Once again, my daughter comes through with the music: This band rocks...as I'm typing this I'm listening for a third time to this track (music by Joe Green) that reminds me of the best stuff Queen ever did. The lyrics are in Italian, but here's the translation:
"Woman is fickle, like a feather in the wind,
she changes the tone of her voice, and her thoughts!
Always a sweet, pretty face,
in tears or in laughter, she is always lying!
Woman is fickle, like a feather in the wind,
she changes her accents, and her thoughts
and her thoughts, and her thoughts!
He is always miserable who trusts in her
who to her confides his unwary heart!
Yet nobody feels happy fully
who on that bosom doesn't drink love,
Woman is fickle, like a feather in the wind,
she changes the tone of her voice and her thoughts
and her thoughts, and her thoughts!"
Recognize it yet?
Perhaps you'll recognize the lyrics untranslated:
La donna è mobile
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento
e di pensiero
Sempre un'amabile
leggiadro viso
in pianto e in riso
è menzognero
La donna è mobil
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento e di pensier
e di pensier, e di pensier
È sempre misero
chi a lei s'affida
chi le confida
mal cauto il core
Pur mai non sentesi
felice appieno
chi su quel seno
non liba amore
La donna è mobil
qual piuma al vento
muta d'accento e di pensier
e di pensier, e di pensier
Who the heck is Joe Green? Okay, Giuseppe Verdi.
Check them out:
The East Village Opera Company
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
Autoanthropology 201
Sherri posted this, which is a great idea, so I’m not sure why she chose the title she did. (Perhaps she couldn’t think of a better title.) (Yes, the original title for this post was "Strange", but after going back and rereading some of my older posts, I realized I'd done something similar and called it "Autoanthropology 101", I made the change.)
Rising to her challenge, I submit the following list of Eleven* Strange Things About Me:
1) As long as I can remember, the only way I’ve been able to get to sleep at night, regardless of how tired and shagged out I am (after a prolonged squawk) has been to tell myself stories until I drift off to sleep. Quite often, these stories feature me as the hero, and I invariably have some unbearably cool Hero Gear. At various times, I have owned vintage airplanes and car racing teams, commanded warships, and driven trains. When I was 11, my self-told bedtime stories centered around my adventures as a high school student who always drove to school in a restored World War II German half-track. There is always a girl named either Shelley or Diana, and over the years, I have saved her from a number of improbable calamities using only my lightning reflexes and my infallible instinct for survival.
When my ex-wife was pregnant with my older daughter, we attended a Lamaze class that included the self-hypnosis relaxation techniques known as Imagery. When the instructor remarked that I seemed to be picking it up pretty quickly. I said, “Yeah, I’ve been doing this since I was little.” I’m certain he didn’t believe me.
2) I have experienced telepathy a number of times. Once, during some mandatory training the Navy sent me to during the 80s, we spent an hour or so practicing Imagery relaxation techniques. The facilitator “guided” us (“Now imaaagine yourself in a peeeeaceful plaaaace…your faaavorite haaaapy plaaaace.”) through the exercise. I pictured myself in my mother’s kitchen, as she made my favorite: apple pie. At the end of the exercise, the facilitator quietly said, “Who had pie in their image? I smelled apple pie.” Years later, at the beginning of a gunnery exercise in which I’d be expected to draw upon skills I hadn’t used in years, my nervous preparations were interrupted momentarily by a clear mental image of a friend having lunch in her office, and after that, I had an overwhelming sense of confidence. We not only excelled in the exercise, as the spotter, I scored a direct hit, dropping a five-inch diameter projectile onto the top-dead-center of a tank from three miles away. When I got home, I called my friend and she greeted me with, “Oh! Hey! On Wednesday, I was having a late lunch in my office and I felt like you needed a little encouragement, so I sent you some confident thoughts…”
3) I sometimes have a hard time not blurting out movie lines that are perversely appropriate for a given situation, and sometimes the lines I don’t say strike me so funny, that I can’t stop giggling. For example, in that Lamaze class, when the instructor asked how many people have experienced the birth of a child, I so wanted to say (in a squeaky, high-pitched, Butterfly McQueen voice), “Ah don’ know nuffin’ ‘bout birfin’ no babies!”
I do the same thing with lines from Monty Python skits. We often have theoretical discussions at work that devolve into “yes-you-can-no-you-can’t” and when that happens, I have to bite my tongue to avoid saying, “Look, this isn’t an argument! It’s just contradiction! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.” Of course, no one would get it and respond, “No, it isn’t.”
4) I am secretly an absolute freak about The Gilmore Girls. It’s not just that I like looking at Lauren Graham (which I do), it’s that the show is full of quirky characters doing insane things but somehow managing to remain true to themselves. I love the writing on this show. The dialogue is full of smart, obscure pop-culture references and the storylines are balanced and just unpredictable enough to keep me drawn in. I love that there’s at least one show on TV about smart women who don’t have to dissect things and solve crimes to be considered intelligent. Why do I feel like I have to justify this?
5) I am not so secretly freakish about The West Wing. I don’t care about the politics they espouse on the show. For Democrats, they are sometimes surprisingly conservative (take for example, the episode in which Martin Sheen, as President Jed Bartlet, justifies an attack on a Third World nation suspected of harboring terrorists and conducting an illicit WMD program by saying, “Because, in this day and age, you can build a bomb in your country and bring it to my country, what goes on in your country is very much my business.”) The writing is even better than on Gilmore Girls and I like it.
6) I have observed that guys who are arrogant assholes seem to be more attractive to women. In an effort to make myself appear more attractive, I attempted to become an arrogant asshole. I lasted one whole minute.
7) I became a vegetarian for a month. It was an unhappy time for me, but I figured it was just the diet, and was determined to stick with it until the day I drove by the In-n-Out Burger on the corner of Rosecrans and Sports Arena by mistake. (Please allow me to explain to non-Californians: In-n-Out prepares their burgers the same way they have since the Fifties, and they vent the aroma out onto the street, a Siren’s scent. It is impossible to come within 200 feet of an In-n-Out without getting hungry.) I am no longer a vegetarian.
