This morning I made my usual walk from the World Trade Center station to the subway station where I embark on the last leg of my morning commute. As I walked down Fulton Street I noticed something odd. It was definitely morning. I was definitely walking East. I mentally confirmed both of these multiple times, I know my limitations before I've had my first cup of coffee. Why, then, was my shadow in front of me. (Think about it, if you're facing East, and the sun is rising, as it normally does, in the East, the sun should be in front of you and your shadow behind you.) The light also had a strange, almost artificial, quality similar to a halogen lamp rather than true sunlight. I looked back over my shoulder and found that there was a tall glass building behind me, the sun's rays were reflecting off of that building and shining right down Fulton Street.
Odd, but oddly cool.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Rhythms
No, this is not a discussion of natural methods of birth control, bear with me.
Last week my wife and I were in Bethany Beach, Delaware for family vacation (us, her parents, and her three brothers with their wives and children, sixteen people all together). We go on such a vacation almost every year, and I’ve learned that if I want to do something by myself the best time is in the morning, since very little happens until after lunch. Last week was a treat for me; I had an opportunity to do some surf fishing. For the uninitiated, surf fishing involves fishing from the beach, casting your bait into the water beyond the surf. I hadn’t gone surf fishing in over twenty years (since I was in college), but when I was in Junior High and High School my father and I would go surf fishing every other Saturday (when the tides were favorable) all summer.
I’d forgotten how much I love the seashore, in particular spending time on the seashore actually doing something that involved the ocean (as opposed to sitting in a chair reading a book). The seashore is a place of rhythms. There’s the obvious (to a fisherman) twice-daily ebb and flow of the tides, high to low and back to high with the transitions between. Within that is the rhythm of the waves, watching the rod tip as the waves hit the line and bend the rod down, to the unaccustomed it looks like a fish bit (the difference is subtle and nearly indescribable, but obvious once you’ve gotten into the rhythm). Superimposed over the rhythm of the waves, every few waves two will combine to send the water higher up the beach than the others (a good reason to fish barefoot in warm weather or in boots in cool weather). Then every hour or so a wave will wash up even higher, probably hitting your belongings and, if you’re smart or lucky enough to have put them on the downhill side away from the water, washing them further up the beach. Of course if you were neither smart nor lucky, your stuff might well wash out to sea.
There’s something primal about standing there on the seashore, dealing with the ocean on her own terms. If you try to drag your fish to the beach against the under-tow you may snap your line, you have to hold it in place until the flow reduces. Likewise, you have to reel like crazy when the incoming wave hits your fish or the line may slacken enough for the fish to get off the hook (and my personal rule is that if I didn’t hold the fish in my hands I didn’t catch it). You can’t control the ocean; sharks have fed well on those who tried. You can’t even reach an agreement with her, the best you can do is react to her changing moods.
On our last day (when I didn’t get a chance to fish) we were near the beach and I noticed that the surf was rough and the water quite choppy compared to previous days. I noticed that the weather was very much like it had been earlier in the week. There must’ve been a storm somewhere over the horizon that caused the rough water. Had I gone fishing that day I’d have needed a heavier sinker to keep my bait from being washed in. As always, the ocean set the rules, and I could’ve done nothing but react to them.
Last week my wife and I were in Bethany Beach, Delaware for family vacation (us, her parents, and her three brothers with their wives and children, sixteen people all together). We go on such a vacation almost every year, and I’ve learned that if I want to do something by myself the best time is in the morning, since very little happens until after lunch. Last week was a treat for me; I had an opportunity to do some surf fishing. For the uninitiated, surf fishing involves fishing from the beach, casting your bait into the water beyond the surf. I hadn’t gone surf fishing in over twenty years (since I was in college), but when I was in Junior High and High School my father and I would go surf fishing every other Saturday (when the tides were favorable) all summer.
I’d forgotten how much I love the seashore, in particular spending time on the seashore actually doing something that involved the ocean (as opposed to sitting in a chair reading a book). The seashore is a place of rhythms. There’s the obvious (to a fisherman) twice-daily ebb and flow of the tides, high to low and back to high with the transitions between. Within that is the rhythm of the waves, watching the rod tip as the waves hit the line and bend the rod down, to the unaccustomed it looks like a fish bit (the difference is subtle and nearly indescribable, but obvious once you’ve gotten into the rhythm). Superimposed over the rhythm of the waves, every few waves two will combine to send the water higher up the beach than the others (a good reason to fish barefoot in warm weather or in boots in cool weather). Then every hour or so a wave will wash up even higher, probably hitting your belongings and, if you’re smart or lucky enough to have put them on the downhill side away from the water, washing them further up the beach. Of course if you were neither smart nor lucky, your stuff might well wash out to sea.
There’s something primal about standing there on the seashore, dealing with the ocean on her own terms. If you try to drag your fish to the beach against the under-tow you may snap your line, you have to hold it in place until the flow reduces. Likewise, you have to reel like crazy when the incoming wave hits your fish or the line may slacken enough for the fish to get off the hook (and my personal rule is that if I didn’t hold the fish in my hands I didn’t catch it). You can’t control the ocean; sharks have fed well on those who tried. You can’t even reach an agreement with her, the best you can do is react to her changing moods.
On our last day (when I didn’t get a chance to fish) we were near the beach and I noticed that the surf was rough and the water quite choppy compared to previous days. I noticed that the weather was very much like it had been earlier in the week. There must’ve been a storm somewhere over the horizon that caused the rough water. Had I gone fishing that day I’d have needed a heavier sinker to keep my bait from being washed in. As always, the ocean set the rules, and I could’ve done nothing but react to them.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Something I Thought I'd Share
Like most Americans, I'm comfortable with measuring temperatures in Fahrenheit and must less so in Celsius (or Centigrade if you prefer). If someone tells me it's 22 F I can translate that into "cold", 85 F as "warm" and 110 F as "crap it's hot". If I encounter a Celsuis temperature I'm much less certain, what's 28 C? Now my cell phone is equipped with a unit converter, but I'm not going to whip that out every time I need to do a conversion (I'm nerdy, but not THAT nerdy). I know the formula, multiply the Celsius temperature by nine-fifths and add 32, but multiplying by nine-fifths in your head is hard.
Well, here I offer to my readers (both of them) an easy method to convert Celsius to Farenheit in your head. I don't pretend it's original, the math works so I can hardly be the discoverer of it, but I've never seen it anyplace else before. You can use it with precise numbers to get a precise conversion, or you can use close-enough numbers to get an idea of what kind of temperature we're talking about.
Here goes: Take your Celsius temperture, double it, subtract ten percent, and add 32. Each of these steps is easy to do in your head especially if you're doing a close-enough conversion.
Let's do an example, 28 C. Doubling 28 gives us 56. Ten percent of 56 is 5.6, subtract that from 56 and you get 50.4, add 32 and you get 82.4. That's a precise conversion, exactly what you'd get using the usual formula (in fact you ARE using the usual formula, just doing so in a way that's easy to do in your head). Suppose you don't need an exact number, your British friend just told you it's 28 C today. Call it 30 C (close enough), double it to 60, subtract 6 (ten percent of 60) to get 54, add 32 and you get 86 and bear in mind that you're a little high (because you rounded your original number up). So you know it was pretty warm, but not extremely hot.
I told you I'm a nerd.
Well, here I offer to my readers (both of them) an easy method to convert Celsius to Farenheit in your head. I don't pretend it's original, the math works so I can hardly be the discoverer of it, but I've never seen it anyplace else before. You can use it with precise numbers to get a precise conversion, or you can use close-enough numbers to get an idea of what kind of temperature we're talking about.
Here goes: Take your Celsius temperture, double it, subtract ten percent, and add 32. Each of these steps is easy to do in your head especially if you're doing a close-enough conversion.
Let's do an example, 28 C. Doubling 28 gives us 56. Ten percent of 56 is 5.6, subtract that from 56 and you get 50.4, add 32 and you get 82.4. That's a precise conversion, exactly what you'd get using the usual formula (in fact you ARE using the usual formula, just doing so in a way that's easy to do in your head). Suppose you don't need an exact number, your British friend just told you it's 28 C today. Call it 30 C (close enough), double it to 60, subtract 6 (ten percent of 60) to get 54, add 32 and you get 86 and bear in mind that you're a little high (because you rounded your original number up). So you know it was pretty warm, but not extremely hot.
I told you I'm a nerd.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Junk Science
Each morning I pick up a free newspaper on the way to work, it gives me something to do on the subway. Yesterday’s newspaper contained an article stating that the number of tropical storms and hurricanes has been increasing, and that this increase is due to “human induced climate warming”, also known as “global warming”. It should come as no surprise that I consider the “science” of global warming to be sloppy at best and intentionally dishonest at worst, but let’s take a closer look.
The study in question gave a chart showing average yearly number of tropical storms and hurricanes for three time periods. First, from 1905 thru 1930 there were an average of 6 tropical cyclones and 4 hurricanes per year. From 1931 thru 1994 there were an average of 10 and 5, and from 1995 thru 2005 there were an average of 15 and 8 respectively. On the face of it one might be tempted to say something really is happening, that the number of storms has been increasing for the last hundred years.
Do you see anything wrong with those numbers? Before 1930 (the earliest timeframe reported) the most common method of identifying a storm was for a ship in the ocean to see it or get caught in it. Ship owners don’t like their vessels to get caught in hurricanes because they don’t make any money from cargo that’s at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Shipping lanes, therefore, tend to avoid those areas where large-scale storms are more likely to form. For the first twenty-five years of the study (and the entire first data-point) the primary method for identifying storms intentionally avoiding being in a position to report the storm. Up until the 1960’s (half-way thru the second time period reported) storm identification still relied on ships and airplanes were also added to the mix. Airplanes also try to avoid large storms for the same reasons ships do, so while more storms could be identified and reported the means of identification still avoided the areas where they were most likely to have something to report. Only in the 1960’s did we begin to put weather satellites into orbit, and newer satellites have gotten more sophisticated and provide greater coverage. From 1995 thru 2005 (comprising only ten percent of the total time period reported on) we can now see a hurricane form anywhere in the world, for the first time we can be sure of a full and accurate count of the number of storms that form.
The scientific principle known as “Occam’s Razor” states that given two possible explanations the simpler one is likely to be the correct one. Apply that principle and ask yourself which is more likely given the information I provide above: are there really more hurricanes and tropical cyclones each year, or have there always been about the same number of storms but we’re now in a position to identify them all?
The study in question gave a chart showing average yearly number of tropical storms and hurricanes for three time periods. First, from 1905 thru 1930 there were an average of 6 tropical cyclones and 4 hurricanes per year. From 1931 thru 1994 there were an average of 10 and 5, and from 1995 thru 2005 there were an average of 15 and 8 respectively. On the face of it one might be tempted to say something really is happening, that the number of storms has been increasing for the last hundred years.
