I received a gift certificate for my birthday. It was for Barnes and Noble, a "bookstore." Some of you may not be familiar with such things, as they are becoming as scarce as "video stores," which would require a whole separate discussion about things like "physical media" and "DVDs" and so on. I was in Barnes and Noble to buy books, since that was probably the intent of my brother-in-law when he put that little plastic card in an envelope and wrote my name on it. A very considerate act, and not just because he spelled my name correctly, but because it meant I could go forward with the process of selecting just the right reading material for myself, rather than having that awkward moment of deciding how to accept a gift that might be resting on my dresser for several months without cracking the spine. I could pick the book or books that I wanted to read.
I did not pick the books that I should be reading. I walked past hefty tomes of classical literature and manuals on how to fix this or that real or imagined problem and went straight to the Stephen King shelf. Shelves. Maine's Master Of the Macabre holds down two and a half shelves, with just a copy or two each of his dozens of titles, most of which I have already purchased and consumed in the style of fast food, a comparison the author himself has made. In the summertime, I eat more cheeseburgers. I read Stephen King.
Somewhere on those vertical feet of possibilities, I found what I was looking for: the sequel to the book that began my summer vacation. In paperback, which meant that I still had credit left over to buy another volume or two, depending on where I looked next. I considered turning just a degree or two and finding the third book in the Bill Hodges trilogy, but since it was recently released, it would have meant going over my allowance. It occurred to me then that if I went home and navigated the B&N website that I could probably have downloaded both stories in some cyber-version that I could negotiate on to one of the electronic devices we have hanging around our home, but being the son of a printing salesmen who spent a summer or two working in a bindery amid the roar of printing presses, I remain attached to the physical ink and paper.
I walked over to the Humor shelves, and stared at the titles, many of them written by comedians I recognized and I wondered if I would enjoy reading a couple hundred pages of their comedy bits after enjoying their standups or sitcoms. I picked up a few of these and opened them to scan a random page or two. Amused, but not captivated, on I moved. There had to be another book out there that could capture my attention, one that friends and family had been telling me that I should read.
But that was what I was trying to avoid: Should.
I found myself standing in front of the clearance table. All items marked with a red dot were fifty percent off. There were plenty of authors that I did not recognize, with glossy covers that had once been big sellers and were now part of the inventory purge. Mixed in with these disparate books were a number of impulse items: toys, for lack of a better term. Book lights and pop culture artifacts, including a twelve-inch action poseable Walter White action figure, complete with Heisenberg hat and shades.
I did the math in my head. If I bought the Stephen King and the Breaking Bad toy, the total would come within pennies of the amount of my gift card. The cashier reminded me that since the action figure was a clearance item, there would be no exchanges or refunds.
That's okay. It was a gift.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
"Common Words"
Just released text of Melania Trumpence's speech to the Republican masses:
My parents impressed on me the values
that you work hard for what you want in life, that your word is your bond and
you do what you say and keep your promise, that you treat people with respect.
They taught and showed me values and morals in their daily life. Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous
States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious
apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end,
we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight
with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our
Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight
on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we
shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender. Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in
liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. I have
been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but
kindness and encouragement from you fans. I want to have time to look for my
children, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among
the dead. Hear me, my Chiefs! I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where
the sun now stands I will fight no more forever. And so, my fellow
Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for
your country. We will never forget them, nor the last time we saw them,
this morning, as they prepared for the journey and waved goodbye and “slipped
the surly bonds of earth” to “touch the face of God.” 'Cause the
players gonna play, play, play, play, play. And the haters gonna hate,
hate, hate, hate, hate. Baby, I'm just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake,
shake. I shake it off, I shake it off. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall! I still remember
the refrain of one of the most popular barrack ballads of that day which
proclaimed most proudly that “old soldiers never die; they just fade away.”
Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me
liberty, or give me death! Blessed are they which are persecuted for
righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. I have
a dream today. Excuse me
while I kiss the sky.