8) I snore. I always have. When I was 8, my parents began closing my bedroom door at night so that they could sleep. In the summer, they’d have to keep the side window in their bedroom closed because the sound of my snoring would pass through my bedroom side window, echo off the neighbor’s house, and keep my parents awake. I cannot nap in public (such as on a plane or train) for fear of detecting someone’s ill-concealed smirk after I wake up.
9) I don’t so much cuss at bad drivers as scold them. The sluggard who counts to ten after the light turns green will generally earn this: “Okay, come on, Sweetheart, it’s the narrow pedal on the right. No, the RIGHT. That’s good…all the way through the intersection now.” I take a great deal of pleasure in pulling alongside the driver who blew by me and cut me off on the freeway so that he could get the next exit first, especially when I got there the same time he did without driving like a maniac.
10) I have very little of consequence in my refrigerator, and almost all of what is there is past its expiration date. I do not see the need to stock my eighteen cubic foot refrigerator when there is a 550,000 cubic foot grocery store a block away.
11) There is an added draw to the grocery store: I have a little thing going on with one of the cashiers, whom I will call FlirtatiousCutie. Whenever I see that she’s working, I go through her line…even if it means violating the Fifteen Item Rule when she’s working the Express Line (not often…see Strange Thing 10). When she’s helping the customer in line ahead of me, our eyes will meet and she’ll smile at me and lower her eyes, then go back to helping that customer wearing that little smile that belongs to me. (If you’ve seen the smile Maggie Gyllenhaal gives to the camera at the end of Secretary, you know the one: I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-you’re-right.)
*“It’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where? Put it up to eleven, exactly. One louder.
Rising to her challenge, I submit the following list of Eleven* Strange Things About Me:
1) As long as I can remember, the only way I’ve been able to get to sleep at night, regardless of how tired and shagged out I am (after a prolonged squawk) has been to tell myself stories until I drift off to sleep. Quite often, these stories feature me as the hero, and I invariably have some unbearably cool Hero Gear. At various times, I have owned vintage airplanes and car racing teams, commanded warships, and driven trains. When I was 11, my self-told bedtime stories centered around my adventures as a high school student who always drove to school in a restored World War II German half-track. There is always a girl named either Shelley or Diana, and over the years, I have saved her from a number of improbable calamities using only my lightning reflexes and my infallible instinct for survival.
When my ex-wife was pregnant with my older daughter, we attended a Lamaze class that included the self-hypnosis relaxation techniques known as Imagery. When the instructor remarked that I seemed to be picking it up pretty quickly. I said, “Yeah, I’ve been doing this since I was little.” I’m certain he didn’t believe me.
2) I have experienced telepathy a number of times. Once, during some mandatory training the Navy sent me to during the 80s, we spent an hour or so practicing Imagery relaxation techniques. The facilitator “guided” us (“Now imaaagine yourself in a peeeeaceful plaaaace…your faaavorite haaaapy plaaaace.”) through the exercise. I pictured myself in my mother’s kitchen, as she made my favorite: apple pie. At the end of the exercise, the facilitator quietly said, “Who had pie in their image? I smelled apple pie.” Years later, at the beginning of a gunnery exercise in which I’d be expected to draw upon skills I hadn’t used in years, my nervous preparations were interrupted momentarily by a clear mental image of a friend having lunch in her office, and after that, I had an overwhelming sense of confidence. We not only excelled in the exercise, as the spotter, I scored a direct hit, dropping a five-inch diameter projectile onto the top-dead-center of a tank from three miles away. When I got home, I called my friend and she greeted me with, “Oh! Hey! On Wednesday, I was having a late lunch in my office and I felt like you needed a little encouragement, so I sent you some confident thoughts…”
3) I sometimes have a hard time not blurting out movie lines that are perversely appropriate for a given situation, and sometimes the lines I don’t say strike me so funny, that I can’t stop giggling. For example, in that Lamaze class, when the instructor asked how many people have experienced the birth of a child, I so wanted to say (in a squeaky, high-pitched, Butterfly McQueen voice), “Ah don’ know nuffin’ ‘bout birfin’ no babies!”
I do the same thing with lines from Monty Python skits. We often have theoretical discussions at work that devolve into “yes-you-can-no-you-can’t” and when that happens, I have to bite my tongue to avoid saying, “Look, this isn’t an argument! It’s just contradiction! An argument is a connected series of statements intended to establish a proposition.” Of course, no one would get it and respond, “No, it isn’t.”
4) I am secretly an absolute freak about The Gilmore Girls. It’s not just that I like looking at Lauren Graham (which I do), it’s that the show is full of quirky characters doing insane things but somehow managing to remain true to themselves. I love the writing on this show. The dialogue is full of smart, obscure pop-culture references and the storylines are balanced and just unpredictable enough to keep me drawn in. I love that there’s at least one show on TV about smart women who don’t have to dissect things and solve crimes to be considered intelligent. Why do I feel like I have to justify this?
5) I am not so secretly freakish about The West Wing. I don’t care about the politics they espouse on the show. For Democrats, they are sometimes surprisingly conservative (take for example, the episode in which Martin Sheen, as President Jed Bartlet, justifies an attack on a Third World nation suspected of harboring terrorists and conducting an illicit WMD program by saying, “Because, in this day and age, you can build a bomb in your country and bring it to my country, what goes on in your country is very much my business.”) The writing is even better than on Gilmore Girls and I like it.
6) I have observed that guys who are arrogant assholes seem to be more attractive to women. In an effort to make myself appear more attractive, I attempted to become an arrogant asshole. I lasted one whole minute.
7) I became a vegetarian for a month. It was an unhappy time for me, but I figured it was just the diet, and was determined to stick with it until the day I drove by the In-n-Out Burger on the corner of Rosecrans and Sports Arena by mistake. (Please allow me to explain to non-Californians: In-n-Out prepares their burgers the same way they have since the Fifties, and they vent the aroma out onto the street, a Siren’s scent. It is impossible to come within 200 feet of an In-n-Out without getting hungry.) I am no longer a vegetarian.