Do you see anything wrong with those numbers? Before 1930 (the earliest timeframe reported) the most common method of identifying a storm was for a ship in the ocean to see it or get caught in it. Ship owners don’t like their vessels to get caught in hurricanes because they don’t make any money from cargo that’s at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Shipping lanes, therefore, tend to avoid those areas where large-scale storms are more likely to form. For the first twenty-five years of the study (and the entire first data-point) the primary method for identifying storms intentionally avoiding being in a position to report the storm. Up until the 1960’s (half-way thru the second time period reported) storm identification still relied on ships and airplanes were also added to the mix. Airplanes also try to avoid large storms for the same reasons ships do, so while more storms could be identified and reported the means of identification still avoided the areas where they were most likely to have something to report. Only in the 1960’s did we begin to put weather satellites into orbit, and newer satellites have gotten more sophisticated and provide greater coverage. From 1995 thru 2005 (comprising only ten percent of the total time period reported on) we can now see a hurricane form anywhere in the world, for the first time we can be sure of a full and accurate count of the number of storms that form.
The scientific principle known as “Occam’s Razor” states that given two possible explanations the simpler one is likely to be the correct one. Apply that principle and ask yourself which is more likely given the information I provide above: are there really more hurricanes and tropical cyclones each year, or have there always been about the same number of storms but we’re now in a position to identify them all?
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Mom
I wanted to post this on Tuesday, but my web access was problematic, and yesterday I was too busy, so here it is, better late than never.
July 24, 2007, would have been my mother’s eighty-eighth birthday had she not died in 1990. Mom lived in a very different world than we do, she was a throwback to an earlier era. She actually wasn’t even modern for her own era. Let me give you some examples.
She never learned to drive.
She was born in Staten Island, NY (part of NYC) and lived there her entire life. She died within a few miles of where she was born. The furthest she ever traveled from Staten Island was into New Jersey near the Pennsylvania border. Think about that for a moment, she never once, in her entire life, had to reset her watch because she’d entered a new time zone.
She dropped out of high school. Actually, her parents TOOK her out because she was the second oldest of ten children (and the oldest girl) so she needed to be home to help care for her younger siblings. This was considered no big deal because the experience she’d get with child rearing and household management was more useful than the stuff she’d learn in school.
Despite her lack of education, she was an incredibly intelligent woman. She could handle household finances better than anyone I ever knew.
She talked about roller skating with her friends over the Bayonne Bridge (connecting Staten Island to Bayonne NJ) the day it opened in 1931. She was 13.
She talked about riding in the “rumble seat” of a car.
The only time I knew her to sleep in a bed outside of her home was when she was hospitalized with the illness that eventually killed her (brain cancer). She did so when she was younger and her parents had a house in Flanders, NJ (imagine people going to Flanders NJ on vacation?). I don’t think she EVER stayed in a hotel.
In 1949, at age 30, her first husband died suddenly, leaving her with two sets of twins and a baby on the way. She went on Welfare. Welfare then wasn’t like it is now, she wasn’t permitted to buy “real” milk for her children, she had to buy powdered milk. No cookies, candy or other treats. The Welfare office would send people to her home to check.
Some time later she took a job as a housekeeper in Edgar Lutheran Home, part of which was an “old people’s” home. Basically it provided a room for an elderly person, with meals in a dining room, but no nursing care. The other part was a nursing home. One of the people in the “old people’s” home was a woman by the name of Gertrude, she was a widow of a Lutheran minister. Her son Harold would travel from Hoboken, NJ to Staten Island to visit his mother. He joked that the first time he saw my mother she was on her knees cleaning under his mother’s bed, that’s when he decided he had to marry her.
They married on January 7, 1960. I came along three and a half years later.
July 24, 2007, would have been my mother’s eighty-eighth birthday had she not died in 1990. Mom lived in a very different world than we do, she was a throwback to an earlier era. She actually wasn’t even modern for her own era. Let me give you some examples.
She never learned to drive.
She was born in Staten Island, NY (part of NYC) and lived there her entire life. She died within a few miles of where she was born. The furthest she ever traveled from Staten Island was into New Jersey near the Pennsylvania border. Think about that for a moment, she never once, in her entire life, had to reset her watch because she’d entered a new time zone.
She dropped out of high school. Actually, her parents TOOK her out because she was the second oldest of ten children (and the oldest girl) so she needed to be home to help care for her younger siblings. This was considered no big deal because the experience she’d get with child rearing and household management was more useful than the stuff she’d learn in school.
Despite her lack of education, she was an incredibly intelligent woman. She could handle household finances better than anyone I ever knew.
She talked about roller skating with her friends over the Bayonne Bridge (connecting Staten Island to Bayonne NJ) the day it opened in 1931. She was 13.
She talked about riding in the “rumble seat” of a car.
The only time I knew her to sleep in a bed outside of her home was when she was hospitalized with the illness that eventually killed her (brain cancer). She did so when she was younger and her parents had a house in Flanders, NJ (imagine people going to Flanders NJ on vacation?). I don’t think she EVER stayed in a hotel.
In 1949, at age 30, her first husband died suddenly, leaving her with two sets of twins and a baby on the way. She went on Welfare. Welfare then wasn’t like it is now, she wasn’t permitted to buy “real” milk for her children, she had to buy powdered milk. No cookies, candy or other treats. The Welfare office would send people to her home to check.
Some time later she took a job as a housekeeper in Edgar Lutheran Home, part of which was an “old people’s” home. Basically it provided a room for an elderly person, with meals in a dining room, but no nursing care. The other part was a nursing home. One of the people in the “old people’s” home was a woman by the name of Gertrude, she was a widow of a Lutheran minister. Her son Harold would travel from Hoboken, NJ to Staten Island to visit his mother. He joked that the first time he saw my mother she was on her knees cleaning under his mother’s bed, that’s when he decided he had to marry her.
They married on January 7, 1960. I came along three and a half years later.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Latest Meme
Sorry for the lack of posting, things have been a little nuts lately.
I found this on MorningGlory's site, so I decided to play.
WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No, but my middle name is my father’s first name. He didn’t want both of us answering when my mother called one of us.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Probably last January when my cat Bompy died.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? I don’t dislike it enough to try to change it.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Roast beef.
DO YOU HAVE KIDS? No, unless the cats count.
IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Honestly, probably yes, since I try to exhibit those qualities I admire in others.
DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Me? Sarcasm? NEVER! What could POSSIBLY make you think that?
DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes
WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Not for all the tea in China.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Right now, Honey Bunches of Oats.
DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Yes
DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Yes
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? It’s a toss-up, Ralph’s Butter Almond (Ralph’s is an ice cream place on Staten Island, NYC) or Hagen Daz Chocolate Swiss Almond (much easier to find).
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Facial expression.
RED OR PINK? Red
WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My lazy eye, I tend to be self-conscious about it, but getting is corrected would cause vision problems.
WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My parents
WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Blue chinos and black shoes.
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Honey Bunches of Oats with soy milk.
WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The air conditioner.
IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Sky-blue-pink.
FAVORITE SMELLS? Bread baking, and my wife’s hair.
WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My wife.
FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? Football
HAIR COLOR[S]? Brown with some grey
EYE COLOR? Green
DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Nope, never will either, I hate the thought of touching my eyes.
FAVORITE FOOD? My wife’s meatloaf.
SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Happy endings because I don’t care for what passes for scary movies these days.
LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? In the Theater, Ocean's Thirteen. On DVD, Letters From Iwo Jima. On TV, probably Men in Black last weekend.
WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Blue.
SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer, I hate snow.
HUGS OR KISSES? Hugs for everyone but my wife, hugs and kisses for her.
FAVORITE DESSERT? Anything chocolate
MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? No one
LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Everyone
WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? The Bourne Identity. I read it years ago (I think I was in High School), so I decided it was time for a re-read.
WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Nothing, it’s a plain grey pad with a wrist pad.
WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? I saw part of the Mets game, I really don’t recall what else.
FAVORITE SOUND[S]? Cats purring.
ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Stones, mostly because I dislike them less than the Beatles.
WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Either Aruba or Phoenix, AZ.
DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? I have very good instincts for when something isn’t right, like when someone is trying to BS me.
WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Staten Island, NY
WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? I’m not going to ask anyone, so….
I found this on MorningGlory's site, so I decided to play.
WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE? No, but my middle name is my father’s first name. He didn’t want both of us answering when my mother called one of us.
WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED? Probably last January when my cat Bompy died.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING? I don’t dislike it enough to try to change it.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT? Roast beef.
DO YOU HAVE KIDS? No, unless the cats count.
IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU? Honestly, probably yes, since I try to exhibit those qualities I admire in others.
DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT? Me? Sarcasm? NEVER! What could POSSIBLY make you think that?
DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS? Yes
WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP? Not for all the tea in China.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL? Right now, Honey Bunches of Oats.
DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF? Yes
DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG? Yes
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? It’s a toss-up, Ralph’s Butter Almond (Ralph’s is an ice cream place on Staten Island, NYC) or Hagen Daz Chocolate Swiss Almond (much easier to find).
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE? Facial expression.
RED OR PINK? Red
WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF? My lazy eye, I tend to be self-conscious about it, but getting is corrected would cause vision problems.
WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST? My parents
WHAT COLOR PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING? Blue chinos and black shoes.
WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE? Honey Bunches of Oats with soy milk.
WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? The air conditioner.
IF YOU WHERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE? Sky-blue-pink.
FAVORITE SMELLS? Bread baking, and my wife’s hair.
WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE? My wife.
FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH? Football
HAIR COLOR[S]? Brown with some grey
EYE COLOR? Green
DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS? Nope, never will either, I hate the thought of touching my eyes.
FAVORITE FOOD? My wife’s meatloaf.
SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS? Happy endings because I don’t care for what passes for scary movies these days.
LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED? In the Theater, Ocean's Thirteen. On DVD, Letters From Iwo Jima. On TV, probably Men in Black last weekend.
WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING? Blue.
SUMMER OR WINTER? Summer, I hate snow.
HUGS OR KISSES? Hugs for everyone but my wife, hugs and kisses for her.
FAVORITE DESSERT? Anything chocolate
MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND? No one
LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND? Everyone
WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW? The Bourne Identity. I read it years ago (I think I was in High School), so I decided it was time for a re-read.
WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD? Nothing, it’s a plain grey pad with a wrist pad.
WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON T.V. LAST NIGHT? I saw part of the Mets game, I really don’t recall what else.
FAVORITE SOUND[S]? Cats purring.
ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES? Stones, mostly because I dislike them less than the Beatles.
WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME? Either Aruba or Phoenix, AZ.
DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT? I have very good instincts for when something isn’t right, like when someone is trying to BS me.
WHERE WERE YOU BORN? Staten Island, NY
WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK? I’m not going to ask anyone, so….
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Feelings of Safety
It’s now over a week since a madman killed 31 people and himself at Virginia Tech. Much has been written about the failures that allowed this to happen, especially the fact that the gun which might have ended the rampage was prohibited on the campus by policy. The stated reason for this policy was so that the students could feel safe.
