It might be convenient to say that the reason I ended up reading the story about the FBI agent was because the dateline was Denver. I admit that I have a disposition toward checking out items that originate from the same state I did. Hence, I catch a lot of news that comes from the Centennial State.
That isn't why I read it.
You might also surmise that my interest in protecting our country from enemies foreign and domestic might bring me to reading up about the latest misadventures of our intelligence community. What would former director James Comey have said about this incident? Is this behavior consistent with the overall malaise of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?
Nope.
I read the story because I honestly could not understand how an FBI agent shot someone while dancing. Not in a cool undercover way like Mel Gibson might have back when he was a Lethal Weapon, but in a really pretty stupid "What was going through your head?" kind of way that did not immediately allow understanding.
According to bystanders, one of whom was shot in the leg, the off-duty agent had just performed a handstand when his pistol fell out of his pocket onto the floor. At this point, the agent bent down to pick up the firearm and it went off. "Accidental discharge" is what they call it. Coincidentally, this is also one of the side-effects of Curactin. This tepid piece of choreography resulted in a non-life-threatening injury to the bar patron who probably hadn't counted on leaving the bar in an ambulance.
Which brings me to the real reason I read the story: What do guns and dancing have in common? There are dance clubs and there are gun clubs. Both seem to be covered by our Constitution, at least as far as the freedom of expression allows the Cabbage Patch. Keeping in mind that this was a trained and vetted individual who made the somewhat confounding choice of performing a handstand while carrying a gun in his waistband holster, it makes me wonder just how wrong this kind of thing could go in a place where concealed weapons were de regueur. It does make me wonder if the agent in question was wearing his Kevlar vest. That would have made doing a handstand even more challenging. Or maybe the rest of the crowd should have been issued bullet proof vests before the night's performance.
Thursday, June 07, 2018
Wednesday, June 06, 2018
Living In The Future
It took me about an hour to connect the wi-fi outlet to our network so I could shout into the ether, "Hey Google, turn on the Not." The Not is the name Ikea gave to the lamp we bought several years ago. My wife and I thought it was amusing enough to keep that name when it came time to robotize our household. We still have to flip some light switches and push some buttons. The dishes do not wash themselves. If I want a window open, I still have to lift that sash all by myself.
But I want to hear Ray Stevens singing "Gitarzan," I just have to yell in the direction of the doorknob shaped object at the front of our living room. I can ask it questions. If I want to know what time it is, or who that girl was in that episode of Scrubs, I ask Google. No typing. Just asking the doorknob. After I make sure that I have asked in a way that will make sense to the artificial intelligence that lives with us as long as the power stays on.
I try hard not to think about the time I have spent connecting and wiring and making wireless connections and finding ways that this labor saving device could save me labor. Finding ways to amuse myself and others by asking this machine to respond to me in ways that feel clever. Then I have to remember that like all these bits, they are programmed in advance. My request to open the pod bay doors was anticipated by the artificial intelligences that preceded our know-it-all doorknob, but it still gave me a smile. And I try not to think about the rooms full of engineers it took to make that off the cuff silliness. All that energy and effort for the in-joke about the artificial intelligence that went crazy and killed all the astronauts in 2001.
Where is that labor-saving element again?
When I forget to phrase the request just so, or I want something that is not a pre-programmed response, I get a pre-programmed apology for the inadequacy of the response that has not (as yet) been programmed. Or sometimes I get some excuse about how the doorknob isn't able to connect to the Internet. And guess who has to fix that?
A few minutes or an hour later, when our digital assistant is back online, we can get back to the stuff of life: Gitarzan.
Where is that labor-saving element again?
When I forget to phrase the request just so, or I want something that is not a pre-programmed response, I get a pre-programmed apology for the inadequacy of the response that has not (as yet) been programmed. Or sometimes I get some excuse about how the doorknob isn't able to connect to the Internet. And guess who has to fix that?