8) I snore. I always have. When I was 8, my parents began closing my bedroom door at night so that they could sleep. In the summer, they’d have to keep the side window in their bedroom closed because the sound of my snoring would pass through my bedroom side window, echo off the neighbor’s house, and keep my parents awake. I cannot nap in public (such as on a plane or train) for fear of detecting someone’s ill-concealed smirk after I wake up.
9) I don’t so much cuss at bad drivers as scold them. The sluggard who counts to ten after the light turns green will generally earn this: “Okay, come on, Sweetheart, it’s the narrow pedal on the right. No, the RIGHT. That’s good…all the way through the intersection now.” I take a great deal of pleasure in pulling alongside the driver who blew by me and cut me off on the freeway so that he could get the next exit first, especially when I got there the same time he did without driving like a maniac.
10) I have very little of consequence in my refrigerator, and almost all of what is there is past its expiration date. I do not see the need to stock my eighteen cubic foot refrigerator when there is a 550,000 cubic foot grocery store a block away.
11) There is an added draw to the grocery store: I have a little thing going on with one of the cashiers, whom I will call FlirtatiousCutie. Whenever I see that she’s working, I go through her line…even if it means violating the Fifteen Item Rule when she’s working the Express Line (not often…see Strange Thing 10). When she’s helping the customer in line ahead of me, our eyes will meet and she’ll smile at me and lower her eyes, then go back to helping that customer wearing that little smile that belongs to me. (If you’ve seen the smile Maggie Gyllenhaal gives to the camera at the end of Secretary, you know the one: I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-you’re-right.)
*“It’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where? Put it up to eleven, exactly. One louder.
Fair and Balanced
I've been listening to and reading reports about the relief efforts on the Subcontinent, and stumbled across this headline today: Islamist Cleric Slams Slow Pakistan Quake Relief.
It makes me want to shout, "SEE??? It takes a while, doesn't it???"
But really, my main question is: Why has no one in the press compared New Orleans to Pakistan and come to the conclusion that relief just takes time after a disaster?
It makes me want to shout, "SEE??? It takes a while, doesn't it???"
But really, my main question is: Why has no one in the press compared New Orleans to Pakistan and come to the conclusion that relief just takes time after a disaster?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Moment of Truth
It turned out to be a busy day for both of us, Freckles and me. Sure, for me, it started out pretty much like any other, if a bit earlier. I shaved a little closer than usual, and brought my travel shaving kit to work so that I could get rid of the coffee breath and the mid-day stubble before it was time for our lunch. In it, I packed my favorite cologne.
I got a message that my 9:00 am meeting from yesterday, an old friend who’d failed to show up, would be coming this morning. The meeting was important, but I steeled myself for the task of cutting it short at 10:30, regardless of what had been resolved or decided in the meeting by then.
I kept the meeting on topic, and wrapped things up with an impromptu phone call to a colleague in Hawaii to confirm that our decisions had been the correct ones.
They were.
At 10:30 exactly, I excused myself, surreptitiously snagging my shaving kit and made for the men’s room. I could feel the adrenaline rasping excitedly through my arteries and veins.
I had to take a moment to steady my hand before I applied the razor to my face…A slip and I’ll still be bleeding at lunch. My reflection and I exchanged a long, steady look. This is important. Relax. No cream, just hot water, I shaved myself as smooth as I ever get. Cologne, not too much, just a spritz on the inside of my right wrist, then a quick wipe of the wrist on my cheeks and throat.
Ready.
I headed back to my office, and walking in, fellow cubizen and usual lunch partner Buck asks what I’m planning for lunch.
“Sorry, man. I’ve got an…appointment.”
“Oh? Are you gone for the day, then?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” I hesitate a moment. “Actually, it’s a date.” I cringe, and take a moment to silently castigate myself. So much for the downlow. “I have a lunch date.”
“Cool!” he says. “Well, good luck!”
Tim, another co-worker, asks, “Can we come along? We’ll be quiet, I promise.” There is mischief in his eyes.
“Absolutely not.” I wonder if I should change the place for our lunch date to somewhere farther from the base…it’s possible that they may choose the same place at random. I decide it’s worth the risk, and say nothing.
I head out to the spot Freckles and I agreed to meet. She had told me she also had a meeting, and that she’d try to be out of it before 11:00, but that these meetings always run long. “If I’m late, don’t worry, I’ll be there eventually. If you’re not there, I’ll look for you in your office.”
Sure enough, she’s late. I head back to the office, regretting again that I’d mentioned the word “date”. Now, I will have to explain why I am back so soon.
Head down, I mutter, “Meeting,” in the direction of the inquisitive eyes, and settle down at my desk to do nothing while I wait.
B comes in and wants to know what’s going on for lunch, and Buck, helpful as ever, says, “Kurt has a date.”
As if on cue, Freckles walks in. She looks frazzled, and she is a little breathless. Ignoring my colleagues, she says, “Sorry my meeting went so long. Do you mind waiting while I change? I’m still in uniform. I can meet you down there in fifteen minutes, if that’s okay.”
Of course it is.
Knowing that fifteen minutes really means twenty, I exchange a look with Buck who nods his head. The look he gives me is inscrutable.
I head for the car, sorry that she won’t be riding with me because it means the date will be shorter by fifteen or twenty minutes, and I am already not willing to let it end.
She arrives a few minutes behind me, wearing a white hoodie and brown Capri pants that expose just a hint of her tummy. Her hair is down. I’ve never seen her with her hair down, and the sight is a bit overwhelming. If she was beautiful in uniform, her hair in a tight French braid, she is stunning with her hair unbound. In that moment, I am the luckiest man alive.
Waiting to order, we settle into an easy conversation about leadership issues and her concerns about one of her guys who just can’t seem to live up to the Navy’s expectations. She’s doing all she can to keep him from serious disciplinary action, but he requires near-constant supervision. That’s what awaits her after lunch. Another thing we have in common: compassionate leadership. Utmost concern for our troops. I tell her so, complimenting her on it.