If there’s one thing every adult in the post-9/11 world ought to have figured out, it’s that there is no such thing as safety. When I leave my house to go to work, there’s no guarantee that I’ll survive the day. I could die of an undiagnosed medical problem, I could be murdered, I could be hit by a car, I could have a ten-pound chunk of cement fall from the ceiling and hit me in the head (this last one actually happened at an old job, thankfully it happened over the weekend when no one was around, someone came in on Monday and found a chunk of cement on his desk and a hole in the suspended ceiling). Since there’s no such thing as safety, any “feeling” of safety you may have is an illusion.
Since the feeling of safety is an illusion, what does that say about anyone who says he’s trying to make you feel safe? They’re doing at least one, and most likely two, things to you that you shouldn’t let anyone do.
First, they’re lying to you. They’re pretending that they can make you safe, when all they’re doing is feeding an illusion (an attractive illusion to be sure, but still an illusion). No one has the power to make you safe. The Supreme Court has ruled that even the police don’t have the responsibility to keep you safe, not even someone who’s under police protection at the time of their murder.
Second, they’re probably asking you to turn over some control over yourself in the interests of safety. It’s usually phrased as “I can keep you safe if …” followed by a requirement that you refrain from doing something. So we have gun-free zones in the interests of safety, where people give up their right to self-defense under the assumption that a would-be murderer will be deterred by the fact that guns are prohibited. We’re told we’ll be healthy if only we’re forced to eat properly. We’re told we’ll survive a car crash if only the government forces us to wear seatbelts and pay for safety equipment like airbags in our cars.
To make this deal, to give up a measure of control over yourself for the illusion of safety, is to make a deal with the Devil. You’re giving up something and getting absolutely nothing in return. In the case of gun-free zones, I believe you’re actually making yourself less safe because the criminal knows that he’s the only one there with the ability to apply deadly force. There’s a reason why these things happen in schools and not at, say, gun shows, police functions and Texas rodeos.
When we were children we needed to feel safe and secure, and most of us were safe with our families. Now that we’re adults we need to put aside childish things, childish fantasies, and see the world as it is. It’s a dangerous place, and wishing it was otherwise won’t make it so.
So what do we do? Suppose you knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there would be a fire in your kitchen today, and that nothing you could do would prevent it. What would you do? Would you declare your kitchen to be a flame-free zone? Probably not. You’d check your fire extinguisher or buy one if you don’t have one. You’d make sure there were fresh batteries in your smoke alarm. You’d stay home, and at the first sound of the smoke alarm you’d spring into action to put out the fire while it’s still small. There’s no guarantee that your house still wouldn’t burn down, but you’d do everything in your power to keep that from happening. You wouldn’t just make sure 911 was on speed dial and hit the button when you noticed flames, knowing that a great deal of damage would be done before the fire department could arrive.
We need to do the same thing regarding self defense. We need to put aside the notion that we are ever totally safe. We need to believe, deep inside, that it COULD happen to us. We need to equip ourselves to deal with such a situation. We need to develop a mindset for self defense (as Jeff Cooper said, you’re no more armed because you own a gun than you are a musician because you own a guitar). We need to develop the mindset that WE, and no one else, are our own first line of defense.
Lastly, we need to eliminate those silly laws that provide nothing but a feeling of safety while enabling people with no respect for the law to commit atrocities like we saw last week. We need to stop pretending that someone who will commit the worst crime it’s possible to commit will be stopped by a law against a lesser crime. We need to act like adults and demand that we be treated as such.
If there’s one thing every adult in the post-9/11 world ought to have figured out, it’s that there is no such thing as safety. When I leave my house to go to work, there’s no guarantee that I’ll survive the day. I could die of an undiagnosed medical problem, I could be murdered, I could be hit by a car, I could have a ten-pound chunk of cement fall from the ceiling and hit me in the head (this last one actually happened at an old job, thankfully it happened over the weekend when no one was around, someone came in on Monday and found a chunk of cement on his desk and a hole in the suspended ceiling). Since there’s no such thing as safety, any “feeling” of safety you may have is an illusion.
Since the feeling of safety is an illusion, what does that say about anyone who says he’s trying to make you feel safe? They’re doing at least one, and most likely two, things to you that you shouldn’t let anyone do.
First, they’re lying to you. They’re pretending that they can make you safe, when all they’re doing is feeding an illusion (an attractive illusion to be sure, but still an illusion). No one has the power to make you safe. The Supreme Court has ruled that even the police don’t have the responsibility to keep you safe, not even someone who’s under police protection at the time of their murder.
Second, they’re probably asking you to turn over some control over yourself in the interests of safety. It’s usually phrased as “I can keep you safe if …” followed by a requirement that you refrain from doing something. So we have gun-free zones in the interests of safety, where people give up their right to self-defense under the assumption that a would-be murderer will be deterred by the fact that guns are prohibited. We’re told we’ll be healthy if only we’re forced to eat properly. We’re told we’ll survive a car crash if only the government forces us to wear seatbelts and pay for safety equipment like airbags in our cars.
To make this deal, to give up a measure of control over yourself for the illusion of safety, is to make a deal with the Devil. You’re giving up something and getting absolutely nothing in return. In the case of gun-free zones, I believe you’re actually making yourself less safe because the criminal knows that he’s the only one there with the ability to apply deadly force. There’s a reason why these things happen in schools and not at, say, gun shows, police functions and Texas rodeos.
When we were children we needed to feel safe and secure, and most of us were safe with our families. Now that we’re adults we need to put aside childish things, childish fantasies, and see the world as it is. It’s a dangerous place, and wishing it was otherwise won’t make it so.
So what do we do? Suppose you knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that there would be a fire in your kitchen today, and that nothing you could do would prevent it. What would you do? Would you declare your kitchen to be a flame-free zone? Probably not. You’d check your fire extinguisher or buy one if you don’t have one. You’d make sure there were fresh batteries in your smoke alarm. You’d stay home, and at the first sound of the smoke alarm you’d spring into action to put out the fire while it’s still small. There’s no guarantee that your house still wouldn’t burn down, but you’d do everything in your power to keep that from happening. You wouldn’t just make sure 911 was on speed dial and hit the button when you noticed flames, knowing that a great deal of damage would be done before the fire department could arrive.
We need to do the same thing regarding self defense. We need to put aside the notion that we are ever totally safe. We need to believe, deep inside, that it COULD happen to us. We need to equip ourselves to deal with such a situation. We need to develop a mindset for self defense (as Jeff Cooper said, you’re no more armed because you own a gun than you are a musician because you own a guitar). We need to develop the mindset that WE, and no one else, are our own first line of defense.
Lastly, we need to eliminate those silly laws that provide nothing but a feeling of safety while enabling people with no respect for the law to commit atrocities like we saw last week. We need to stop pretending that someone who will commit the worst crime it’s possible to commit will be stopped by a law against a lesser crime. We need to act like adults and demand that we be treated as such.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Literacy Meme
From MorningGlory comes a meme about the books I've read. Feel free to add your own in comments or on your own blog. Rules: Bold any books you've read, if you've read other books by the same author, but don't delete anything.
The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
Emma (Jane Austen)
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
Sense and Sensibility
To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
LOTR: The Two Towers (J. R. R. Tolkien)
LOTR: The Return of the King (J. R. R. Tolkien)
The Hobbit (J. R. R. Tolkien)
The Silmarillion
The Book Of Lost Tales Vols. 1 & 2
Unfinished Tales
Anne of Green Gables (L. M. Montgomery)
Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
Dragonfly in Amber
Voyager
Drums of Autumn
The Fiery Cross
A Breath of Snow and Ashes
Lord John and the Private Matter
A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - currently reading
A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
The World According To Garp (John Irving)
The Hotel New Hampshire
Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
The Stand (Stephen King)
’Salem’s Lot
Night Shift
The Dead Zone
Firestarter
Cujo
Different Seasons
Christine
Skeleton Crew
The Green Mile
Hearts in Atlantis
Dreamcatcher
From a Buick 8
Misery
Desperation
Insomnia
Pet Sematary
The Tommyknockers
Gerald’s Game
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
The Langoliers
Needful Things
Thinner
Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë)
The Catcher in the Rye (J. D. Salinger)
Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
Little Men
The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
The Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Life, the Universe and Everything
So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish
Mostly Harmless
Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency
The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë)
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
Prince Caspian
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The Silver Chair
The Horse and His Boy
The Magician’s Nephew
The Last Battle
Out of the Silent Planet
Perelandra
That Hideous Strength
The Screwtape Letters
Mere Christianity
God In The Dock
Surprised by Joy
East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
The Red Pony
Tortilla Flat
The Pearl
Cannery Row
Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
Dune (Frank Herbert)
Dune Messiah
Children of Dune
God Emperor of Dune
Heretics of Dune
Chapterhouse: Dune
The Dragon in the Sea
The Santaroga Barrier
The Dosadi Experiment
The Jesus Incident
The White Plague
The Lazarus Effect
The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
We the Living
Anthem
1984 (George Orwell)
Animal Farm
The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
Lady of Avalon
Priestess of Avalon
The Forest House
The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
Eye of the Needle
The Key to Rebecca
On Wings of Eagles
Lie Down with Lions
Night Over Water
The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
The Valley of Horses
The Mammoth Hunters
The Plains of Passage
The Shelters of Stone
The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
The Bible (Most of it at least)
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
The Three Musketeers
Twenty Years AfterThe Vicomte of Bragelonne aka The Man In The Iron Mask
Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
Oliver Twist
Nicholas Nickleby
A Christmas Carol
David Copperfield
Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
Empire
Red Prophet
Alvin Journeyman
The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
Tim
The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
The Vampire Lestat
The Queen of the Damned
The Tale of the Body Thief
Memnoch the Devil
The Vampire Armand
The Witching HourLasher
The Mummy, or Ramses the Damned
Servant of the Bones
Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Márquez)
One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
Bridget Jones’s Diary (Helen Fielding)
Shogun (James Clavell)
King Rat
Tai-Pan
Noble House
Whirlwind
Gai-Jin
The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
In The Skin Of A Lion (Michael Ondaatje)
The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
Charlotte’s Web (E. B. White)
Stuart Little
The Elements of Style
Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
Watership Down (Richard Adams)
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
Blindness (Jose Saramago)
Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
The Matarese Countdown
The Road to Omaha
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Bourne Supremacy
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Matarese Circle
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Gemini Contenders
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
The Outsiders (S. E. Hinton)
That Was Then, This Is Now
Rumble Fish
Tex
White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
Ulysses (James Joyce)
The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)
Emma (Jane Austen)
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
Sense and Sensibility
To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
LOTR: The Two Towers (J. R. R. Tolkien)
LOTR: The Return of the King (J. R. R. Tolkien)
The Hobbit (J. R. R. Tolkien)
The Silmarillion
The Book Of Lost Tales Vols. 1 & 2
Unfinished Tales
Anne of Green Gables (L. M. Montgomery)
Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
Dragonfly in Amber
Voyager
Drums of Autumn
The Fiery Cross
A Breath of Snow and Ashes
Lord John and the Private Matter
A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J. K. Rowling)