A few minutes or an hour later, when our digital assistant is back online, we can get back to the stuff of life: Gitarzan.
Tuesday, June 05, 2018
Letting The Air Out
The push pin on the floor should have given me a clue. In the past, it has almost always led to the same conclusion, but when I pushed my bike to the doors of school on that last full day of school, I should have expected a flat tire.
It is an established fact that teachers are not allowed to have favorites, even though they do. In the very same way we would never expect children to have favorite teachers, even though they do. Which is how moments like last Friday occur. This was by no means the first flat tire I have had in my borderline illustrious career as a teacher. I all but beg for such torment by leaving my bike in a corner of my classroom. Unattended. Most of the time it is a piece of furniture that does not concern people too short to climb aboard. Except when the perfect storm of pointy object, inflated tire, and issue with authority combine.
I remember the first time it happened. It was my second year teaching, and when I discovered the wheel resting on a flattened inner tube, I flew directly into detective mode: Who had access? Who had motivation? Who wanted to hurt me? So I questioned a bunch of students, and narrowed down the time during which the maleficence took place. It was a fifth grader who ratted on his friend. He cracked under the intense four minute interrogation. The culprit was troubled kid who just happened to be the son of one of the guys with whom I had worked at the book warehouse. I could not understand how such a terrible injustice could have been meted out to me, everyone's favorite teacher.
Which is how I came to understand that I am not everyone's favorite teacher. I also discovered, over time, that even favorite teachers and students do things to one another that defy easy explanation. The nature of this dynamic can best be understood by understanding that both parties in this interaction are human beings, capable of doing horrible, rotten, inconsiderate things to one another. Sometimes purely by accident.
Sticking a pin into a bike tire isn't something I would necessarily categorize as accidental, but by contrast I know that mispronouncing someone's name can be a terrible affront even though the intent was only to try and engender familiarity. And I know that occupying a certain level of authority makes me a pretty broad target for anyone's mild antipathy, especially that of a child who is struggling to form their neural pathways. Twenty years later, I have decided not to take such things personally. I know how to change a tire. I'm a grown up.
It is an established fact that teachers are not allowed to have favorites, even though they do. In the very same way we would never expect children to have favorite teachers, even though they do. Which is how moments like last Friday occur. This was by no means the first flat tire I have had in my borderline illustrious career as a teacher. I all but beg for such torment by leaving my bike in a corner of my classroom. Unattended. Most of the time it is a piece of furniture that does not concern people too short to climb aboard. Except when the perfect storm of pointy object, inflated tire, and issue with authority combine.
I remember the first time it happened. It was my second year teaching, and when I discovered the wheel resting on a flattened inner tube, I flew directly into detective mode: Who had access? Who had motivation? Who wanted to hurt me? So I questioned a bunch of students, and narrowed down the time during which the maleficence took place. It was a fifth grader who ratted on his friend. He cracked under the intense four minute interrogation. The culprit was troubled kid who just happened to be the son of one of the guys with whom I had worked at the book warehouse. I could not understand how such a terrible injustice could have been meted out to me, everyone's favorite teacher.
Which is how I came to understand that I am not everyone's favorite teacher. I also discovered, over time, that even favorite teachers and students do things to one another that defy easy explanation. The nature of this dynamic can best be understood by understanding that both parties in this interaction are human beings, capable of doing horrible, rotten, inconsiderate things to one another. Sometimes purely by accident.
Sticking a pin into a bike tire isn't something I would necessarily categorize as accidental, but by contrast I know that mispronouncing someone's name can be a terrible affront even though the intent was only to try and engender familiarity. And I know that occupying a certain level of authority makes me a pretty broad target for anyone's mild antipathy, especially that of a child who is struggling to form their neural pathways. Twenty years later, I have decided not to take such things personally. I know how to change a tire. I'm a grown up.
Monday, June 04, 2018
Is It Okay To Shout C*** In A Crowded Movie House?