(applause)
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Coo-Coup
I remember, some twenty years ago, coming home from my job schlepping books around a warehouse, cresting the hill next to the street where I lived with my new wife. On my way home, coming over that rise, I saw it: A B2 bomber. This great big, bat-wing beast of an aircraft was making a low level pass over my neighborhood. And several dozen other neighborhoods around the Bay Area. It was Fleet Week, and the Navy's best and brightest were on display. On the sea. On the land. And in the air. It was an awesome sight, this great hunk of metal roaring past, just above our heads. It was also terrifying. There was this war machine hanging over my home. It occurred to me then: what would it be like to see two or three of these things, knowing their purpose was all business?
This moment comes back to me over and over again, whenever there are shots fired in anger. Or bombs. Here in America, we are profoundly fortunate in that when B2 bombers fly over our heads, it's a show. Helicopters are seen in ones or twos, with the occasional swarm of news choppers. Drones are in the air to spy on the new Apple campus. More often than not, when troops take to the streets here in the United States, it is in response to some sort of natural disaster.
That's not the way things work elsewhere in the world. Like in Turkey, for example. Friday night, as a great portion of the world was tuning into the news to get updates on the massacre du jour in France, breaking news told us that factions of the Turkish military was staging a coup while their president was on holiday. The eighty-four victims of the Nice truck killing were suddenly upstaged by the one hundred sixty-one dead as tanks blocked bridges and the sky was filled with combat aircraft, jets, helicopters and bullets. Shots fired in anger, and in attempt to claim the government by force, as opposed to the democratic elections that brought President Erdogan into power fourteen years ago. When the smoke cleared, and the sun came up, the putsch was over. The coup had failed. Order, or what resembles order after a night of chaos, returned.
Which is to say: If you are having trouble deciding whether or not to vote in this year's election, because the choices are so bleak, consider the alternatives.
This moment comes back to me over and over again, whenever there are shots fired in anger. Or bombs. Here in America, we are profoundly fortunate in that when B2 bombers fly over our heads, it's a show. Helicopters are seen in ones or twos, with the occasional swarm of news choppers. Drones are in the air to spy on the new Apple campus. More often than not, when troops take to the streets here in the United States, it is in response to some sort of natural disaster.
That's not the way things work elsewhere in the world. Like in Turkey, for example. Friday night, as a great portion of the world was tuning into the news to get updates on the massacre du jour in France, breaking news told us that factions of the Turkish military was staging a coup while their president was on holiday. The eighty-four victims of the Nice truck killing were suddenly upstaged by the one hundred sixty-one dead as tanks blocked bridges and the sky was filled with combat aircraft, jets, helicopters and bullets. Shots fired in anger, and in attempt to claim the government by force, as opposed to the democratic elections that brought President Erdogan into power fourteen years ago. When the smoke cleared, and the sun came up, the putsch was over. The coup had failed. Order, or what resembles order after a night of chaos, returned.
Which is to say: If you are having trouble deciding whether or not to vote in this year's election, because the choices are so bleak, consider the alternatives.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Terror-Ized
I can remember when hijacking a plane to Cuba was a meme. This is before there were such things as memes. This was a time when hijacking a plane was even played for laugh on TV shows. We didn't call the desperate bad guys who committed this crime terrorists. At that time, we were still somewhat amused by the idea that one bad guy could reroute air traffic at gunpoint.
Thirty years ago, the idea of victims of hijacking being anything but inconvenienced was hard to frame. Pan Am Flight 73 may have changed that. Suddenly, we started talking about "survivors." No more free trips to Havana. It wasn't a question about "when" you would reach your destination, but "if."
Then there was September 11, 2001. Terrorist demands were no longer the currency. No money. No hostage exchange. No calls for the release of political prisoners. Just carnage. Political statements were being made via body count. In one day, box cutters and jet aircraft became weapons. Not long after that, shoes and underwear became potential threats. Air travel was changed forever. Life in the United States changed in the form of concrete barriers and metal detectors and the Patriot Act. The price of freedom was long lines and more questions.
Before that, however, there was Timothy McVeigh. He took a rental truck full of fertilizer and parked it in front of the federal building on April 19, 1995. He lit a fuse and blew it up, taking the lives of one hundred sixty non-combatants, including nineteen children in a daycare center located inside that building. Ryder trucks were now on the anti-terror watch list. Maybe they could have taken a hint from the rental van that was used to try and blow up the World Trade Center back in 1993, but no one wants to have to go through a security check to rent a U-Haul.