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - currently reading
A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)
The World According To Garp (John Irving)
The Hotel New Hampshire
Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)
Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)
The Stand (Stephen King)
’Salem’s Lot
Night Shift
The Dead Zone
Firestarter
Cujo
Different Seasons
Christine
Skeleton Crew
The Green Mile
Hearts in Atlantis
Dreamcatcher
From a Buick 8
Misery
Desperation
Insomnia
Pet Sematary
The Tommyknockers
Gerald’s Game
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon
The Langoliers
Needful Things
Thinner
Jane Eyre (Charlotte Brontë)
The Catcher in the Rye (J. D. Salinger)
Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)
Little Men
The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)
The Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
The Restaurant at the End of the Universe
Life, the Universe and Everything
So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish
Mostly Harmless
Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency
The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
Wuthering Heights (Emily Brontë)
The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)
Prince Caspian
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The Silver Chair
The Horse and His Boy
The Magician’s Nephew
The Last Battle
Out of the Silent Planet
Perelandra
That Hideous Strength
The Screwtape Letters
Mere Christianity
God In The Dock
Surprised by Joy
East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
Of Mice And Men (John Steinbeck)
The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
The Red Pony
Tortilla Flat
The Pearl
Cannery Row
Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)
The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)
Dune (Frank Herbert)
Dune Messiah
Children of Dune
God Emperor of Dune
Heretics of Dune
Chapterhouse: Dune
The Dragon in the Sea
The Santaroga Barrier
The Dosadi Experiment
The Jesus Incident
The White Plague
The Lazarus Effect
The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)
Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
We the Living
Anthem
1984 (George Orwell)
Animal Farm
The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
Lady of Avalon
Priestess of Avalon
The Forest House
The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
Eye of the Needle
The Key to Rebecca
On Wings of Eagles
Lie Down with Lions
Night Over Water
The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)
The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel)
The Valley of Horses
The Mammoth Hunters
The Plains of Passage
The Shelters of Stone
The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)
The Bible (Most of it at least)
Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
The Three Musketeers
Twenty Years AfterThe Vicomte of Bragelonne aka The Man In The Iron Mask
Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt)
The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)
A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
Oliver Twist
Nicholas Nickleby
A Christmas Carol
David Copperfield
Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)
Empire
Red Prophet
Alvin Journeyman
The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)
Tim
The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
The Time Traveler’s Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)
The Vampire Lestat
The Queen of the Damned
The Tale of the Body Thief
Memnoch the Devil
The Vampire Armand
The Witching HourLasher
The Mummy, or Ramses the Damned
Servant of the Bones
Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Márquez)
One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Ann Brashares)
Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
Les Miserables (Victor Hugo)
The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)
Bridget Jones’s Diary (Helen Fielding)
Shogun (James Clavell)
King Rat
Tai-Pan
Noble House
Whirlwind
Gai-Jin
The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)
In The Skin Of A Lion (Michael Ondaatje)
The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
Charlotte’s Web (E. B. White)
Stuart Little
The Elements of Style
Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)
Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
Watership Down (Richard Adams)
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
Blindness (Jose Saramago)
Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum)
The Matarese Countdown
The Road to Omaha
The Bourne Ultimatum
The Bourne Supremacy
The Aquitaine Progression
The Parsifal Mosaic
The Matarese Circle
The Holcroft Covenant
The Chancellor Manuscript
The Gemini Contenders
The Road to Gandolfo
The Rhinemann Exchange
The Matlock Paper
The Osterman Weekend
The Scarlatti Inheritance
The Outsiders (S. E. Hinton)
That Was Then, This Is Now
Rumble Fish
Tex
White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford)
The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
Ulysses (James Joyce)
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Books
If you walk into the “spare” bedroom upstairs you’ll notice a number of book-cases that are tightly packed with books. If you look carefully you’ll notice that there is one author I have a lot of books by, in fact I have a copy of almost everything he’s written and have read them all, most of them several times. You might find it unusual that that author is Stephen King. You may even notice that I look quite a lot like Mr. King (actually, he’s a few years older than I am so I tend to look like he did a few years ago).
There’s a place deep in every human mind that dates back to our earliest ancestors who, while huddled together at night would see eyes gleaming just outside the range of the fire and wonder if those eyes belonged to wolves, or to something worse. It’s the instinct that makes the idea of a ghost in the next room more frightening than the idea of a hungry tiger in that room. Modern people build a high, solid fence around that portion of their psyche. They lock the gate with a strong padlock and throw away the key. Good horror stories break off the lock, throw wide the gate and prod that part of our minds, the part we try to pretend doesn’t exist, with a sharp stick.
One thing I like about Stephen King is the sheer variety of ways he finds to horrify us. We may know that vampires (‘Salem’s Lot), zombies (Pet Sematery) and malevolent clowns who hide in the sewers (It) don’t really exist. While we read these books we can chant to ourselves, over and over, like a mantra timed to the pounding of our hearts “It’s only a book, it’s only a book, it’s only a book” while we pretend that we’re shivering because we’re cold. We’re perhaps less certain about the reality behind a space-ship full of dead aliens who can inhabit human hosts (The Tommyknockers) or a final battle between good and evil after most of the human race is killed by a super-flu (The Stand). Then we find ourselves face to face with the reality that men really DO go insane and embark on a murderous rampage (The Shining), that St Bernards really DO go rabid and attack people in small cars (Cujo), that little girls really DO get lost in the Maine woods (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and that a woman really COULD get trapped naked and handcuffed to a bed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere after her kinky husband dies of a heart attack (Gerald’s Game). Reading such stories sends an icy finger down our spine as we consider that such a thing actually could happen.
A reader with a vivid imagination can read a good horror story and suspend disbelief long enough to wonder if such things really exist and explore how he or she would handle a similar situation. We can peek behind the door marked “Keep Out”, “No Trespassing”, and “Here There Be Dragons”, secure in the knowledge that after the book is done the door will once again be closed, locked, dead bolted and nailed shut with a chair under the door knob for good measure.
Until the next book.
There’s a place deep in every human mind that dates back to our earliest ancestors who, while huddled together at night would see eyes gleaming just outside the range of the fire and wonder if those eyes belonged to wolves, or to something worse. It’s the instinct that makes the idea of a ghost in the next room more frightening than the idea of a hungry tiger in that room. Modern people build a high, solid fence around that portion of their psyche. They lock the gate with a strong padlock and throw away the key. Good horror stories break off the lock, throw wide the gate and prod that part of our minds, the part we try to pretend doesn’t exist, with a sharp stick.
One thing I like about Stephen King is the sheer variety of ways he finds to horrify us. We may know that vampires (‘Salem’s Lot), zombies (Pet Sematery) and malevolent clowns who hide in the sewers (It) don’t really exist. While we read these books we can chant to ourselves, over and over, like a mantra timed to the pounding of our hearts “It’s only a book, it’s only a book, it’s only a book” while we pretend that we’re shivering because we’re cold. We’re perhaps less certain about the reality behind a space-ship full of dead aliens who can inhabit human hosts (The Tommyknockers) or a final battle between good and evil after most of the human race is killed by a super-flu (The Stand). Then we find ourselves face to face with the reality that men really DO go insane and embark on a murderous rampage (The Shining), that St Bernards really DO go rabid and attack people in small cars (Cujo), that little girls really DO get lost in the Maine woods (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon), and that a woman really COULD get trapped naked and handcuffed to a bed in a cabin in the middle of nowhere after her kinky husband dies of a heart attack (Gerald’s Game). Reading such stories sends an icy finger down our spine as we consider that such a thing actually could happen.
A reader with a vivid imagination can read a good horror story and suspend disbelief long enough to wonder if such things really exist and explore how he or she would handle a similar situation. We can peek behind the door marked “Keep Out”, “No Trespassing”, and “Here There Be Dragons”, secure in the knowledge that after the book is done the door will once again be closed, locked, dead bolted and nailed shut with a chair under the door knob for good measure.
Until the next book.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
RIP - Bompy
My cat Bompy died this morning. There was no indication that there was anything wrong with him, he was standing in the living room, fell over and was gone within minutes.
I found Bompy about twelve years ago. I was doing yard work in front of my house and sat on the steps to take a break. He was across the street, saw me, ran across the street, up the stairs and into my lap. I posted signs around the neighborhood, no one claimed him so he was mine. "Bompy" was an expression my father used for a hobo, it seemed to fit him. Since he was full grown when I found him I don't really know how old he was when I found him, the vet said about two or three if I remember correctly, so he was probably around 14 or so.
Bompy was all black, and a big, solid, muscular cat. He loved people, loved laps, and loved to be petted and scratched. He'd sit on my lap and I'd scratch his head, and he'd purr so hard he'd drool. He'd actually purr as he inhaled as well as when he exhaled, apparently he couldn't get enough purring done just on the exhale. He wasn't the smartest cat I've ever known, but he was certainly one of the most affectionate.
Bompy made my life richer by his presence in my life. I'm glad he died at home, surrounded by his people. I'm glad he died quickly and didn't suffer.
I suspect the other two cats (Algy and Snoball, both females) will be getting extra attention from my wife and I for a while.
"No heaven will ever heaven be, unless my cats are there to welcome me" - Anonymous.
I found Bompy about twelve years ago. I was doing yard work in front of my house and sat on the steps to take a break. He was across the street, saw me, ran across the street, up the stairs and into my lap. I posted signs around the neighborhood, no one claimed him so he was mine. "Bompy" was an expression my father used for a hobo, it seemed to fit him. Since he was full grown when I found him I don't really know how old he was when I found him, the vet said about two or three if I remember correctly, so he was probably around 14 or so.
Bompy was all black, and a big, solid, muscular cat. He loved people, loved laps, and loved to be petted and scratched. He'd sit on my lap and I'd scratch his head, and he'd purr so hard he'd drool. He'd actually purr as he inhaled as well as when he exhaled, apparently he couldn't get enough purring done just on the exhale. He wasn't the smartest cat I've ever known, but he was certainly one of the most affectionate.
Bompy made my life richer by his presence in my life. I'm glad he died at home, surrounded by his people. I'm glad he died quickly and didn't suffer.
I suspect the other two cats (Algy and Snoball, both females) will be getting extra attention from my wife and I for a while.
"No heaven will ever heaven be, unless my cats are there to welcome me" - Anonymous.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Back From Arizona
My wife and I took a trip to Arizona recently, we left on December 26 and returned on January 2. I didn't mention our trip beforehand because I'm not in the habit of advertizing, in a public forum, that our home will be empty for a week with someone coming in every other day to feed the cats and take in the mail. I'm seldom concerned about being paranoid, but I'm often concerned about not being paranoid enough.
Anyway, back to Arizona. We arrived in Phoenix, where we have friends, in the wee hours of December 27. We slept for a few hours, exchanged Christmas presents with our friends, and headed up to Sedona for a couple days. Sedona is about the prettiest place I've seen, with beautiful red rock formations. When you look out the window and can't see anything man-made in the distance you just decompress. We actually had snow while we were there, we took a pink-jeep tour (where you're in the back of an open jeep). We froze our collective butts off there, but it was a great time. There was a Christmas-light show where people decorated their homes and visitors voted on which was best.