What is good for the goose is good for the gander, and other metaphors that ring of fairness. Samantha Bee, who is kind of a fixture in our household, said something pretty off-color on last week's broadcast. Which is no real surprise, since most every one of her broadcasts include an utterance or two that would make a drunken sailor blush. The difference this time was that she chose to target First Daughter and the symbol of all that is nepotism to hurl invective. Hers was essentially a more colorful version of the rant I recently had myself about her posting pictures of a cozy Sunday morning cuddle with her son while fifteen hundred refugee children had been misplaced.
So what's the problem?
First of all, it seems that Ms. Bee stepped across a line that had been pre-determined through years of politics: Don't mess with the kids. While steering clear of Barron Trump, for the most part, Ivanka has enjoyed some of the same cushy coverage that presidential offspring have generally experienced. This is in spite of the rather straightforward viciousness visited upon the two elder Trump sons. Even though Ivanka is an adult, with a job of some sort in the White House, she has generally avoided being a focal point for liberal rage. It's like one of those "unwritten rules" in baseball that get written about endlessly when they are broken. Samantha Bee ran right up to that line in the dirt, danced upon it, and then proceeded to hop merrily over it.
Recent events involving women comedians, like and including Rosanne Barr, have made this kind of indiscretion a fuse that has been lit and will continue to set off a series of media explosions until something more critical faces this great land of ours. Like the missing children or the undercurrent of racism and anger that seems to permeate so much of the discourse these days. America is a tough town.
Full Frontal With Samantha Bee remains that for the time being, with its titular host and a few less advertisers, and an apology from that titular host. Good enough? Not according to Ivanka's daddy, who wonders why Ms. Bee was not fired, a phrase he claims to have invented. So is the First Amendment strong enough to defend everyone in this matter? Between you and me, I prefer debates that center on this part of the bill of rights. Nobody has to get shot.
So what's the problem?
First of all, it seems that Ms. Bee stepped across a line that had been pre-determined through years of politics: Don't mess with the kids. While steering clear of Barron Trump, for the most part, Ivanka has enjoyed some of the same cushy coverage that presidential offspring have generally experienced. This is in spite of the rather straightforward viciousness visited upon the two elder Trump sons. Even though Ivanka is an adult, with a job of some sort in the White House, she has generally avoided being a focal point for liberal rage. It's like one of those "unwritten rules" in baseball that get written about endlessly when they are broken. Samantha Bee ran right up to that line in the dirt, danced upon it, and then proceeded to hop merrily over it.
Recent events involving women comedians, like and including Rosanne Barr, have made this kind of indiscretion a fuse that has been lit and will continue to set off a series of media explosions until something more critical faces this great land of ours. Like the missing children or the undercurrent of racism and anger that seems to permeate so much of the discourse these days. America is a tough town.
Full Frontal With Samantha Bee remains that for the time being, with its titular host and a few less advertisers, and an apology from that titular host. Good enough? Not according to Ivanka's daddy, who wonders why Ms. Bee was not fired, a phrase he claims to have invented. So is the First Amendment strong enough to defend everyone in this matter? Between you and me, I prefer debates that center on this part of the bill of rights. Nobody has to get shot.
Sunday, June 03, 2018
No Harm Asking
So here's what I have to say about that: Why not?
"That" would be television evangelist Jesse Duplantis would like your help in spreading the gospel, according to him. How can you help? You can become a "partner" by helping him purchase a fifty four million dollar jet. The Dassault Falcon 7X is a far cry from wandering the wilderness in sandals, but this is 2018. As the reverend himself suggested, “I really believe that if Jesus was physically on the Earth today, he wouldn’t be riding a donkey. Think about it for a minute. He’d be in an airplane preaching the gospel all over the world. This plane was not designed for short hops and barnstorming, this technological marvel. It's got wi-fi. I suppose that's included for those moments when reception to the Lord Our God is sketchy. It seats up to nineteen, with plenty of room left for the father, the son and the holy ghost.
