the fact that I will never, ever get to a "normal" weight unless I'm dying of some horrible disease or held in some sort of concentration camp.

For me, with a certain amount of perspective and a healthy criticism for 'official' guidelines, it's easy not to take it too seriously. I can only imagine what such wildly inaccurate and impersonal guidelines would do to someone who believed that the BMI had some value.

I can easily see where the BMI could do a lot of harm to someone, physically and mentally, who is trying to lose 75 pounds because it says that's where they should be, when dropping 25 pounds would get them to a perfectly healthy and attractive weight.

So folks, I don't know if the BMI works for you, but for me it's kinda like the Department of Transportation saying that 120 mph is the ideal speed for your commute. In other words, it ain't realistic, it ain't yer friend, and it ain't worth the electronic paper that it's printed on.

Going to the Beach with a Dog? (running list)

2010-10-12T09:42:00.000-07:00

Okay, here's something to look forward to: a trip with Brutus to the beach.

We took a look around the 'net for "dog-friendly beaches", as close as possible; for better or worse, that means Southern California. Luckily, the first or best or biggest 'dog beach' is right around San Diego (which I kinda liked, beats LA anyway) at a place called Ocean Beach. 24-hour off-leash beach with no human swimming allowed (i.e., fewer kids and random douchebags-- perfect!)

Anyway, I'm starting this blog to jot down notes, especially about stuff to remember to take with us. The plan is still in a very early stage (though we're actually excited and really planning to do it, which for us is ten times as close to firm and fixed plans as we usually get!).

his tags. We need to make a name tag, but he's got his rabies thing already.
collar and leash
Camera. A must. And extra batteries and an extra memory card.
water for Brutus and us. Probably at least one bottle and one dish. Ugh, I didn't even think about the fact that he'll try to drink the salt water...diarrhea for the trip home...
so at the very least, one towel. Always know where your towel is.
probably a small package of wipes, too.
one or more servings of Brutus' food and pills, depending on how long we'll be away
and his dog bed, if we're staying overnight (very likely)
treats and toys? Probably not too much. Maybe a plush favorite to ride and sleep with, and a few treats in case we need positive reinforcement, but he has a problem with possessiveness. So we'll stick to sand for throwing Sandballs. And they'll probably provide that...
disposable bags for poop
a little container of lemon juice if he gets too worked up (we had packets at some point...)
hmm, shoes, sandals, or bare feet? I have two out of the three...
sunscreen. Even though we're planning to go in mid-winter, still essential.
glasses would be easier all around...but if I want sunglasses, I'll need to bring all my contact lens stuff too. Plus, I'll have to buy some sunglasses.
a bag big enough to carry this stuff in, small enough not to be a hassle at the beach.
cell phone chargers (and cell phones, but I doubt we'd forget those)

steady state economics quotes

2010-10-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

I cannot, therefore, regard the stationary state of capital and wealth with the unaffected aversion so generally manifested towards it by political economists of the old school.

If the earth must lose that great portion of its pleasantness which it owes to things that the unlimited increase of wealth and population would extirpate from it, for the mere purpose of enabling it to support a larger, but not a better or a happier population, I sincerely hope, for the sake of posterity, that they will be content to be stationary, long before necessity compel them to it.

- John Stuart Mill

The day is not far off when the economic problem will take the back seat where it belongs, and the arena of the heart and the head will be occupied or reoccupied, by our real problems - the problems of life and of human relations, of creation and behavior and religion.

- John Maynard Keynes

It is a confusion of ideas to suppose that the economical use of fuel is equivalent to diminished consumption. The very contrary is the truth.

- William Stanley Jevons
(Jevons Paradox: with increased technological efficiency comes increased -- not decreased -- use of resources)