Sedona apparently does have their fair share of nutters though, a bartender told us that on December 31, 1999 (the turn of the millenium for those who can't count) the road into Sedona was backed up by people who stopped their cars in sight of Bell Rock (the first major rock formation you see on your way into Sedona) and were banging on drums expecting Bell Rock to open up and a space ship to come out and take them away. Not that it would've been an entirely bad thing had that happened.
After our time in Sedona we returned to Phoenix. While the female halves of the two couples went shopping and to the movies for two days, the guys (Rick and I) went shooting at Ben Avery Shooting range. We had a great time, shooting everything from a .22 pocket gun to a Mauser rifle. The thrill for me was an SKS with a detachable 20 round magazine, which is illegal in NJ where I live. Shooting is fun, shooting with a good friend is funner. I have to admit that the SKS didn't impress me as much as I thought it would, I found it heavy, bulky, and I had to make a conscious effort to find the rear sight (as opposed to the Mauser where the rear sight was easy to find).
It was great to see a lot of couples and families at the range. One man was sighting in his daughter's 30 '06 which she'd so far used on an elk, a deer, and a javelina (pronouced hav-e-lina). His daughter is twelve years old. The people at the range run a very tight ship, very safety conscious which is as it should be. Every fifteen minutes they shut down the range so you can go out and change targets and such, during that time you can't handle any firearm that's not already in a hard case, meaning if your rifle is in a soft case (as ours were) you have to wait for the range to re-open to carry your gear to your car to leave. The range safety officer gets positively testy if he sees you touching a firearm during a ceasefire, again this is as it should be.
Things are different in Phoenix than they are in suburban New Jersey where I live. I always thought a cactus was pretty much like a thorn-bush, unless you blundered into it you had no trouble, and if you did blunder into it all you had to do was get out and your problems would be solved with band-aids. Not true. My wife brushed against a cactus in Sedona and found that cacti LEAVE their spines IN YOU. These particular spines were hair-thin, we used tape and tweezers to remove them and she kept finding more for a couple days. Second, there is one variety of cactus (I think it was the "Teddybear Hoya") that, due to differing static charges, will jump on to you and latch on. Great, predatory plants. Once you get off the beaten path there are things around that can put a serious hurt on you, like rattlesnakes, scorpions and spiders. Thankfully, none of these things WANT to hurt you, you have to go out of your way to annoy them enough to hurt you.
I also learned that the Saguaro cactus is pronounced Swar-oh.
Other than that we saw some sights and spent time with our friends. New Year's Eve was quiet, we watched the Times Square ball drop at 10:00 and they rebroadcast it at midnite.
All in all a good time was had by all.
Maybe I can talk my wife into adding some of her perceptions to the comments.
Anyway, back to Arizona. We arrived in Phoenix, where we have friends, in the wee hours of December 27. We slept for a few hours, exchanged Christmas presents with our friends, and headed up to Sedona for a couple days. Sedona is about the prettiest place I've seen, with beautiful red rock formations. When you look out the window and can't see anything man-made in the distance you just decompress. We actually had snow while we were there, we took a pink-jeep tour (where you're in the back of an open jeep). We froze our collective butts off there, but it was a great time. There was a Christmas-light show where people decorated their homes and visitors voted on which was best.
Sedona apparently does have their fair share of nutters though, a bartender told us that on December 31, 1999 (the turn of the millenium for those who can't count) the road into Sedona was backed up by people who stopped their cars in sight of Bell Rock (the first major rock formation you see on your way into Sedona) and were banging on drums expecting Bell Rock to open up and a space ship to come out and take them away. Not that it would've been an entirely bad thing had that happened.
After our time in Sedona we returned to Phoenix. While the female halves of the two couples went shopping and to the movies for two days, the guys (Rick and I) went shooting at Ben Avery Shooting range. We had a great time, shooting everything from a .22 pocket gun to a Mauser rifle. The thrill for me was an SKS with a detachable 20 round magazine, which is illegal in NJ where I live. Shooting is fun, shooting with a good friend is funner. I have to admit that the SKS didn't impress me as much as I thought it would, I found it heavy, bulky, and I had to make a conscious effort to find the rear sight (as opposed to the Mauser where the rear sight was easy to find).
It was great to see a lot of couples and families at the range. One man was sighting in his daughter's 30 '06 which she'd so far used on an elk, a deer, and a javelina (pronouced hav-e-lina). His daughter is twelve years old. The people at the range run a very tight ship, very safety conscious which is as it should be. Every fifteen minutes they shut down the range so you can go out and change targets and such, during that time you can't handle any firearm that's not already in a hard case, meaning if your rifle is in a soft case (as ours were) you have to wait for the range to re-open to carry your gear to your car to leave. The range safety officer gets positively testy if he sees you touching a firearm during a ceasefire, again this is as it should be.
Things are different in Phoenix than they are in suburban New Jersey where I live. I always thought a cactus was pretty much like a thorn-bush, unless you blundered into it you had no trouble, and if you did blunder into it all you had to do was get out and your problems would be solved with band-aids. Not true. My wife brushed against a cactus in Sedona and found that cacti LEAVE their spines IN YOU. These particular spines were hair-thin, we used tape and tweezers to remove them and she kept finding more for a couple days. Second, there is one variety of cactus (I think it was the "Teddybear Hoya") that, due to differing static charges, will jump on to you and latch on. Great, predatory plants. Once you get off the beaten path there are things around that can put a serious hurt on you, like rattlesnakes, scorpions and spiders. Thankfully, none of these things WANT to hurt you, you have to go out of your way to annoy them enough to hurt you.
I also learned that the Saguaro cactus is pronounced Swar-oh.
Other than that we saw some sights and spent time with our friends. New Year's Eve was quiet, we watched the Times Square ball drop at 10:00 and they rebroadcast it at midnite.
All in all a good time was had by all.
Maybe I can talk my wife into adding some of her perceptions to the comments.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
The Day After
I got up early this morning (around 1 am) to watch the news and see how badly things were going. The news just wasn't good. The Democrats already had control of the House and are looking like they may control the Senate as well. I despaired. Then I read Bill Whittle's comments (and I recommend you do so right now, the link is over there on the right, I'll wait).
He's absolutely right. It's a defeat, it's even something of a disaster, but the Republicans had it coming and maybe, just maybe, they'll wake up and smell the coffee over the next two years. Like John Belushi said "Did we give up when the Germans attacked Pearl Harbor?" We've seen tough times before. We're Americans, we'll overcome, that's what we do. We have not yet begun to fight.
So cowboy up. Be of good cheer. Don't despair and remind me of these words when I despair (yes, I mean you, my dear wife and faithful reader). Go home tonight and enjoy the company of your spouse and family. Have a good dinner, not the dinner of a condemned man but the dinner of one who knows he has a marathon to run tomorrow and over the next two years.
I'm working on an entry containing advice for the Republican party, assuming that they want to re-take the House and Senate and keep the Presidency in two years. Watch for it.
He's absolutely right. It's a defeat, it's even something of a disaster, but the Republicans had it coming and maybe, just maybe, they'll wake up and smell the coffee over the next two years. Like John Belushi said "Did we give up when the Germans attacked Pearl Harbor?" We've seen tough times before. We're Americans, we'll overcome, that's what we do. We have not yet begun to fight.
So cowboy up. Be of good cheer. Don't despair and remind me of these words when I despair (yes, I mean you, my dear wife and faithful reader). Go home tonight and enjoy the company of your spouse and family. Have a good dinner, not the dinner of a condemned man but the dinner of one who knows he has a marathon to run tomorrow and over the next two years.
I'm working on an entry containing advice for the Republican party, assuming that they want to re-take the House and Senate and keep the Presidency in two years. Watch for it.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Mischief Night
When I first moved from Staten Island, NYC to New Jersey some eight years ago I had a lot to get used to. First was that, when you get lost while driving, you ought to make a U-turn. Growing up on an island, if you got lost you did two things: 1) make sure you don't cross a bridge and 2) keep going until you see a street you know, then work your way to where you want to go from there. Eventually, if nothing else, you'd hit one of the streets on the coast (which we all knew by heart), then you'd be able to find your way. That doesn't work in NJ. The second thing that I've had to get used to is that you have to go to a liquior store to buy beer, or some bars can also sell beer to go. In NYC grocery stores and delis sell beer, and bars are forbidden from selling alcohol to be taken off premises.
I still haven't gotten used to Mischief Night though. When I was a lad two different things happened on Halloween night. Younger kids went trick-or-treating, going around to people's houses in costumes and begging for candy. Older kid armed themselves with shaving cream and eggs and had contests to see who could get messier. You might also TP the trees in front of your friends houses and all city buses had a generous coating of eggs.
New Jerseans split this event into two nights, "Mischief Night" is the night BEFORE Halloween (which would be tonight), and is reserved for TP, shave cream and eggs. Tomorrow night the kids will come a-begging.
I still trip over this. Every year I start my planning for mess clean-up assuming it will happen on Halloween, then realize that I'm a day late in my planning. Every year I start hoping and praying for rain on Halloween (when all it will do is make it miserable for the trick-or-treaters) when I ought to aim my wishes a day earlier.
Maybe someday I'll get it straightened out in my head.
I still haven't gotten used to Mischief Night though. When I was a lad two different things happened on Halloween night. Younger kids went trick-or-treating, going around to people's houses in costumes and begging for candy. Older kid armed themselves with shaving cream and eggs and had contests to see who could get messier. You might also TP the trees in front of your friends houses and all city buses had a generous coating of eggs.
New Jerseans split this event into two nights, "Mischief Night" is the night BEFORE Halloween (which would be tonight), and is reserved for TP, shave cream and eggs. Tomorrow night the kids will come a-begging.
I still trip over this. Every year I start my planning for mess clean-up assuming it will happen on Halloween, then realize that I'm a day late in my planning. Every year I start hoping and praying for rain on Halloween (when all it will do is make it miserable for the trick-or-treaters) when I ought to aim my wishes a day earlier.
Maybe someday I'll get it straightened out in my head.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Go. Watch. Listen.
I've never done this before, so I hope it works.
Hat Tip to the Anti Idiotarian Rottweiler
Follow this link, watch and listen. Tear alert.
http://www.beccycole.com/albums/videos/poster_girl.shtml
The best lyric, in my humble opinion "I'm just the girl who sings the crazy song, not qualified to sit and judge". Why can't we have more singers like her and fewer Dixie Chicks?
A little translation may be in order: "digger" is Australian for "soldier".
Buy her albums. Pass the word. Put her poster on your wall.
Hat Tip to the Anti Idiotarian Rottweiler
Follow this link, watch and listen. Tear alert.
http://www.beccycole.com/albums/videos/poster_girl.shtml
The best lyric, in my humble opinion "I'm just the girl who sings the crazy song, not qualified to sit and judge". Why can't we have more singers like her and fewer Dixie Chicks?
A little translation may be in order: "digger" is Australian for "soldier".
Buy her albums. Pass the word. Put her poster on your wall.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Question
This morning my alarm clock went off at the usual half-past-early, I stumbled to the shower, them stumbled back to the bed to make sure my wife was awake. She asked me “Do you remember what today is?”