Over lunch, we swap sea stories, two former cruiser sailors…she’s been there and so have I; we’ve both done that and got the t-shirt. We are both warriors, equals. Can this really be? I wonder.
We talk about office politics, how some thrive on it and others do not. “I could never be political,” she says. “I can’t lie to anyone about anything.” I have already sensed this about her, but I do not say so. I look into her eyes, smile and think, exactly the quality I’m looking for.
She talks about her concern for her weight, how she’s been working hard to control it and to lose more. She’s so honest she tells me her exact weight. “You don’t need to,” I say. “I’ve noticed that you’ve lost weight, but you look amazing right now.” And I tell her that the first time we spoke, she was so beautiful that I could think of nothing to say.
She takes compliments well, I must say.
The conversation flows easily, and after an hour or so, she says she needs to get back to her troops, but she lingers for a few more minutes, laughing as we each tell another story. I ask her callsign, and she tells me, then surprises me by knowing mine. Of course, I realize after a moment, it’s in my e-mail signature. Still, she’s been paying attention.
We slide the remains of our salads into boxes…quite a lot, actually, since we were both engrossed in the conversation…and head for the door.
“Thank you for lunch,” she says. “I had a good time.”
“Me, too. Would you like to go out again sometime, maybe for dinner and a movie?”
She looks at me and smiles. “I’d love to, but, I…have a boyfriend.”
He’s deployed to the Gulf right now, and there’s no firm word on when he’ll be back, and we share a sad chuckle about the uncertain state of things for the military now, with the War on Terrorism and the war in Iraq. It is the first uncomfortable moment, not because of the revelation, but because war is regrettable.
“We can still get together for lunches, though,” says she. “I’d really like that.”
I will, too.
I got a message that my 9:00 am meeting from yesterday, an old friend who’d failed to show up, would be coming this morning. The meeting was important, but I steeled myself for the task of cutting it short at 10:30, regardless of what had been resolved or decided in the meeting by then.
I kept the meeting on topic, and wrapped things up with an impromptu phone call to a colleague in Hawaii to confirm that our decisions had been the correct ones.
They were.
At 10:30 exactly, I excused myself, surreptitiously snagging my shaving kit and made for the men’s room. I could feel the adrenaline rasping excitedly through my arteries and veins.
I had to take a moment to steady my hand before I applied the razor to my face…A slip and I’ll still be bleeding at lunch. My reflection and I exchanged a long, steady look. This is important. Relax. No cream, just hot water, I shaved myself as smooth as I ever get. Cologne, not too much, just a spritz on the inside of my right wrist, then a quick wipe of the wrist on my cheeks and throat.
Ready.
I headed back to my office, and walking in, fellow cubizen and usual lunch partner Buck asks what I’m planning for lunch.
“Sorry, man. I’ve got an…appointment.”
“Oh? Are you gone for the day, then?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” I hesitate a moment. “Actually, it’s a date.” I cringe, and take a moment to silently castigate myself. So much for the downlow. “I have a lunch date.”
“Cool!” he says. “Well, good luck!”
Tim, another co-worker, asks, “Can we come along? We’ll be quiet, I promise.” There is mischief in his eyes.
“Absolutely not.” I wonder if I should change the place for our lunch date to somewhere farther from the base…it’s possible that they may choose the same place at random. I decide it’s worth the risk, and say nothing.
I head out to the spot Freckles and I agreed to meet. She had told me she also had a meeting, and that she’d try to be out of it before 11:00, but that these meetings always run long. “If I’m late, don’t worry, I’ll be there eventually. If you’re not there, I’ll look for you in your office.”
Sure enough, she’s late. I head back to the office, regretting again that I’d mentioned the word “date”. Now, I will have to explain why I am back so soon.
Head down, I mutter, “Meeting,” in the direction of the inquisitive eyes, and settle down at my desk to do nothing while I wait.
B comes in and wants to know what’s going on for lunch, and Buck, helpful as ever, says, “Kurt has a date.”
As if on cue, Freckles walks in. She looks frazzled, and she is a little breathless. Ignoring my colleagues, she says, “Sorry my meeting went so long. Do you mind waiting while I change? I’m still in uniform. I can meet you down there in fifteen minutes, if that’s okay.”
Of course it is.
Knowing that fifteen minutes really means twenty, I exchange a look with Buck who nods his head. The look he gives me is inscrutable.
I head for the car, sorry that she won’t be riding with me because it means the date will be shorter by fifteen or twenty minutes, and I am already not willing to let it end.
She arrives a few minutes behind me, wearing a white hoodie and brown Capri pants that expose just a hint of her tummy. Her hair is down. I’ve never seen her with her hair down, and the sight is a bit overwhelming. If she was beautiful in uniform, her hair in a tight French braid, she is stunning with her hair unbound. In that moment, I am the luckiest man alive.
Waiting to order, we settle into an easy conversation about leadership issues and her concerns about one of her guys who just can’t seem to live up to the Navy’s expectations. She’s doing all she can to keep him from serious disciplinary action, but he requires near-constant supervision. That’s what awaits her after lunch. Another thing we have in common: compassionate leadership. Utmost concern for our troops. I tell her so, complimenting her on it.
Over lunch, we swap sea stories, two former cruiser sailors…she’s been there and so have I; we’ve both done that and got the t-shirt. We are both warriors, equals. Can this really be? I wonder.
We talk about office politics, how some thrive on it and others do not. “I could never be political,” she says. “I can’t lie to anyone about anything.” I have already sensed this about her, but I do not say so. I look into her eyes, smile and think, exactly the quality I’m looking for.
She talks about her concern for her weight, how she’s been working hard to control it and to lose more. She’s so honest she tells me her exact weight. “You don’t need to,” I say. “I’ve noticed that you’ve lost weight, but you look amazing right now.” And I tell her that the first time we spoke, she was so beautiful that I could think of nothing to say.