Quotes from Lord Acton

2010-10-08T09:38:00.000-07:00

“Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
"Great men are almost always bad men."
“The strong man with the dagger is followed by the weak man with the sponge.”
“There is no worse heresy than the fact that the office sanctifies the holder of it.”
“There is not a soul who does not have to beg alms of another, either a smile, a handshake, or a fond eye.”
“The one pervading evil of democracy is the tyranny of the majority, or rather of that party, not always the majority, that succeeds, by force or fraud, in carrying elections.”
“Be not content with the best book; seek sidelights from the others; have no favourites.”
"The science of politics is the one science that is deposited by the streams of history, like the grains of gold in the sand of a river; and the knowledge of the past, the record of truths revealed by experience, is eminently practical, as an instrument of action and a power that goes to making the future."
“And remember, where you have a concentration of power in a few hands, all too frequently men with the mentality of gangsters get control. History has proven that. All power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”
"The issue which has swept down the centuries and which will have to be fought sooner or later is the people versus the banks."
"The danger is not that a particular class is unfit to govern: every class is unfit to govern."
"Liberty is not the power of doing what we like, but the right to do what we ought."
"There is no error so monstrous that it fails to find defenders among the ablest men."
"Save for the wild force of Nature, nothing moves in this world that is not Greek in its origin."
"Socialism means slavery."
"At all times sincere friends of freedom have been rare, and its triumphs have been due to minorities, that have prevailed by associating themselves with auxiliaries whose objects differed from their own; and this association, which is always dangerous, has been sometimes disastrous, by giving to opponents just grounds of opposition."
"There is not a more perilous or immoral habit of mind than the sanctifying of success."

He Shines Now

2010-09-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

Hamlet died at about 9:20pm on Tuesday, September 7th, 2010.

He was probably between 10 and 11 years old, though as a Rescue Dog we can't know for sure.

He was an exceptional and loving companion to us. Words won't ever suffice.

We've been dreading this event for some time; I couldn't help imagining all of the horrible, ugly, nasty things that could happen. All things considered, it was actually something of a relief that it turned out as well as it did -- we were all together, at our home, and he did not seem to suffer much or for very long.

And there were other details, too, that became strangely beautiful and precious despite the sadness.

Labor Day was a three-day weekend. We all had fun together -- in retrospect, it seems like we had more fun than usual. We played, we went for a ride, we hung out. Hammy was active and happy more consistently than he'd been for months (rivaling the burst of activity he enjoyed right after his first laser treatments).

Tuesday was a stormy day in Las Vegas: very dark, with sudden showers. This is unusual enough in itself, but also because it seemingly came out of nowhere -- it was sunny and clear before, and it has been ever since. We complained, but only because we had to work; my wife and I love bad weather.

I remember being a bit restless, a little on edge, all throughout the day. That's not completely uncommon, especially for the first day after the weekend, but it must have been bad enough to mention it in a text message to my wife.

Due to a scheduled "open house", my wife had to stay at school much later than usual. We didn't feel completely comfortable with leaving the dogs alone for so long, so I decided to leave work an hour and a half early. Though we're no strangers to coming home to poop on the floor, we'd like to keep that from happening whenever possible...

Text message to my wife at 4:41:

I'm home, the guys are fine, no messes, and I got the cat litter.

at 4:42:

...But Hammy started pooping within minutes (he waited until i got them outside, luckily)

at 6:01:

Everybody is chillin' here, waiting for you :)

My wife came home at approximately 7:25pm. When the second person arrives, the dogs are more likely to get excited. Plus, it was a little late for their usual 7pm dinner time, which is something that everybody always looks forward to.

The dogs got their usual medications (just a pill or two for the arthritis), Brutus got a full bowl of food, and Hammy got a sprinkle of new kibbles on top of his untouched breakfast bowl. They both ate heartily, and soon had to go outside. It was probably around 8pm by this time.

My wife took the dogs out to the back yard. When she came back inside, she mentioned that Hamlet was gagging.

All of our animals have been known to vomit from time to time. We don't even bat an eye when the cats cough up a hairball, and both Brutus and Hamlet have the habit of eating too quickly and barfing up some barely-digested kibbles afterwards. So a little retching is not a completely uncommon sound at our house.

Plus, we believe that the dogs may have come down with a minor cold or something a few weeks ago. We all felt a tiny bit under the weather, a little more likely to have a runny nose and crusty eyes (Hamlet's eyes were the worst -- but he wasn't producing tears any more, so we were constantly flushing out eye-gunk anyway). Both dogs had been coughing or gagging a little bit, here and there. It worried us, but never seemed serious or frequent enough to take further steps. Anyway, most of this had pretty much cleared up over the last week or so.

So we weren't immediately panicked by a little gagging. I've seen each of the animals wander around, seemingly searching for the perfect place to puke, and that's pretty much what we assumed Hamlet was doing.

It soon became obvious that something else was happening. I thought I noticed some swelling around his belly, but it was difficult to be sure (at first). He was restless, but that also was not unusual for him when we were all home, especially in the evening when it was hot.

He kept heaving, wandering to a different spot, and retching again. I tried to induce vomiting, but nothing came up. After a few minutes of watching him inside the house, my wife took Hamlet out the front door. They were outside for several minutes, longer than the usual poop trip. She was growing more concerned; I came out and waited with Hamlet while she went back inside.