The tragedy in Nice this past Thursday will most certainly cement any and all concerns and fears people have about trucks and terrorism. Eighty-four dead. Yes, the driver carried a pistol, but he didn't need it. It didn't save him. The truck did all its terrible damage. It didn't need to explode. Twenty-five tons moving at thirty miles an hour can do a horrible amount of damage. There are a lot of trucks out there.
Be careful.
Thirty years ago, the idea of victims of hijacking being anything but inconvenienced was hard to frame. Pan Am Flight 73 may have changed that. Suddenly, we started talking about "survivors." No more free trips to Havana. It wasn't a question about "when" you would reach your destination, but "if."
Then there was September 11, 2001. Terrorist demands were no longer the currency. No money. No hostage exchange. No calls for the release of political prisoners. Just carnage. Political statements were being made via body count. In one day, box cutters and jet aircraft became weapons. Not long after that, shoes and underwear became potential threats. Air travel was changed forever. Life in the United States changed in the form of concrete barriers and metal detectors and the Patriot Act. The price of freedom was long lines and more questions.
Before that, however, there was Timothy McVeigh. He took a rental truck full of fertilizer and parked it in front of the federal building on April 19, 1995. He lit a fuse and blew it up, taking the lives of one hundred sixty non-combatants, including nineteen children in a daycare center located inside that building. Ryder trucks were now on the anti-terror watch list. Maybe they could have taken a hint from the rental van that was used to try and blow up the World Trade Center back in 1993, but no one wants to have to go through a security check to rent a U-Haul.
The tragedy in Nice this past Thursday will most certainly cement any and all concerns and fears people have about trucks and terrorism. Eighty-four dead. Yes, the driver carried a pistol, but he didn't need it. It didn't save him. The truck did all its terrible damage. It didn't need to explode. Twenty-five tons moving at thirty miles an hour can do a horrible amount of damage. There are a lot of trucks out there.
Be careful.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Pass The Cookies
My son made cookies. Which is nice. He made them with the recipe that my mother gave me. It is the same recipe, she insists, that is on the back of a package of Nestle's Toll House Chocolate Chips. It is the recipe that came with this suggestion: "If you like them so much, you should learn how to make them."
I understand that this may sound a little harsh, considering baking cookies for her boys was such a wonderful treat. Back in the days when we spent summers in our mountain cabin, she made those cookies for us as a way to take the edge off the tension brought on by Colorado's afternoon thunder showers. The boys were pretty much okay with the electricity and noise booming up in the heavens, but it helped calm the nerves of the lady who was in charge of the cookies. Which was important.
It was also a very important life lesson for those boys who were often amused by how nervous their mother got during thunder storms. Being able to make the things that you love for yourself meant that the baton, or in this case the wooden spoon, could be passed on. To this day, when I make a trip back to visit family in Colorado, there is always a cookie jar chock full of home made cookies. Just like mom made. Since she did. Sometimes, she gets a little help from my niece. She got the same mild lecture about making cookies for herself way back when she need a stool to stand at the kitchen counter to help out Now she's the one stirring the batter.
And so is my son. I offered up the recipe and the suggestion that he take a batch of his own cookies for his trip with the guys up to the lake. Secure enough in his manliness, he took the challenge. Along with the ingredients and equipment I set out on the counter for him. Then I went and sat in the living room, watching TV and listening for trouble in the kitchen.
The call never came. He brought my wife and I beaters to lick, even though this was clearly messing with the traditional mixing with wooden spoon. That was my fault, since even though my mother taught me that electric mixers are the Devil's work, I added this to the process. My mother has yet to forgive me for this indiscretion, but that is what happens when you let a kid take over.
Cleaning up the kitchen in the aftermath of my son's first batch of chocolate chip cookies, I came across an untouched bottle of vanilla extract. The vanilla extract that did not make it into this batch of chocolate chip cookies. Oops. That's what happens when you let a kid take over.
I understand that this may sound a little harsh, considering baking cookies for her boys was such a wonderful treat. Back in the days when we spent summers in our mountain cabin, she made those cookies for us as a way to take the edge off the tension brought on by Colorado's afternoon thunder showers. The boys were pretty much okay with the electricity and noise booming up in the heavens, but it helped calm the nerves of the lady who was in charge of the cookies. Which was important.