She takes compliments well, I must say.
The conversation flows easily, and after an hour or so, she says she needs to get back to her troops, but she lingers for a few more minutes, laughing as we each tell another story. I ask her callsign, and she tells me, then surprises me by knowing mine. Of course, I realize after a moment, it’s in my e-mail signature. Still, she’s been paying attention.
We slide the remains of our salads into boxes…quite a lot, actually, since we were both engrossed in the conversation…and head for the door.
“Thank you for lunch,” she says. “I had a good time.”
“Me, too. Would you like to go out again sometime, maybe for dinner and a movie?”
She looks at me and smiles. “I’d love to, but, I…have a boyfriend.”
He’s deployed to the Gulf right now, and there’s no firm word on when he’ll be back, and we share a sad chuckle about the uncertain state of things for the military now, with the War on Terrorism and the war in Iraq. It is the first uncomfortable moment, not because of the revelation, but because war is regrettable.
“We can still get together for lunches, though,” says she. “I’d really like that.”
I will, too.
I Should Probably Not Blog So Early in the Morning
I woke up this morning at about 3:30, which is not uncommon when I have a lot on my mind.
At times like these, when I’m most inside my head, I really wish I could write the way Stephanie Klein does, with beautifully woven bits of imagery. Usually, the best I can manage is a sort of kvetching, self-indulgent…well, “whine” would be a good word if this were an audio blog.
The whole concept of blogging has come into question as of late. Stephanie wrote about what she very aptly called “the secret life of blogs”, how the beginning of each blog is like e-mailing one’s self, as though working out what one thinks and feels in conversation with one’s closest friend. As it catches on, as people begin to read, the blogger becomes a bit of an exhibitionist, balancing what he shares with what he doesn’t, eager to express the thoughts that drove him to create a blog, but desperately avoiding full disclosure.
There are places one does not go.
There is always the risk of discovery.
Of course, that’s part of the appeal. It’s perversely exciting to know that someone might connect the Kurt Kalbfleisch I wear for the benefit of others with the naked one here. Semi-naked, anyway.
Anonymity is a personal choice, or it is here, at least.
It’s a funny thing, and I suppose pretty telling about who I am: I choose vulnerability over security almost every time I’m given the choice.
No, that’s not true. Most times, I don’t have the courage to choose vulnerability. When it comes to small moments of vulnerability, I often run and hide. Approached by a beautiful woman, I tell myself that I’ve nothing to say and retreat into embarrassing silence. Once engaged in conversation, my eyes drift of their own accord to someplace safe, so that I don’t have to see the reaction to the thoughts I reveal, and I am sure this is universally perceived as disinterest. (It isn’t: I am simply very, very shy.) I know that these things are subtle – though sometimes perhaps not so subtle -- defense mechanisms.
I’d like to say that this little moment of self-realization will lead to full-scale change in my life, that I’ll stop doing the things that keep me from letting people in, from letting myself into other people.
If only it were that simple.
What will it take, I’ve often wondered, to get me to stop doing those things?
What do I need?
Last week, Gillian posted this meme (without tagging anyone), and, well, it does sort of offer up some answers to that last question.
Yes.
So here’s how it works: do a Google search for “YOUR NAME needs” (don’t forget the quotation marks) and see what comes up. Where I’ve written “YOUR NAME” in all capital letters, put your own name. For example, my search string was “Kurt needs”.
That phrase resulted in 1,980 links (funny, I would have thought the phrase “Gillian needs” would have garnered more, since she’s got a much cooler name than I do.)
Here are some:
I’ll leave it up to you to decide which of those is astonishingly true and which are just silly. It’s after 6 now, and I need to go shower and get ready to take on those sentries.
At times like these, when I’m most inside my head, I really wish I could write the way Stephanie Klein does, with beautifully woven bits of imagery. Usually, the best I can manage is a sort of kvetching, self-indulgent…well, “whine” would be a good word if this were an audio blog.
The whole concept of blogging has come into question as of late. Stephanie wrote about what she very aptly called “the secret life of blogs”, how the beginning of each blog is like e-mailing one’s self, as though working out what one thinks and feels in conversation with one’s closest friend. As it catches on, as people begin to read, the blogger becomes a bit of an exhibitionist, balancing what he shares with what he doesn’t, eager to express the thoughts that drove him to create a blog, but desperately avoiding full disclosure.
There are places one does not go.
There is always the risk of discovery.
Of course, that’s part of the appeal. It’s perversely exciting to know that someone might connect the Kurt Kalbfleisch I wear for the benefit of others with the naked one here. Semi-naked, anyway.
Anonymity is a personal choice, or it is here, at least.
It’s a funny thing, and I suppose pretty telling about who I am: I choose vulnerability over security almost every time I’m given the choice.
No, that’s not true. Most times, I don’t have the courage to choose vulnerability. When it comes to small moments of vulnerability, I often run and hide. Approached by a beautiful woman, I tell myself that I’ve nothing to say and retreat into embarrassing silence. Once engaged in conversation, my eyes drift of their own accord to someplace safe, so that I don’t have to see the reaction to the thoughts I reveal, and I am sure this is universally perceived as disinterest. (It isn’t: I am simply very, very shy.) I know that these things are subtle – though sometimes perhaps not so subtle -- defense mechanisms.
I’d like to say that this little moment of self-realization will lead to full-scale change in my life, that I’ll stop doing the things that keep me from letting people in, from letting myself into other people.
If only it were that simple.
What will it take, I’ve often wondered, to get me to stop doing those things?
What do I need?
Last week, Gillian posted this meme (without tagging anyone), and, well, it does sort of offer up some answers to that last question.
Yes.
So here’s how it works: do a Google search for “YOUR NAME needs” (don’t forget the quotation marks) and see what comes up. Where I’ve written “YOUR NAME” in all capital letters, put your own name. For example, my search string was “Kurt needs”.
That phrase resulted in 1,980 links (funny, I would have thought the phrase “Gillian needs” would have garnered more, since she’s got a much cooler name than I do.)