I could see that he was definitely bloated, and his tongue was hanging out of his mouth in an unusual way. I put my finger down his throat one last time -- still unproductive. After a few minutes, I decided to coax him back inside. Instead, he laid down on the ground -- something he almost never did outdoors -- and I saw his tail start to wag slightly. That was exactly the signal that I'd been dreading for years, and I think I said "oh, don't do that..." out loud.

Now virtually certain that this was The Time, I picked him up as gently as I could and brought him inside. Kate says that he walked the few steps to his blanket in the dining room and settled down. I was already looking up emergency veterinarians; it was right around 9pm.

A few years ago, I had taken Brutus to Craig Road Animal Hospital when he hurt himself after-hours. It's nearby, and I don't think I was disappointed with the care. Meanwhile, my wife was also calling our usual vet's 24-hour line; the hospital that they recommended was too far away.

We got ready to leave very quickly. I lifted Hamlet in my arms; he was surprisingly light, none of the usual awkward positions or uncomfortable struggling. About halfway to the jeep, I felt him urinate a little on my arm. My wife opened the tailgate, I set him down gently and we took off.

The trip was quick but not quick enough. Though there was plenty of traffic, the night seemed very dark and quiet, as if it was much later. About halfway there, Kate told me that she didn't think he was breathing. I really didn't know what to say, so I told her we were almost there. Both of us pretty much knew that he was already gone.

I carried him into the clinic, I think I remember someone coming from inside to hold the door. It was empty except for us, for which we were distantly grateful. A woman brought us directly into a room in the back, and we told the vet the details. It was maybe 9:30pm at most.

The vet was really sweet; she seemed shaky, like she was scared or about to burst into tears. Nevertheless, she was very professional as well as kind and understanding; she and another woman guided us through all of the necessary details without ever seeming insensitive.

The vet took him away to attempt CPR, but I wouldn't allow myself even a desperate tiny hope. I could only hug my wife, who had started crying when she began to explain the situation to the vet. We simply waited, devastated, hearing bad music from the back room. My wife called her brother, who himself had lost his beloved dog not many years before. It was just before 10pm.

After a short time, the vet came back and explained the situation: bloating is really, really serious for many dogs because of the strain and blockage on the surrounding organs. In Hamlet's case, there was no twisted stomach to worry about (the vet hypothesized that it may never have twisted, or may have un-twisted itself during transport & examination), but his heart and lungs and blood supply were cut off...and as a bulldog, he didn't have as much room in there.

There was a question about how long the vet should keep trying. I didn't want to give up too early, but I also knew that there was no hope. Perhaps a younger, stronger Hamlet could have put up more of a fight...but he was an old dog, tired and weakened by countless little things.

Even if we'd taken him to the vet at the first sign of trouble, there's no guarantee that we could have done any better. Or, in the vet's words, that we would have even wanted him back in that condition, with whatever caused the problem still potentially lurking in there. It had already been fifteen minutes or more since my wife had noticed that he wasn't breathing.

So I allowed the vet to call it.

I was apprehensive when she offered to bring him back into the room, but my wife wanted it to happen. I'm so glad that she did. Apart from his tongue, which was a bit discolored, everything was exactly the same as if he'd simply decided to take a nap. His fur, his bulk, his features -- everything felt the same as we petted him for the last time. I'll never forget feeling his toes and paw pads, which he'd never let me do before. It was all so overwhelmingly sweet and sad and beautiful.

I'm sure we could have stayed with him for another hour or two, or all night, but after ten minutes or so it started to feel a little long, and too quiet. He was cooling.

I poked my head though the back door of the exam room and let a woman know that we were ready. Eventually, the vet and another woman came and wheeled him away for the last time. We watched him go through the back door of the exam room and down the hall, just as we'd done on so many previous vet visits. Only this time, he wouldn't be coming back, all patched up, eager to bust through the door and get back to love and food and naps at home.

We left the vet at about 10:15 or 10:20. The whole trip had taken about an hour.

My wife says that she thinks that he died on his blanket in the dining room. I think that's probably true, but I also wonder if he died in my arms on the way to the Jeep. Either way, I'm pretty sure that when he finally stopped gagging and laid down, he knew at least that we were all there with him. Out of all of the things that I dreaded for him, dying alone was the worst -- and it didn't happen.

He didn't even die with strangers, or in a strange place with strange noises and smells; he died where he had his happiest times, with the ones that he loved and who love him. If my wife is right, he even died on his beloved blanket, only inches from his beloved food bowl.

Neither of us went to work the next day, and we barely ate or slept. We spent hours talking about him, and crying, and marveling at how oddly appropriate and precious the experience had turned out to be, despite the terrible crushing sadness of the loss.