Now, this is NEVER a good question. It’s especially not a good question when I’m only half-awake, have yet to have my first (let alone second) cup of strong black coffee, and as-yet have no idea what the DATE is and only a sneaking suspicion of what day of the week it is. Still, I knew I had only seconds to come up with an answer of some sort, so I replied “Oh, happy anniversary!” Now I know full-well it wasn’t our wedding anniversary, but I knew it had to be the anniversary of SOMETHING or she wouldn’t have asked. All the while I’m thinking furiously, then it hits me, her father’s birthday was the other day. It was the anniversary of the day I proposed to her!
Yes, eight years ago my wife did me the honor of agreeing to marry me. This is a story worth telling. I’d picked out the ring without her knowing about it (although I was sure she suspected). I was going to take her to a nice place for dinner on Saturday evening and ask her there. She suspected something was up when I started talking about Saturday plans on Tuesday (I have trouble keeping secrets), but all was going according to plan. Until she told me that her mother called, and we were invited to a birthday dinner for her father on Saturday. Of course I agreed to go (with my stomach clenched the whole time) and she began to wonder if she was mistaken about getting engaged on Saturday. I began to go over my options. I was going to pick up the ring Saturday morning. I could wait until the following weekend, but I’d NEVER hold out that long. I could propose to her at her father’s party, but I’m not that brave. I decided to keep it simple, pick up the ring, pick up a dozen roses from the florist near her apartment (where I got her roses regularly anyway, so she wouldn’t suspect), then give her the ring and pop the question. Then we could announce our intentions at the party (assuming of course that she said "Yes").
So early Saturday morning I went to Luddies Jewelry on Staten Island, plunked down the rest of my money and saw the completed ring for the first time. Luddie (a retired cop I’d known for some time who became a jeweler) gave me a little box with a light in it for the ring (we still call that the little refridgerator), then asked me how I intended to give it to her. I replied that I was going to get a dozen roses and ask her, to which he replied that he had just the thing I needed. He handed me a plastic rose that opened up to hold a ring, perfect! So I put the ring in the rose, then stopped at the florist on the way to her apartment, putting the plastic rose into bouquet. She didn’t think anything of it when I gave her the flowers, like I said I did that fairly often. As she was trimming the stems she came to the fake rose and picked it up, remarking that it looked different, at which point I opened the top, got down on one knee and asked her to marry me.
By the way, she said yes.
Now, this is NEVER a good question. It’s especially not a good question when I’m only half-awake, have yet to have my first (let alone second) cup of strong black coffee, and as-yet have no idea what the DATE is and only a sneaking suspicion of what day of the week it is. Still, I knew I had only seconds to come up with an answer of some sort, so I replied “Oh, happy anniversary!” Now I know full-well it wasn’t our wedding anniversary, but I knew it had to be the anniversary of SOMETHING or she wouldn’t have asked. All the while I’m thinking furiously, then it hits me, her father’s birthday was the other day. It was the anniversary of the day I proposed to her!
Yes, eight years ago my wife did me the honor of agreeing to marry me. This is a story worth telling. I’d picked out the ring without her knowing about it (although I was sure she suspected). I was going to take her to a nice place for dinner on Saturday evening and ask her there. She suspected something was up when I started talking about Saturday plans on Tuesday (I have trouble keeping secrets), but all was going according to plan. Until she told me that her mother called, and we were invited to a birthday dinner for her father on Saturday. Of course I agreed to go (with my stomach clenched the whole time) and she began to wonder if she was mistaken about getting engaged on Saturday. I began to go over my options. I was going to pick up the ring Saturday morning. I could wait until the following weekend, but I’d NEVER hold out that long. I could propose to her at her father’s party, but I’m not that brave. I decided to keep it simple, pick up the ring, pick up a dozen roses from the florist near her apartment (where I got her roses regularly anyway, so she wouldn’t suspect), then give her the ring and pop the question. Then we could announce our intentions at the party (assuming of course that she said "Yes").
So early Saturday morning I went to Luddies Jewelry on Staten Island, plunked down the rest of my money and saw the completed ring for the first time. Luddie (a retired cop I’d known for some time who became a jeweler) gave me a little box with a light in it for the ring (we still call that the little refridgerator), then asked me how I intended to give it to her. I replied that I was going to get a dozen roses and ask her, to which he replied that he had just the thing I needed. He handed me a plastic rose that opened up to hold a ring, perfect! So I put the ring in the rose, then stopped at the florist on the way to her apartment, putting the plastic rose into bouquet. She didn’t think anything of it when I gave her the flowers, like I said I did that fairly often. As she was trimming the stems she came to the fake rose and picked it up, remarking that it looked different, at which point I opened the top, got down on one knee and asked her to marry me.
By the way, she said yes.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Book Meme
MorningGlory tagged me with the book Meme. Books are an important part of my life, I have a three-plus hour daily commute by mass transit, and I spend most of that time reading. When my wife and I moved from our first apartment into our first house I gave away a couple hundred paperback books and STILL have four bookcases full of books. So here goes:
One book that changed your life: Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. Early in my Christian walk my priest/spiritual director at the time recommended it to me, I found it to be a clear, logical and concise introduction to Christianity.
One book that you’ve read more than once: I've read literally hundreds of books more than once, some seven or eight times. Every couple of years I pull out Tolkien's Hobbit/Lord of the Rings, likewise Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
One book that you would want on a deserted island: Assuming I can pick a series of books rather than one, either the Dune series by Frank Herbert or the Gunslinger series by Stephen King. For the record, I don't consider my Bible to be a book, it's a commodity like water.
One book that made you laugh: Dave Barry's "Guide to Guys". It's a great look at what makes guys tick. For instance, if an alien landed on earth and gave a woman a simple device that would ensure world peace, end hunger and give an infinite amount a free energy she'd bring it immediately to the leader of whatever country she lives in. A guy will take it apart to try to figure out how it works.
One book that made you cry: There's a line in a short story called "Hunters of the Sky Cave" in Poul Andersen's "Agents of the Terran Empire" that always chokes me up. Dominic Flandry (the agent in the book title) is discussing the impending collapse of the Terran Empire he serves and the age of barbarism (the Long Night) that will ensue. He says (and I'm quoting from memory, but this is the gist of it) that anyone with any sense knows that the Long Night is coming, but they also know that it won't come within their lifetimes. So they turn up their collar, and curse at the cold, and amuse themselves playing with a few brightly-colored, dead leaves. Hits kinda close to home.
One book you wish had been written: The Man's Guide to Understanding Women.
One book you wish had never been written: The Communist Manifesto. While drawing on concepts from Das Kapital, the Manifesto popularized the ideas and brought forth a philosophy that has killed more people in the last century than any other including Nazism. I had to read it in college (I had a philosophy teacher who was a die-hard Communist). I thought it was drivel then and my opinion of it hasn't improved since.
One book you are currently reading: "Enemy at the Gates" about the battle for Stalingrad during World War II. I first developed an interest in the Eastern Front of World War II many years ago when my Dad and I would watch a TV series called "The Unknown War", about the Russian side of the war. I got more interested when I got a Mosin Nagant rifle for Christmas, and a couple weeks ago I saw a copy of Enemy at the Gates in the used-book section of Barnes and Noble. (For the record, if anyone knows where I can get a copy of The Unknown War PLEASE let me know!). My wife just rolled her eyes when I pointed out that the rifle on the cover (itself a copy of the movie poster) had the bolt on the wrong side.
One book you have been meaning to read: I have a collected works of Shakespeare that I've barely cracked.
One book that changed your life: Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. Early in my Christian walk my priest/spiritual director at the time recommended it to me, I found it to be a clear, logical and concise introduction to Christianity.
One book that you’ve read more than once: I've read literally hundreds of books more than once, some seven or eight times. Every couple of years I pull out Tolkien's Hobbit/Lord of the Rings, likewise Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia.
One book that you would want on a deserted island: Assuming I can pick a series of books rather than one, either the Dune series by Frank Herbert or the Gunslinger series by Stephen King. For the record, I don't consider my Bible to be a book, it's a commodity like water.
One book that made you laugh: Dave Barry's "Guide to Guys". It's a great look at what makes guys tick. For instance, if an alien landed on earth and gave a woman a simple device that would ensure world peace, end hunger and give an infinite amount a free energy she'd bring it immediately to the leader of whatever country she lives in. A guy will take it apart to try to figure out how it works.
One book that made you cry: There's a line in a short story called "Hunters of the Sky Cave" in Poul Andersen's "Agents of the Terran Empire" that always chokes me up. Dominic Flandry (the agent in the book title) is discussing the impending collapse of the Terran Empire he serves and the age of barbarism (the Long Night) that will ensue. He says (and I'm quoting from memory, but this is the gist of it) that anyone with any sense knows that the Long Night is coming, but they also know that it won't come within their lifetimes. So they turn up their collar, and curse at the cold, and amuse themselves playing with a few brightly-colored, dead leaves. Hits kinda close to home.
One book you wish had been written: The Man's Guide to Understanding Women.
One book you wish had never been written: The Communist Manifesto. While drawing on concepts from Das Kapital, the Manifesto popularized the ideas and brought forth a philosophy that has killed more people in the last century than any other including Nazism. I had to read it in college (I had a philosophy teacher who was a die-hard Communist). I thought it was drivel then and my opinion of it hasn't improved since.
One book you are currently reading: "Enemy at the Gates" about the battle for Stalingrad during World War II. I first developed an interest in the Eastern Front of World War II many years ago when my Dad and I would watch a TV series called "The Unknown War", about the Russian side of the war. I got more interested when I got a Mosin Nagant rifle for Christmas, and a couple weeks ago I saw a copy of Enemy at the Gates in the used-book section of Barnes and Noble. (For the record, if anyone knows where I can get a copy of The Unknown War PLEASE let me know!). My wife just rolled her eyes when I pointed out that the rifle on the cover (itself a copy of the movie poster) had the bolt on the wrong side.
One book you have been meaning to read: I have a collected works of Shakespeare that I've barely cracked.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where Were You Five Years Ago Today?
September 11, 2001 was a beautiful fall day. The sky was blue, the day was mild. I'd gotten up a little late that morning. My wife suggested that I should take the later train (about 40 minutes later), but I really wanted to stop in Borders Bookstore in the World Trade Center that morning. I did that once every couple of weeks, just to browse thru the books. So I pushed myself out the door, drove to the train station, and caught my usual train which took me to Hoboken, NJ. From there I took the Path train to the World Trade Center, but completely forgot that I wanted to stop at Borders, and entered the Courtlandt St subway station. After I paid my subway fare I remembered that I'd intended to stop at Borders, but decided that I'd either stop tonight on the way home or tomorrow morning. The time was about 8:10. I got my usual R train and headed into Brooklyn, just as I had every work day for the last several years. I arrived, as usual, at my desk at about 8:30.
About 9:00 a co-worker came in and told us that a plane had apparently hit the World Trade Center, that he saw the smoke on his way in. We turned on a radio and heard that a small plane had hit the North Tower. It seemed like an accident. As the news rolled in, we learned that it was a passenger jet, not a small plane, that hit the tower. Then the South Tower was hit. Then there were reports of a plane hitting the Pentagon. I called my wife to tell her I was OK, she said they were watching the news on a TV. I thought it was a little odd that she didn't seem concerned about me since my commute took me thru the World Trade Center, but I decided not to press the issue.