Here are some:
- Kurt needs some Kleenex
- Kurt needs a 350Z for that Houston, Texas!
- Kurt needs to give himself a couple of workers who can legitimately deliver in the ring
- Kurt needs you!
- Kurt needs new shoes
- Kurt needs support and direction
- Kurt needs to add and subtract some matrices
- A suit designed to repel bullets – just the type of outfit Kurt needs to take on sentries!
- Kurt needs a wife
- Kurt needs to work out to get rid of the belly
I’ll leave it up to you to decide which of those is astonishingly true and which are just silly. It’s after 6 now, and I need to go shower and get ready to take on those sentries.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
A Good Day for China
Not sure if you heard the news...and though we here in the US may not seem to be very interested, the Chinese are very proud today. And justifiably so.
No, I am not talking about the successful launch of their second manned space flight.
No, this is about the newly discovered archeological evidence that the Chinese did, in fact, invent pasta.
Sorry, Italy. You got there second. The Chinese have been serving noodles for four thousand years.
At last, we have an explanation for the stuff on the steam table at the Rice King on base.
The names might lend a clue as to why we in America might favor the Italian stuff. Chinese -- "Iron Wire Pasta" Italian -- "Angel Hair Pasta"
Mmmmmm...Iron Wire...yummy!
No, I am not talking about the successful launch of their second manned space flight.
No, this is about the newly discovered archeological evidence that the Chinese did, in fact, invent pasta.
Sorry, Italy. You got there second. The Chinese have been serving noodles for four thousand years.
At last, we have an explanation for the stuff on the steam table at the Rice King on base.
The names might lend a clue as to why we in America might favor the Italian stuff. Chinese -- "Iron Wire Pasta" Italian -- "Angel Hair Pasta"
Mmmmmm...Iron Wire...yummy!
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Small Moves
Kelly is apparently anxious to know how things went with Freckles today. (I knew someone would be. Thanks, Kelly!)
She also writes that taking a step forward, even a small one, is progress.
I am fond of a book entitled One Continuous Mistake by Gail Sher. The book is subtitled Four Noble Truths for Writers, and typical of the Zen philosophy she practices, the Four Truths are printed on the back of the book. They are:
She explains that the measure of the writer, the truest measure, is not how many words are on the page at the end of each day, but that the writer participated in the process of writing. There are days when I sit and stare at the computer, a blank virtual page on the screen, and I can find nothing to say. There was one day some years ago when I sat back, dripping sweat from the effort, and found that I’d written four thousand words.
I think the key is patience. As Ted Arroway says to his daughter in the movie “Contact”, “Small moves, Ellie, small moves.”
So, Freckles. Yes.
I began my day with firm determination…today was to be the day.
As so often happens when one is resolved to a course of action, the Universe sends little tests designed to weaken one’s resolve. It was time for the Third Day Car Movement Ritual (you may remember that my daughter’s car had been towed after it had been parked on the street outside my home for longer than 72 hours), and getting out of the car, I dragged the leg of my khaki pants against the greasy door latch…something that never happens. So, I headed to work with a big black smudge on my left leg. When I got to the men’s room at work, I discovered that I was having a Bad Hair Day. (This is not easy to do when one has so little hair. In fact, it’s quite astonishing to have a Bad Hair Day.) I had to wait through the weekly office meeting before I could wander off in search of Freckles.
Finally, I did indeed wander off in search of Freckles. I headed over to the lab where she works, and discovered that they’ve installed a new security system…it used to be simple walk-in…and I could not get in. I cruised around the usual places where I seem to see her in transit somewhere, and no luck.
I refused to let it get me down. At some point today, there had to be a break. Had to.
I dealt with various issues at work. I solved problems. I taught people. I gave advice where it was sought after. I developed a scenario.
I was not idle at all.
And I was preoccupied the entire time.
Kelly’s comment was the last straw, and I undertook a rather desperate measure: I dropped Freckles an e-mail and asked directly: How about lunch one day this week?
It was late in the day when I sent it, and the parking lot was nearly empty, so I am sure she won’t get it until tomorrow morning.
I’ll let ya know.
Small moves.
She also writes that taking a step forward, even a small one, is progress.
I am fond of a book entitled One Continuous Mistake by Gail Sher. The book is subtitled Four Noble Truths for Writers, and typical of the Zen philosophy she practices, the Four Truths are printed on the back of the book. They are:
- Writers write
- Writing is a process
- You don’t know what your writing will be until the end of the process
- If writing is your practice, the only way to fail is to not write
She explains that the measure of the writer, the truest measure, is not how many words are on the page at the end of each day, but that the writer participated in the process of writing. There are days when I sit and stare at the computer, a blank virtual page on the screen, and I can find nothing to say. There was one day some years ago when I sat back, dripping sweat from the effort, and found that I’d written four thousand words.
I think the key is patience. As Ted Arroway says to his daughter in the movie “Contact”, “Small moves, Ellie, small moves.”
So, Freckles. Yes.
I began my day with firm determination…today was to be the day.
As so often happens when one is resolved to a course of action, the Universe sends little tests designed to weaken one’s resolve. It was time for the Third Day Car Movement Ritual (you may remember that my daughter’s car had been towed after it had been parked on the street outside my home for longer than 72 hours), and getting out of the car, I dragged the leg of my khaki pants against the greasy door latch…something that never happens. So, I headed to work with a big black smudge on my left leg. When I got to the men’s room at work, I discovered that I was having a Bad Hair Day. (This is not easy to do when one has so little hair. In fact, it’s quite astonishing to have a Bad Hair Day.) I had to wait through the weekly office meeting before I could wander off in search of Freckles.
Finally, I did indeed wander off in search of Freckles. I headed over to the lab where she works, and discovered that they’ve installed a new security system…it used to be simple walk-in…and I could not get in. I cruised around the usual places where I seem to see her in transit somewhere, and no luck.
I refused to let it get me down. At some point today, there had to be a break. Had to.
I dealt with various issues at work. I solved problems. I taught people. I gave advice where it was sought after. I developed a scenario.