It was also a very important life lesson for those boys who were often amused by how nervous their mother got during thunder storms. Being able to make the things that you love for yourself meant that the baton, or in this case the wooden spoon, could be passed on. To this day, when I make a trip back to visit family in Colorado, there is always a cookie jar chock full of home made cookies. Just like mom made. Since she did. Sometimes, she gets a little help from my niece. She got the same mild lecture about making cookies for herself way back when she need a stool to stand at the kitchen counter to help out Now she's the one stirring the batter.
And so is my son. I offered up the recipe and the suggestion that he take a batch of his own cookies for his trip with the guys up to the lake. Secure enough in his manliness, he took the challenge. Along with the ingredients and equipment I set out on the counter for him. Then I went and sat in the living room, watching TV and listening for trouble in the kitchen.
The call never came. He brought my wife and I beaters to lick, even though this was clearly messing with the traditional mixing with wooden spoon. That was my fault, since even though my mother taught me that electric mixers are the Devil's work, I added this to the process. My mother has yet to forgive me for this indiscretion, but that is what happens when you let a kid take over.
Cleaning up the kitchen in the aftermath of my son's first batch of chocolate chip cookies, I came across an untouched bottle of vanilla extract. The vanilla extract that did not make it into this batch of chocolate chip cookies. Oops. That's what happens when you let a kid take over.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
What Can You Say?
Let's take a look at that First Amendment: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances. This one hasn't had the same kind of play that the one about guns for bears gets, but since it is the first in a series, maybe it was significant to the authors. Or maybe it was just put there as a place holder until the editors found a better idea, but in the rush to get it out, they went to press with this freedom of religion and speech and press thing. They probably figured since it was an amendment kind of thing, and it could be fixed in rewrites.
But there it is: Freedom of speech. And that's why we have all these people opening up their mouths and saying things to test the limits of "free." Shouting "movie" in a crowded firehou"se: okay. Shouting "fire" in a crowded moviehouse: not okay. Go ahead and talk your fool head off, just try and keep other people's safety in mind, and maybe you should also consider people's feelings. You might not cause somebody to catch fire or get trampled, but you could find yourself on the wrong end of a defamation or libel suit just because you can't just say anything. If you do, you might have to pay for it. Maybe not cash money, but you could get in really big trouble. Court-type trouble. You might eventually find yourself in Supreme Court-type trouble.
The Supreme Court is where you could, eventually, have to argue your assertion that shouting "haddock" in a crowded fish house is not a danger to the public at large. You really have to push the bounds of taste and decorum to find yourself stand in front of a judge, let alone those judges. For the past few months, for example, a certain marmalade-infused gentleman has been testing the bounds of the First Amendment, but since he's running for president, and might eventually be the boss of those eight current and potentially nine judges, he feels pretty good about saying whatever it is that comes in to his "mind."
Imagine the surreality of the moment when the someone who chooses to spout off in his yam-hued wake happens to be one of those Supreme Court justices. Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg told CNN, “He has no consistency about him. He says whatever comes into his head at the moment. He really has an ego. … How has he gotten away with not turning over his tax returns? The press seems to be very gentle with him on that.”
And how did Mister Squash respond? In a tweet, of course. "Justice Ginsburg of the U.S. Supreme Court has embarrassed all by making very dumb political statements about me. Her mind is shot - resign!" In a constitutional cage match, my money's on Ginsburg.
But there it is: Freedom of speech. And that's why we have all these people opening up their mouths and saying things to test the limits of "free." Shouting "movie" in a crowded firehou"se: okay. Shouting "fire" in a crowded moviehouse: not okay. Go ahead and talk your fool head off, just try and keep other people's safety in mind, and maybe you should also consider people's feelings. You might not cause somebody to catch fire or get trampled, but you could find yourself on the wrong end of a defamation or libel suit just because you can't just say anything. If you do, you might have to pay for it. Maybe not cash money, but you could get in really big trouble. Court-type trouble. You might eventually find yourself in Supreme Court-type trouble.