A few of us decided to walk down to the East River to see what was happening, when we got there my first impression was that there was a lot of paper in the air, apparently sucked from the towers. There was a huge hole in the North Tower, full of flames. The South Tower was partially hidden from view by the North, but it was obvious that it was burning too. We were too far away to see the people falling, we didn't hear about that until later.
At this point I was thinking that the fire department would evacuate the buildings, put out the fires, and then something would need to be done to repair the towers. It never occured to me that the towers might be too badly damaged to repair. Then the South Tower (or what I could see of it behind the North Tower) sort of tipped at the top, then collapsed in a rain of dust and debris.
I didn't have another coherent thought for the rest of the day.
I couldn't stay there anymore, we left, headed back to our office building, where we found that the building (a New York City municipal building) was evacuated and locked down, we weren't allowed back in. We met up with our manager, and we all went to her apartment a few blocks away. On the way I stopped in a store for a bottle of soda and learned that the North Tower had collapsed, but I was numb at that point. I remember repeatedly thinking "This day needs to be over."
Since New York City was pretty much locked down I couldn't get home, so I and some others spent the night at our managers apartment. The next morning we decided not to open, and by then the transportation system was functioning, so I headed for home via the Path train in Mid-town Manhattan. Everyone I saw on the way home had a thousand-yard stare, like they were in shock. From the train I could see the smoke rising from where the towers had been, that column of smoke would be part of the landscape for a long time.
I arrived home in the early afternoon. My wife arrived home from work at her usual hour. As we talked about the events of the previous day I mentioned that I'd been in the basement of the World Trade center a half-hour before the first plane hit. She sat bolt upright and said "You were WHAT?" She'd completely forgotten that my daily commute too me thru the World Trade Center, which was just as well or she'd have been beside herself with worry.
Do not forget what happened that day. Do not forget what you were doing, where you were. Do not forget that three thousand people who did nothing more sinister than show up for work or ride a plane died that day. Do not forget that those people were murdered, they did not die in a natural disaster. Do not forget who murdered them.
About 9:00 a co-worker came in and told us that a plane had apparently hit the World Trade Center, that he saw the smoke on his way in. We turned on a radio and heard that a small plane had hit the North Tower. It seemed like an accident. As the news rolled in, we learned that it was a passenger jet, not a small plane, that hit the tower. Then the South Tower was hit. Then there were reports of a plane hitting the Pentagon. I called my wife to tell her I was OK, she said they were watching the news on a TV. I thought it was a little odd that she didn't seem concerned about me since my commute took me thru the World Trade Center, but I decided not to press the issue.
A few of us decided to walk down to the East River to see what was happening, when we got there my first impression was that there was a lot of paper in the air, apparently sucked from the towers. There was a huge hole in the North Tower, full of flames. The South Tower was partially hidden from view by the North, but it was obvious that it was burning too. We were too far away to see the people falling, we didn't hear about that until later.
At this point I was thinking that the fire department would evacuate the buildings, put out the fires, and then something would need to be done to repair the towers. It never occured to me that the towers might be too badly damaged to repair. Then the South Tower (or what I could see of it behind the North Tower) sort of tipped at the top, then collapsed in a rain of dust and debris.
I didn't have another coherent thought for the rest of the day.
I couldn't stay there anymore, we left, headed back to our office building, where we found that the building (a New York City municipal building) was evacuated and locked down, we weren't allowed back in. We met up with our manager, and we all went to her apartment a few blocks away. On the way I stopped in a store for a bottle of soda and learned that the North Tower had collapsed, but I was numb at that point. I remember repeatedly thinking "This day needs to be over."
Since New York City was pretty much locked down I couldn't get home, so I and some others spent the night at our managers apartment. The next morning we decided not to open, and by then the transportation system was functioning, so I headed for home via the Path train in Mid-town Manhattan. Everyone I saw on the way home had a thousand-yard stare, like they were in shock. From the train I could see the smoke rising from where the towers had been, that column of smoke would be part of the landscape for a long time.
I arrived home in the early afternoon. My wife arrived home from work at her usual hour. As we talked about the events of the previous day I mentioned that I'd been in the basement of the World Trade center a half-hour before the first plane hit. She sat bolt upright and said "You were WHAT?" She'd completely forgotten that my daily commute too me thru the World Trade Center, which was just as well or she'd have been beside herself with worry.
Do not forget what happened that day. Do not forget what you were doing, where you were. Do not forget that three thousand people who did nothing more sinister than show up for work or ride a plane died that day. Do not forget that those people were murdered, they did not die in a natural disaster. Do not forget who murdered them.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Meat Loaf
My wife made meat loaf last night for dinner. For those who don't know, that is one of my absolute favorite meals. My mother made meat loaf, and although hers was uninspired (just beef) it was good. In my single days I'd eat meat loaf at Boston Market when I felt like treating myself to a "good" meal (meaning one that wasn't frozen, pizza or Burger King). Meat loaf is my comfort food. My wife tells me that her meat loaf never tastes the same way twice, all I know is that it's uniformly good, it's never been dry and it's always very tasty. You will NEVER hear me say "Oh no, meat loaf again!" (ten points if you can identify what movie that's from!).
I need a napkin, I'm slobbering just thinking about it!
I had an English teacher in High School who used to tell stories about his mother's cooking, one of her "specialties" was meat loaf. Her version of meat loaf was simplicity itself, throw a couple pounds of chopped meat in a pan and bake. She noticed that it tended to fall apart though, so she sought some method of holding it together. Research showed that the French cooked with peanut oil, so she decided to make French meat loaf. Not having any peanut oil though, she substituted peanut butter. She forgot to put on oven mitts when she took it out of the oven and dropped the glass pan, the pan broke and the meat loaf didn't. My teacher told us to try to imagine burnt meat loaf that stuck to the roof of your mouth.
I'd share my wife's recipe here, but I really don't know it. I know there's a mixture of beef, pork and veal, there's carmelized onions in it, and there's a glaze on top made of, I think, catsup. Maybe she'll share the recipe if enough readers ask nicely in the comments.
I need a napkin, I'm slobbering just thinking about it!
I had an English teacher in High School who used to tell stories about his mother's cooking, one of her "specialties" was meat loaf. Her version of meat loaf was simplicity itself, throw a couple pounds of chopped meat in a pan and bake. She noticed that it tended to fall apart though, so she sought some method of holding it together. Research showed that the French cooked with peanut oil, so she decided to make French meat loaf. Not having any peanut oil though, she substituted peanut butter. She forgot to put on oven mitts when she took it out of the oven and dropped the glass pan, the pan broke and the meat loaf didn't. My teacher told us to try to imagine burnt meat loaf that stuck to the roof of your mouth.
I'd share my wife's recipe here, but I really don't know it. I know there's a mixture of beef, pork and veal, there's carmelized onions in it, and there's a glaze on top made of, I think, catsup. Maybe she'll share the recipe if enough readers ask nicely in the comments.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Dad's Stories - Part 4
It's been a while since I've put down some of Dad's stories, so here's the next batch. As always I'll promise that they are all true, or at least that they ought to be.
Dad worked in a shipyard among his many jobs. Since, as I've mentioned before, he had no fear of height at all, his job was to do the fitting on masts and such. This presented a problem at lunchtime, because he was expected to stay on top of the mast until the lunch whistle blew, upon which he'd have to climb down. The climb cut into his lunch break, which was only a half-hour as it was. To get around this he'd have his friend the crane operator swing the hook of the crane over to him, he'd sit on the ball over the hook and ride down on that. This was of course against the safety regulations, and it so happened that the government safety inspector was there one day when Dad took his ride. The inspector suspended him from working at the shipyard for a period of time, but since he was one of the few workers who'd go up the mast he was back at work the next day.
You may think being up at the top of a mast of a ship would keep you awake, but one day Dad fell asleep up there, leaning against the mast inside the crows nest (I suspect he had a long night the night before). A woman in a house across the road from the shipyard saw him hunched over and ran to the shipyard to tell them that their man had apparently died up on the mast. I'd imagine Dad's co-workers weren't to happy when they climbed up there to see what was wrong and found him alseep.
Last shipyard story for now. One day Dad was painting the lifeboat davits (these are the crane-like things that are used to lower the lifeboats). He was priming them with stuff called red lead, it's basically a water-proofing paint. He'd go from davit to davit with a five gallon bucket of the stuff, painting as he went. Well one time when he picked up the bucket the handle broke off, the bucket of paint fell over the side, hit a wooden scaffold (thankfully one that wasn't occupied at the time) which acted like a springboard and sprayed red lead all over the (freshly painted) side of the ship. Dad's foreman blamed him until Dad showed him that he still had the handle of the bucket.
When I was a tyke my Dad worked in a couple of different hospitals (which shall remain nameless in case either of my readers someday find themselves in one of them). He did general repair, from unclogging drains to changing locks. His time at the hospitals gave him a disrespect for doctors, while he admitted that some of them were very intelligent, many of them had no common sense. One of the doctors got a new blood-pressure machine, the type mounted on the wall that uses a column of mercury. It was mounted, but the mercury hadn't been added yet. The doctor decided to fill the column himself, but unfortunately neglected to remove the plug at the top first. Undaunted by the sight of mercury running down the side of the column, he kept pouring until the bottle was empty, then, upon seeing that the column was still empty he called for help. Dad realized what the problem was, and further realized that the mercury needed to be cleaned up. Today a hazmat team would probably respond, but back then Dad went around the floor with a spoon and a tongue depresser picking up globs of mercury and putting it back in the bottle, after which he removed the plug and filled the column without spillage.
Another time Dad got a call of a burst pipe in an area of the hospital, so he went to investigate. Upon entering the office where the leak was, he saw the doctor whose office it was sitting at his desk while having water leak from the ceiling onto his head. The doctor looked up and informed my Dad that there was water leaking from the ceiling (no flies on him!). Dad replied (in his most diplomatic tone) that he could see that, and pointed out that he (the doctor) was getting wet. The doc asked Dad if he thought he ought to move.
Dad worked in a shipyard among his many jobs. Since, as I've mentioned before, he had no fear of height at all, his job was to do the fitting on masts and such. This presented a problem at lunchtime, because he was expected to stay on top of the mast until the lunch whistle blew, upon which he'd have to climb down. The climb cut into his lunch break, which was only a half-hour as it was. To get around this he'd have his friend the crane operator swing the hook of the crane over to him, he'd sit on the ball over the hook and ride down on that. This was of course against the safety regulations, and it so happened that the government safety inspector was there one day when Dad took his ride. The inspector suspended him from working at the shipyard for a period of time, but since he was one of the few workers who'd go up the mast he was back at work the next day.
You may think being up at the top of a mast of a ship would keep you awake, but one day Dad fell asleep up there, leaning against the mast inside the crows nest (I suspect he had a long night the night before). A woman in a house across the road from the shipyard saw him hunched over and ran to the shipyard to tell them that their man had apparently died up on the mast. I'd imagine Dad's co-workers weren't to happy when they climbed up there to see what was wrong and found him alseep.