I was not idle at all.
And I was preoccupied the entire time.
Kelly’s comment was the last straw, and I undertook a rather desperate measure: I dropped Freckles an e-mail and asked directly: How about lunch one day this week?
It was late in the day when I sent it, and the parking lot was nearly empty, so I am sure she won’t get it until tomorrow morning.
I’ll let ya know.
Small moves.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Holiday Thoughts
At the risk of seeming politically incorrect, Happy Columbus Day.
Not Happy Discoverer’s Day (which presumably is intended to equally honor the Scandinavian explorer who allegedly got to Nova Scotia before Old Chris made it to the West Indies). I know, Christopher Columbus did unpleasant things to the locals when he arrived, so it’s considered (by some) to be inappropriate to honor him with a special day.
Remember when February had two three-day weekends? Lincoln’s Birthday and Washington’s Birthday. When I was a kid I loved that. I could never tell which was which, but I liked having two Mondays off from school. Then someone suggested that we celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday. It’s appropriate…a hero of the civil rights movement. But, there had to be a zero sum gain, so at the same time the government was trumpeting its new holiday to honor Dr. King, it took away Lincoln’s and Washington’s Birthdays and gave us Presidents’ Day. (There’s no small amount of irony in that. Lincoln now gets half a birthday so that Dr. King gets a whole one. Lincoln having laid the foundation for Dr. King’s work, and all. And let’s not forget that Dr. King chose the Lincoln Memorial as the backdrop for his “I Have a Dream” speech.)
I find it amusing that the Forces of Political Correctness haven’t renamed Halloween. I mean, Halloween is a celebration of Paganism that doesn’t even bother to cover its nakedness. Shouldn’t we honor heroes on that day? And let’s face it, the sugar consumed on and after Halloween makes drill-wielding heroes of our neighborhood dentists. So let’s change the name to something that is more suitable to our politically correct sensibilities: Dentists’ Day.
Actually, I didn’t set out to write about political correctness this morning. No, I sat down with a slightly more selfish topic in mind: San Diego street maintenance. Specifically the maintenance being done to my street right now.
On Friday morning, the street crew came and tore a trench across my street, put up signs and barricades, ate their lunch and disappeared for the weekend by 1 pm. Hey, it’s a long weekend, I thought. They’re leaving early to enjoy the long weekend and isn’t that nice? But what about this gaping hole in my street that will have to be here all weekend now?
It turns out that they weren’t leaving to enjoy the long weekend, because it wasn’t a long weekend for them. They arrived this morning at 6:30 am.
All of that had me thinking (which I’m not happy to do before sunrise on a day off) that San Diego’s municipal leadership really is a collection of idiots. Think I’m kidding? The city council overstated the city’s net worth by $640 million dollars for fiscal year 2002. (By contrast, Enron overstated its revenue by $580 million over five years.) The city pension fund is a billion dollars in debt. Yes, that’s right…a BILLION.
Of course, the city pushed through a bond measure that put more than three hundred million dollars of public money into a new ball park for the Padres.
It’s no wonder we have Carl Spackler handling the day-to-day maintenance of the city’s infrastructure. (“I have to laugh because I’ve even outsmarted myself. My enemy, my foe, is a pot hole. And in order to conquer the pot hole, I have to think like a pot hole. And whenever possible, to look like one. I gotta dig a hole and let it sit there for a few days.”)
Not Happy Discoverer’s Day (which presumably is intended to equally honor the Scandinavian explorer who allegedly got to Nova Scotia before Old Chris made it to the West Indies). I know, Christopher Columbus did unpleasant things to the locals when he arrived, so it’s considered (by some) to be inappropriate to honor him with a special day.
Remember when February had two three-day weekends? Lincoln’s Birthday and Washington’s Birthday. When I was a kid I loved that. I could never tell which was which, but I liked having two Mondays off from school. Then someone suggested that we celebrate Martin Luther King’s birthday. It’s appropriate…a hero of the civil rights movement. But, there had to be a zero sum gain, so at the same time the government was trumpeting its new holiday to honor Dr. King, it took away Lincoln’s and Washington’s Birthdays and gave us Presidents’ Day. (There’s no small amount of irony in that. Lincoln now gets half a birthday so that Dr. King gets a whole one. Lincoln having laid the foundation for Dr. King’s work, and all. And let’s not forget that Dr. King chose the Lincoln Memorial as the backdrop for his “I Have a Dream” speech.)
I find it amusing that the Forces of Political Correctness haven’t renamed Halloween. I mean, Halloween is a celebration of Paganism that doesn’t even bother to cover its nakedness. Shouldn’t we honor heroes on that day? And let’s face it, the sugar consumed on and after Halloween makes drill-wielding heroes of our neighborhood dentists. So let’s change the name to something that is more suitable to our politically correct sensibilities: Dentists’ Day.
Actually, I didn’t set out to write about political correctness this morning. No, I sat down with a slightly more selfish topic in mind: San Diego street maintenance. Specifically the maintenance being done to my street right now.
On Friday morning, the street crew came and tore a trench across my street, put up signs and barricades, ate their lunch and disappeared for the weekend by 1 pm. Hey, it’s a long weekend, I thought. They’re leaving early to enjoy the long weekend and isn’t that nice? But what about this gaping hole in my street that will have to be here all weekend now?
It turns out that they weren’t leaving to enjoy the long weekend, because it wasn’t a long weekend for them. They arrived this morning at 6:30 am.
All of that had me thinking (which I’m not happy to do before sunrise on a day off) that San Diego’s municipal leadership really is a collection of idiots. Think I’m kidding? The city council overstated the city’s net worth by $640 million dollars for fiscal year 2002. (By contrast, Enron overstated its revenue by $580 million over five years.) The city pension fund is a billion dollars in debt. Yes, that’s right…a BILLION.
Of course, the city pushed through a bond measure that put more than three hundred million dollars of public money into a new ball park for the Padres.