The Supreme Court is where you could, eventually, have to argue your assertion that shouting "haddock" in a crowded fish house is not a danger to the public at large. You really have to push the bounds of taste and decorum to find yourself stand in front of a judge, let alone those judges. For the past few months, for example, a certain marmalade-infused gentleman has been testing the bounds of the First Amendment, but since he's running for president, and might eventually be the boss of those eight current and potentially nine judges, he feels pretty good about saying whatever it is that comes in to his "mind."
Imagine the surreality of the moment when the someone who chooses to spout off in his yam-hued wake happens to be one of those Supreme Court justices. Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg told CNN, “He has no consistency about him. He says whatever comes into his head at the moment. He really has an ego. … How has he gotten away with not turning over his tax returns? The press seems to be very gentle with him on that.”
And how did Mister Squash respond? In a tweet, of course. "Justice Ginsburg of the U.S. Supreme Court has embarrassed all by making very dumb political statements about me. Her mind is shot - resign!" In a constitutional cage match, my money's on Ginsburg.
Friday, July 15, 2016
Screening My Calls
She won't stop calling. I have tried to let her know that our relationship is important, but I have to keep my options open. There are so many fish in the sea, if you catch my meaning. There are fish who don't show up as nearly so needy or aggressive. Okay, maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt: She's being assertive, and I guess living here in the twenty-first century that seems like it should be okay for a woman to express her wants and needs, but sometimes desperate is just desperate.
Did I mention that she emails me too? I know I can just click on the delete button, and it will be gone, but I also know that when I start up my machine tomorrow morning, my inbox will be full once again. And it's not just her. Sometimes she gets her friends to email me too. They beg and plead just the same, as if I had taken leave of my senses. "What is wrong with you?" they tend to screech at me. Can't I see what a mistake I would be making by simply cutting all ties to her and moving on with my life?
Now, when the phone rings, I look at the caller ID and wince when I recognize the number. I know she's out there, waiting. It's more than a little sad, to be stalked like this. It's not like she's some awful person. I am sure she will make someone happy. She's intelligent. She's worldly. She's got so much to give.
The trouble is, she won't stop talking long enough to get a word in edgewise. She's so full of ideas about our future and how things could be that she doesn't bother to take a breath. Not long enough to hear what's on my mind, anyway. That's the irony, really. She wants my attention so badly, but when it comes time for her to listen to what I have to say, she's not there. It's like she lives in her own private bubble, and everything would be perfect if I would just give her the chance to show me how wonderful things would be if I let her back in my life.
The truth is, I know her family. I know her history. I know that just because of the way things went down in the past, it doesn't mean that they are destined to repeat, but it's so hard to trust again. I know that my options are limited, since I am who I am, but sometimes I wish that I could just have a few days to clear my head and figure things out without her being there on the other end of the line. Who knows? Maybe if I had a chance to reflect and consider all my options, she really could be the one for me. But for right now, Hillary, would you please stop calling?
Did I mention that she emails me too? I know I can just click on the delete button, and it will be gone, but I also know that when I start up my machine tomorrow morning, my inbox will be full once again. And it's not just her. Sometimes she gets her friends to email me too. They beg and plead just the same, as if I had taken leave of my senses. "What is wrong with you?" they tend to screech at me. Can't I see what a mistake I would be making by simply cutting all ties to her and moving on with my life?
Now, when the phone rings, I look at the caller ID and wince when I recognize the number. I know she's out there, waiting. It's more than a little sad, to be stalked like this. It's not like she's some awful person. I am sure she will make someone happy. She's intelligent. She's worldly. She's got so much to give.
The trouble is, she won't stop talking long enough to get a word in edgewise. She's so full of ideas about our future and how things could be that she doesn't bother to take a breath. Not long enough to hear what's on my mind, anyway. That's the irony, really. She wants my attention so badly, but when it comes time for her to listen to what I have to say, she's not there. It's like she lives in her own private bubble, and everything would be perfect if I would just give her the chance to show me how wonderful things would be if I let her back in my life.
The truth is, I know her family. I know her history. I know that just because of the way things went down in the past, it doesn't mean that they are destined to repeat, but it's so hard to trust again. I know that my options are limited, since I am who I am, but sometimes I wish that I could just have a few days to clear my head and figure things out without her being there on the other end of the line. Who knows? Maybe if I had a chance to reflect and consider all my options, she really could be the one for me. But for right now, Hillary, would you please stop calling?
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