Last shipyard story for now. One day Dad was painting the lifeboat davits (these are the crane-like things that are used to lower the lifeboats). He was priming them with stuff called red lead, it's basically a water-proofing paint. He'd go from davit to davit with a five gallon bucket of the stuff, painting as he went. Well one time when he picked up the bucket the handle broke off, the bucket of paint fell over the side, hit a wooden scaffold (thankfully one that wasn't occupied at the time) which acted like a springboard and sprayed red lead all over the (freshly painted) side of the ship. Dad's foreman blamed him until Dad showed him that he still had the handle of the bucket.
When I was a tyke my Dad worked in a couple of different hospitals (which shall remain nameless in case either of my readers someday find themselves in one of them). He did general repair, from unclogging drains to changing locks. His time at the hospitals gave him a disrespect for doctors, while he admitted that some of them were very intelligent, many of them had no common sense. One of the doctors got a new blood-pressure machine, the type mounted on the wall that uses a column of mercury. It was mounted, but the mercury hadn't been added yet. The doctor decided to fill the column himself, but unfortunately neglected to remove the plug at the top first. Undaunted by the sight of mercury running down the side of the column, he kept pouring until the bottle was empty, then, upon seeing that the column was still empty he called for help. Dad realized what the problem was, and further realized that the mercury needed to be cleaned up. Today a hazmat team would probably respond, but back then Dad went around the floor with a spoon and a tongue depresser picking up globs of mercury and putting it back in the bottle, after which he removed the plug and filled the column without spillage.
Another time Dad got a call of a burst pipe in an area of the hospital, so he went to investigate. Upon entering the office where the leak was, he saw the doctor whose office it was sitting at his desk while having water leak from the ceiling onto his head. The doctor looked up and informed my Dad that there was water leaking from the ceiling (no flies on him!). Dad replied (in his most diplomatic tone) that he could see that, and pointed out that he (the doctor) was getting wet. The doc asked Dad if he thought he ought to move.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
We Need to Change
I'm not angry, comparing anger to what I feel is like comparing a guttering match to the sun. I'm not enraged, that's entirely too polite a term. I am well and truly pissed off.
We capture terrorists, without uniforms, we fly them to a Caribean island where they get three hot meals a day that meet the requirements of their religion, prayer mats, Korans and when we try to extract information from them by depriving them of sleep we're called torturers. When three of them decide to hang themselves we're held responsible for their deaths.
Then two of our soldiers, in uniform, completely identifiable as American soldiers and perfectly distinguishable from any civilian in the area, are captured. They have their genitals cut off and stuffed in their mouths. They have their eyes gouged out. They have their heads cut off. Their mutilated corpses are intentionally left in a place where they'll be found by other Americans and their bodies are booby trapped as is the area around them in hopes of killing yet more Americans. There's no outrage flowing from this. Two men died a horrible death at the hands of monsters and there's no outrage, while terrorists are photographed with underwear over their heads and we're called brutal.
Yet we have people insisting that we must play by civilized rules in dealing with the terrorists. We have people claiming that the terrorists must be treated according to the Geneva Convention, ignoring the fact that the Geneva Convention allows combatants without command structure, who don't carry arms openly and who wear no identification to show that they are in fact legal combatants to be shot on sight. They ignore the fact that the Geneva Convention is intended to be adhered to by BOTH sides of a conflict, otherwise the agreement is void.
We need to change how we fight the War on Terror. First, we need to get rid of the imbedded reporters. Why? They lead to too many Monday Morning Quarterbacks. When one of our warriors has to make a decision in a matter of seconds, when making the wrong decision could kill him and his comrades, but then that decision is endlessly analysed in slow motion by people in safe, comfortable offices to see if he may have been able to decide otherwise, well as they say that dog just won't hunt. I'm not a veteran, I've never been in combat. I, unlike so many of my self-proclaimed intellectual betters in the news media, won't second-guess anyone for what they do in the heat of combat. The grunt on the ground doesn't have the advantage of all the information that will later be gathered after the smoke clears, he doesn't have access to video tapes and satelite images to tell him exactly what's happening around him and, even if he had access to all this information, he wouldn't have time to sit down and analyze it to make a completely informed decision before he and his buddies are killed. He has to make a decision now, not tomorrow, not in ten minutes, but right this very second. In combat the best thing you can do is the right thing, the second-best thing you can do is the wrong thing, and the absolute worst thing you can do it nothing.
Second, we have to put the blame for civilian deaths exactly where it belongs. Few German civilians were killed by American troops on the ground during World War II. Why? Because when the German army occupied a town to set up a defensive position the civilians moved out, and because the German military wore uniforms so that the Allies could tell at a glance if a person running across the street was a soldier (and thereby a target) or a civilian (and therefore not a target). The Germans didn't fire from civilian occupied buildings while dressed as civilians themselves so that when the Allied troops entered the building they couldn't tell who fired on them. If the terrorists don't want their civilians killed they have to stop making themselves look like civilians while attacking American troops. They have to clear the civilians out of an area before setting up shop. We, for our part, need to support those warriors who make these difficult decisions, stop insisting that they do the impossible and spare civilians while killing the indistinguishable terrorists, and stop blaming our troops when it turns out that someone they killed wasn't a terrorist.
Lastly, we have to stop insisting that our troops fight a civilized war when their enemies are anything but civilized. This war isn't a football game where both sides fight according to previously agreed upon rules and where some impartial third party determines when a foul has occurred and what the penalty shall be. From the very start the terrorists have failed to fight according to any recognized standard, targetting civilians, murdering prisoners, and disguising combatants as non-combatants. Spare me the argument that acting in a similar manner will "bring us down to their level". We are at war, war is organized barbarism, and the nation that's more efficiently barbaric will not only win, it will bring a speedier end to the war. Kim Du Toit gave the best analogy I've seen yet, we can't insist that our boxer go into the ring and fight under the Queensbury rules and watch helplessly as his opponent enters the ring armed with a flamethrower.
Yes, I know, it took me over a week to write this. Part of me was processing the events and trying to make something coherent out of a white-hot cloud of pure emotion. Another part was hoping that the media would respond with some outrage, but instead (and predictably) they responded with stories about Abu Gharib and Gitmo. They responded by saying that our men and women in uniform are no better than the animals who castrated, mutilated, and decapidated two of our citizen soldiers. They drew a moral equivalence between those who broke the rules, in a rather mild way really, and were punished for their transgressions, and those who committed attrocities and who are hailed as heroes. The only outrage I've found has been by my fellow amatuer journalists in the blogosphere and by the common folks I've spoken to. So much for the relevancy of the mainstream media.
We capture terrorists, without uniforms, we fly them to a Caribean island where they get three hot meals a day that meet the requirements of their religion, prayer mats, Korans and when we try to extract information from them by depriving them of sleep we're called torturers. When three of them decide to hang themselves we're held responsible for their deaths.
Then two of our soldiers, in uniform, completely identifiable as American soldiers and perfectly distinguishable from any civilian in the area, are captured. They have their genitals cut off and stuffed in their mouths. They have their eyes gouged out. They have their heads cut off. Their mutilated corpses are intentionally left in a place where they'll be found by other Americans and their bodies are booby trapped as is the area around them in hopes of killing yet more Americans. There's no outrage flowing from this. Two men died a horrible death at the hands of monsters and there's no outrage, while terrorists are photographed with underwear over their heads and we're called brutal.
Yet we have people insisting that we must play by civilized rules in dealing with the terrorists. We have people claiming that the terrorists must be treated according to the Geneva Convention, ignoring the fact that the Geneva Convention allows combatants without command structure, who don't carry arms openly and who wear no identification to show that they are in fact legal combatants to be shot on sight. They ignore the fact that the Geneva Convention is intended to be adhered to by BOTH sides of a conflict, otherwise the agreement is void.
We need to change how we fight the War on Terror. First, we need to get rid of the imbedded reporters. Why? They lead to too many Monday Morning Quarterbacks. When one of our warriors has to make a decision in a matter of seconds, when making the wrong decision could kill him and his comrades, but then that decision is endlessly analysed in slow motion by people in safe, comfortable offices to see if he may have been able to decide otherwise, well as they say that dog just won't hunt. I'm not a veteran, I've never been in combat. I, unlike so many of my self-proclaimed intellectual betters in the news media, won't second-guess anyone for what they do in the heat of combat. The grunt on the ground doesn't have the advantage of all the information that will later be gathered after the smoke clears, he doesn't have access to video tapes and satelite images to tell him exactly what's happening around him and, even if he had access to all this information, he wouldn't have time to sit down and analyze it to make a completely informed decision before he and his buddies are killed. He has to make a decision now, not tomorrow, not in ten minutes, but right this very second. In combat the best thing you can do is the right thing, the second-best thing you can do is the wrong thing, and the absolute worst thing you can do it nothing.
Second, we have to put the blame for civilian deaths exactly where it belongs. Few German civilians were killed by American troops on the ground during World War II. Why? Because when the German army occupied a town to set up a defensive position the civilians moved out, and because the German military wore uniforms so that the Allies could tell at a glance if a person running across the street was a soldier (and thereby a target) or a civilian (and therefore not a target). The Germans didn't fire from civilian occupied buildings while dressed as civilians themselves so that when the Allied troops entered the building they couldn't tell who fired on them. If the terrorists don't want their civilians killed they have to stop making themselves look like civilians while attacking American troops. They have to clear the civilians out of an area before setting up shop. We, for our part, need to support those warriors who make these difficult decisions, stop insisting that they do the impossible and spare civilians while killing the indistinguishable terrorists, and stop blaming our troops when it turns out that someone they killed wasn't a terrorist.
Lastly, we have to stop insisting that our troops fight a civilized war when their enemies are anything but civilized. This war isn't a football game where both sides fight according to previously agreed upon rules and where some impartial third party determines when a foul has occurred and what the penalty shall be. From the very start the terrorists have failed to fight according to any recognized standard, targetting civilians, murdering prisoners, and disguising combatants as non-combatants. Spare me the argument that acting in a similar manner will "bring us down to their level". We are at war, war is organized barbarism, and the nation that's more efficiently barbaric will not only win, it will bring a speedier end to the war. Kim Du Toit gave the best analogy I've seen yet, we can't insist that our boxer go into the ring and fight under the Queensbury rules and watch helplessly as his opponent enters the ring armed with a flamethrower.
Yes, I know, it took me over a week to write this. Part of me was processing the events and trying to make something coherent out of a white-hot cloud of pure emotion. Another part was hoping that the media would respond with some outrage, but instead (and predictably) they responded with stories about Abu Gharib and Gitmo. They responded by saying that our men and women in uniform are no better than the animals who castrated, mutilated, and decapidated two of our citizen soldiers. They drew a moral equivalence between those who broke the rules, in a rather mild way really, and were punished for their transgressions, and those who committed attrocities and who are hailed as heroes. The only outrage I've found has been by my fellow amatuer journalists in the blogosphere and by the common folks I've spoken to. So much for the relevancy of the mainstream media.
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