So, I return to my initial response: Why not? In a world in which the American "President" can insist that Mexico pay for a wall on their common border, this doesn't seem all that outrageous. The Reverend Jesse (not that one) is asking for help here. He is not demanding. He is praying for your assistance.
It should be noted here that the Duplantis Ministries already has three private jets in its hangar. Two of them are being used by other servants of the Lord, and the Falcon 50 he owns currently is just not up to the task of spreading the Word anymore. ″[God] said, ‘I want you to believe me for a Falcon 7X,’” the evangelist said. “The first thing I thought of was how am I going to pay for it? And a great statement that he told me in 1978 flooded into my mind, and he said, ‘Jesse, I didn’t ask you to pay for it, I asked you to believe for it.’”
How about that for a business plan? Just believe in it. Let the rest of the world worry about sending in their nickels and dimes to make that belief a reality. Fellow preacher Kenneth Copeland defended their use of private jets in a television broadcast. Copeland, who was on President Donald Trump’s evangelical advisory board during the 2016 campaign, claims in the video that pastors use these private jets as a “sanctuary” where they can talk directly to God.
And while they're up there, maybe they can find out about that wall. Just asking, right?
"That" would be television evangelist Jesse Duplantis would like your help in spreading the gospel, according to him. How can you help? You can become a "partner" by helping him purchase a fifty four million dollar jet. The Dassault Falcon 7X is a far cry from wandering the wilderness in sandals, but this is 2018. As the reverend himself suggested, “I really believe that if Jesus was physically on the Earth today, he wouldn’t be riding a donkey. Think about it for a minute. He’d be in an airplane preaching the gospel all over the world. This plane was not designed for short hops and barnstorming, this technological marvel. It's got wi-fi. I suppose that's included for those moments when reception to the Lord Our God is sketchy. It seats up to nineteen, with plenty of room left for the father, the son and the holy ghost.
So, I return to my initial response: Why not? In a world in which the American "President" can insist that Mexico pay for a wall on their common border, this doesn't seem all that outrageous. The Reverend Jesse (not that one) is asking for help here. He is not demanding. He is praying for your assistance.
It should be noted here that the Duplantis Ministries already has three private jets in its hangar. Two of them are being used by other servants of the Lord, and the Falcon 50 he owns currently is just not up to the task of spreading the Word anymore. ″[God] said, ‘I want you to believe me for a Falcon 7X,’” the evangelist said. “The first thing I thought of was how am I going to pay for it? And a great statement that he told me in 1978 flooded into my mind, and he said, ‘Jesse, I didn’t ask you to pay for it, I asked you to believe for it.’”
How about that for a business plan? Just believe in it. Let the rest of the world worry about sending in their nickels and dimes to make that belief a reality. Fellow preacher Kenneth Copeland defended their use of private jets in a television broadcast. Copeland, who was on President Donald Trump’s evangelical advisory board during the 2016 campaign, claims in the video that pastors use these private jets as a “sanctuary” where they can talk directly to God.
And while they're up there, maybe they can find out about that wall. Just asking, right?
Saturday, June 02, 2018
The Many Lives Of Ms. Barr
Al Gore's Internet was congratulating itself on Tuesday for the cancellation of Roseanne. In case this is the only place you drop by on what must be a pretty lackluster surf of the 'net, Roseanne is the eponymous situation comedy based on the middle class lives of a middle class woman and her middle class family in middle class America. It was recently brought back from sit-com heaven to find a place on ABC's prime time schedule. It got huge ratings, and the somewhat more than middle class powers that be at the network watched as a rather conservative message got siphoned out into the airwaves through their auspices. After twenty years away from the tube, Roseanne was back.
And so were her "antics."
Way back when, 1988, ABC decided to take a chance on a brash comic voice with an "in your face" style that would challenge viewers. Roseanne Barr's somewhat meteoric rise turned into the kind of Hollywood Story that Hollywood Story would be happy to show in True form on E! Entertainment Television. Ms. Barr's tirades were taken in stride by a business that was used to that sort of thing, and was conscious of the potential double standard of putting a muzzle on a woman when men had been kicking up a similar fuss for decades without so much as a tug on the leash.