We talked about how full his life was, how much he gave us, and how greedy it seemed to want any more. We talked abut how he had been struggling, in mind and body, for the last few months. How now there was no more pain, no more anxiety.

In a day or two there would be pictures and videos to laugh and cry over, but that night it was just the two of us, closer perhaps than we'd ever been. A perfect final chapter.

At some quiet point I had a mental picture of Hamlet walking away, down the hallway past the laundry...maybe a memory of watching him going to visit my wife in the bathroom.

I noticed a faint light coming from him, glimmering in the dim hallway of my memories. I realized that he was beginning to shine.

Irish Songs

2010-09-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

Continuing from the bottom of the last post, yes, I may have a chance to sing for a Celtic Rock band. It sounds like it could be great fun, especially since I'd pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to play live music for the rest of my life.

Immediately after the euphoria of actually being wanted, the good old drawback machine in my head began its inevitable clanking and chugging, cranking out concerns about my voice, my skills, my knowledge, my looks, my social skills, my age, how this will affect my family and work life (such as it is).

Plus, I'm suspicious of a band that asks for my picture for the website before they've even heard whether I can sing at all. And to top it off, I don't have a single picture that is suitable (which may or may not equal 'flattering').

But be that as it may, it's a good a chance as any for me to learn a few songs. I should know more songs; there's few enough to which I can sing every lyric from beginning to end, despite knowing the music by heart. Lyrics have just never been terribly important to me compared to the overall musical impression (thus my attraction tor foreign-language music and the Cocteau Twins).

But here we go, with a quick (and eventually more conveniently-presented) list of a bunch of Irish lyrics that I aim t' know by heart or die tryin':

Whiskey in the Jar

(not a huge personal favorite, mind you, but a fun song and one that seems to be a standard. The lyrics of traditional songs often change, but this is The Dubliners' version)

As I was a goin' over the far famed Kerry mountains

I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting

I first produced my pistol and I then produced my rapier

Saying "Stand and deliver" for he were a bold deceiver

Chorus:

musha rig uma do ruma da

whack fol the daddy-o

there's whiskey in the jar

I counted out his money and it made a pretty penny

I put it in me pocket and I took it home to Jenny

She sighed and she swore that she never would deceive me

But the devil take the women for they never can be easy

(Chorus)

I went up to my chamber, all for to take a slumber

I dreamt of gold and jewels and for sure 't was no wonder

But Jenny drew me charges and she filled them up with water

Then sent for captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter

(Chorus)

't was early in the morning, just before I rose to travel

Up comes a band of footmen and likewise captain Farrell

I first produced me pistol for she stole away me rapier

I couldn't shoot the water, so a prisoner I was taken

(Chorus)

Now there's some take delight in the carriages a rolling

and others take delight in the hurling and the bowling

but I take delight in the juice of the barley

and courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early

(Chorus)

If anyone can aid me 't is my brother in the army

If I can find his station in Cork or in Killarney

And if he'll go with me, we'll go rovin' through Killkenny

And I'm sure he'll treat me better than my own a-sporting Jenny

(Chorus)

Step it Out Mary (Sean McCarthy)

(a tragic song with a good beat, as done by The Dubliners. Perfect!)

In the village of Kilgory, there's a maiden young and fair

Her eyes they shine like diamonds, she has long and golden hair

But the countryman comes riding, rides up to her father's gates

Riding on a milk-white stallion, he comes at the strike of eight.

Chorus:

Step it out, Mary, my fine daughter

Step it out, mary, if you can

Step it out, Mary, my fine daughter

Show your legs (arse?) to the countryman

I have come to court your daughter, Mary of the golden hair

I have gold and I have silver, I have goods beyond compare

I will buy her silks and satin and a gold ring for her hand

I will buy for her a mansion, she'll have servants to command

I don't want your gold and silver, I don't want your house and land

I am going with a soldier, I have promised him my hand

But the father spoke up sharply: You will do as you are told,

You'll get married on the Sunday and you'll wear that ring of gold

In the village of Kilgory there's a deep stream flowing by

On her marriage day at midnight she drowned with her soldier boy

In the cottage there is music, you can hear her father say:

Step it out, Mary, my fine daughter, Sunday is your wedding day.

The Auld Triangle (Brendan Behan)

(a personal favorite, I'm not sure exactly why. The lyrics are from The Pogues' version)

A hungry feeling

Came o'er me stealing

And the mice were squealing

In my prison cell

And that auld triangle went jingle-jangle