Until the whole thing just sort of collapsed in on itself, unable to contain the myth of a working class life within the bizarre looking glass of Hollyweird. For a decade, Roseanne traded on her infamy and "in your face style" to run for president as a Green Party candidate for a moment and then for the Peace and Freedom party. It was all a part of her "I will not be silenced" campaign, and she must have been happier than anyone to receive her very own Twitter account to spew whatever point of view she adopted at the moment.
All of which came to an abrupt end when she let fly with a racist slur of a Tweet directed at former Obama aide Valerie Jarrett. This came as the folks at ABC were busy counting their Roesanne money, and for a moment it seemed as though things might have been show business as usual.
Not this time. ABC Entertainment president Channing Dungey, in a very few words, said, "Roseanne's Twitter statement is abhorrent, repugnant and inconsistent with our values, and we have decided to cancel her show." The following day, Roseanne blamed Ambien for her poor judgement. "I'm not a racist, just an idiot who made a bad joke." The jury is out on that one, but for now, so is Roseanne.
And so were her "antics."
Way back when, 1988, ABC decided to take a chance on a brash comic voice with an "in your face" style that would challenge viewers. Roseanne Barr's somewhat meteoric rise turned into the kind of Hollywood Story that Hollywood Story would be happy to show in True form on E! Entertainment Television. Ms. Barr's tirades were taken in stride by a business that was used to that sort of thing, and was conscious of the potential double standard of putting a muzzle on a woman when men had been kicking up a similar fuss for decades without so much as a tug on the leash.
Until the whole thing just sort of collapsed in on itself, unable to contain the myth of a working class life within the bizarre looking glass of Hollyweird. For a decade, Roseanne traded on her infamy and "in your face style" to run for president as a Green Party candidate for a moment and then for the Peace and Freedom party. It was all a part of her "I will not be silenced" campaign, and she must have been happier than anyone to receive her very own Twitter account to spew whatever point of view she adopted at the moment.
All of which came to an abrupt end when she let fly with a racist slur of a Tweet directed at former Obama aide Valerie Jarrett. This came as the folks at ABC were busy counting their Roesanne money, and for a moment it seemed as though things might have been show business as usual.
Not this time. ABC Entertainment president Channing Dungey, in a very few words, said, "Roseanne's Twitter statement is abhorrent, repugnant and inconsistent with our values, and we have decided to cancel her show." The following day, Roseanne blamed Ambien for her poor judgement. "I'm not a racist, just an idiot who made a bad joke." The jury is out on that one, but for now, so is Roseanne.
Friday, June 01, 2018
I've Got A Bad Feeling About This
I don't know if anyone is going to ask me,but since I have my own blog I can pretend that someone did.
"What did you think of Solo: A Star Wars Story?"
I'm glad you asked. This is the Star Wars movie that everyone feared when Disney bought up all things Star Warsian. It delivers on the blockbuster tropes: Big, loud, and fast. Except not so much on that third one. It is fifteen minutes shorter than the Last Jedi, but it feels like it is half an hour longer. In an effort to cram in all the possible cliches and coincidences, the story lurches around in search of trivial bits to share with us. We who are the nerds who rushed out on the first weekend to see what Opie Cunningham had to bring to the canon.
Two hours and fifteen minutes later, the answer is: not much.
Yes. I grew up steeped in a pot of science fiction with ladles full of a galaxy far, far away. I read many of the spin-off novels and looked at all the schematics of the Millennium Falcon. I sat in my seat, transfixed, waiting for someone to tell me that I wouldn't have to wait a year to find out more about Darth Vader being Luke's father. But I did. And when they showed up and resolved the whole thing with Muppets and a bunch of Teddy Bears, I let it happen. Return of the Jedi let us all know that Han Solo wasn't such a bad guy after all. If the finale ended up looking a lot like the Star Wars Christmas Special, I let it go. Peace had been restored to that far, far away galaxy, and the Empire had been squashed once and for all.
Which is why I was confounded when George Lucas decided to make three new movies based on events that led up to that moment when Luke meets his godfather and they go off on some fool idealistic crusade. To those prequels, I can only say this: Jar Jar Binks. And if you read those words without a shiver going up your spine, feel fortunate, since the scars they left on me are everlasting.
Then someone decided to move the franchise forward. We were given the class reunion of The Force Awakens, and with it, Harrison Ford's insistence that Han Solo must die. And, spoiler alert, he got his wish.
So it became the mission of the machine called Disney to find a way to squeeze a few more dollars out of this flawed cad, a reluctant hero who had already been in four movies. Why not make a movie about when he was a little smuggler, stealing toys from other creatures in the intergalactic day care? Okay, so they didn't do that, but the beginning of the Solo saga tell us that the heart of gold that it took us years to discover was there all along. Surprise. And his buddy Chewbacca has been right by his side for most of those years. Because that's what we already know from watching Episode IV. And neither he nor his Wookiee pal are in any life-threatening danger, since they have to be around for the events that we know as The Rebellion. A lot of things blew up before then, and a lot of hearts were broken before Han showed up in that cantina in Mos Eisley. Sorry, but this is where I came in.
Now aren't you glad you asked?
"What did you think of Solo: A Star Wars Story?"
I'm glad you asked. This is the Star Wars movie that everyone feared when Disney bought up all things Star Warsian. It delivers on the blockbuster tropes: Big, loud, and fast. Except not so much on that third one. It is fifteen minutes shorter than the Last Jedi, but it feels like it is half an hour longer. In an effort to cram in all the possible cliches and coincidences, the story lurches around in search of trivial bits to share with us. We who are the nerds who rushed out on the first weekend to see what Opie Cunningham had to bring to the canon.
Two hours and fifteen minutes later, the answer is: not much.
Yes. I grew up steeped in a pot of science fiction with ladles full of a galaxy far, far away. I read many of the spin-off novels and looked at all the schematics of the Millennium Falcon. I sat in my seat, transfixed, waiting for someone to tell me that I wouldn't have to wait a year to find out more about Darth Vader being Luke's father. But I did. And when they showed up and resolved the whole thing with Muppets and a bunch of Teddy Bears, I let it happen. Return of the Jedi let us all know that Han Solo wasn't such a bad guy after all. If the finale ended up looking a lot like the Star Wars Christmas Special, I let it go. Peace had been restored to that far, far away galaxy, and the Empire had been squashed once and for all.
Which is why I was confounded when George Lucas decided to make three new movies based on events that led up to that moment when Luke meets his godfather and they go off on some fool idealistic crusade. To those prequels, I can only say this: Jar Jar Binks. And if you read those words without a shiver going up your spine, feel fortunate, since the scars they left on me are everlasting.
Then someone decided to move the franchise forward. We were given the class reunion of The Force Awakens, and with it, Harrison Ford's insistence that Han Solo must die. And, spoiler alert, he got his wish.
So it became the mission of the machine called Disney to find a way to squeeze a few more dollars out of this flawed cad, a reluctant hero who had already been in four movies. Why not make a movie about when he was a little smuggler, stealing toys from other creatures in the intergalactic day care? Okay, so they didn't do that, but the beginning of the Solo saga tell us that the heart of gold that it took us years to discover was there all along. Surprise. And his buddy Chewbacca has been right by his side for most of those years. Because that's what we already know from watching Episode IV. And neither he nor his Wookiee pal are in any life-threatening danger, since they have to be around for the events that we know as The Rebellion. A lot of things blew up before then, and a lot of hearts were broken before Han showed up in that cantina in Mos Eisley. Sorry, but this is where I came in.
Now aren't you glad you asked?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