It’s no wonder we have Carl Spackler handling the day-to-day maintenance of the city’s infrastructure. (“I have to laugh because I’ve even outsmarted myself. My enemy, my foe, is a pot hole. And in order to conquer the pot hole, I have to think like a pot hole. And whenever possible, to look like one. I gotta dig a hole and let it sit there for a few days.”)
Saturday, October 08, 2005
The Fallout From Infidelity
I brought it up in this post: the effect infidelity has on the cuckolded partner. Daisy, bless her heart, asked how anyone gets over something like that.
My answer in that post, as now, is to rebuild your life. On your own terms.
For several years, I volunteered as a rape crisis advocate. My role was to get to the hospital as quickly as possible after being called, and help make sure that the victim’s best interests were being looked after. Oddly enough, when medical and law enforcement get together, they sometimes forget that the patient is a human being whose life has just changed irrevocably, and that he or she is desperately trying to get back on some reasonable emotional footing.
One of the best ways to help them do this is to give them control of their care and the investigation. They’ve just come through a situation in which control was forcibly taken from them, and the best thing anyone can do to help them is to make sure that they have a say in what happens to them next.
Discovering that one’s spouse has been unfaithful is very much like being raped in this regard. Something central to one’s identity has been taken against one’s will, and the world has changed. The unfaithful spouse has been controlling and manipulative, covering his or her tracks to avoid discovery, and if it’s gone on for any length of time, the cuckold loses faith in his or her own connection with the world.
When I realized my wife was having an affair, I no longer had doubts about her and began to doubt myself. There’s no small amount of irony in that. Clearly, I was not good enough, appealing enough, dedicated enough, smart enough, aware enough, attentive enough…the list goes on. And each time she lied about where she was and who she was with and what she was doing, I knew she was lying, and I chose to act as though I believed her. Because I was not good enough, or appealing enough, or attentive enough. When the truth would no longer be denied, she begged me to let her stay, and I offered her another chance, though I set down one condition: she had to arrange for couples counseling.
She never did.
Eventually, I got tired of waiting for her to live up to her end of the bargain, and I moved out. I took control.
The problem with getting past a partner’s infidelity is that one’s view of one’s self has changed and one’s sense of being worthy of anything worthwhile is gone. I know my ex-wife is a narcissistic sociopath, and yet there’s that constant little inner voice that chimes in and says, “yes, but as screwed up as she is, if you weren’t good enough for her, how can you expect to be good enough for someone as wonderful as you say you deserve?”
Those are the kind of games that my mind played with me for years because I allowed myself to buy into her choices. I thought that the right thing to do was to be the stand up guy, to do what I could to hold the marriage together because I loved her and she said she still loved me. The truth came through eventually; she chose yet another man over me and our marriage. (To be fair, it’s entirely possible that she wasn’t unfaithful again, but all the same signs were there that had been present the first time, and I wasn’t about to stick around long enough to find out.)
For anyone wrestling with this issue, I offer this simple statement: You are not responsible for the choices made by others. You make your own choices, which may contribute to your spouse’s emotional state…even be the reason they give for having strayed…but in the end, the most important thing you can do for yourself is to relinquish responsibility for the choices your unfaithful partner made and acknowledge that it was their choice.
If letting go of inappropriate responsibility is the most important step in regaining control of your life, the second most important step is holding your partner accountable for their actions, especially those following reconciliation. To this day, my ex-wife swears she has no idea why I left. It wasn’t her initial infidelity, it was that when given the opportunity, she chose another over me again. I’ve told her that several times, and she still doesn’t get it.
We are all individuals, and circumstances will absolutely differ, but what I’ve found is there comes a point when you either surrender completely, or you stand up and say, I will not take this any longer.
I’m not big on ultimatums. I figure that the leopard will show his or her spots sooner or later, and usually sooner. The key is to realize that those spots won’t change through any action of yours.
The saddest part of all is that there are no absolutes. I could say that if I had it to do again, I’d have followed through when I kicked her out the night it was finally all out in the open, but my decision to let her stay resulted in my younger daughter. She’s such a joy to have around that it’s simply not possible to regret changing my mind that night.
Don’t bank on any miracles, though.
And don’t give up your choices.
My answer in that post, as now, is to rebuild your life. On your own terms.
For several years, I volunteered as a rape crisis advocate. My role was to get to the hospital as quickly as possible after being called, and help make sure that the victim’s best interests were being looked after. Oddly enough, when medical and law enforcement get together, they sometimes forget that the patient is a human being whose life has just changed irrevocably, and that he or she is desperately trying to get back on some reasonable emotional footing.
One of the best ways to help them do this is to give them control of their care and the investigation. They’ve just come through a situation in which control was forcibly taken from them, and the best thing anyone can do to help them is to make sure that they have a say in what happens to them next.
Discovering that one’s spouse has been unfaithful is very much like being raped in this regard. Something central to one’s identity has been taken against one’s will, and the world has changed. The unfaithful spouse has been controlling and manipulative, covering his or her tracks to avoid discovery, and if it’s gone on for any length of time, the cuckold loses faith in his or her own connection with the world.
When I realized my wife was having an affair, I no longer had doubts about her and began to doubt myself. There’s no small amount of irony in that. Clearly, I was not good enough, appealing enough, dedicated enough, smart enough, aware enough, attentive enough…the list goes on. And each time she lied about where she was and who she was with and what she was doing, I knew she was lying, and I chose to act as though I believed her. Because I was not good enough, or appealing enough, or attentive enough. When the truth would no longer be denied, she begged me to let her stay, and I offered her another chance, though I set down one condition: she had to arrange for couples counseling.
She never did.
Eventually, I got tired of waiting for her to live up to her end of the bargain, and I moved out. I took control.
The problem with getting past a partner’s infidelity is that one’s view of one’s self has changed and one’s sense of being worthy of anything worthwhile is gone. I know my ex-wife is a narcissistic sociopath, and yet there’s that constant little inner voice that chimes in and says, “yes, but as screwed up as she is, if you weren’t good enough for her, how can you expect to be good enough for someone as wonderful as you say you deserve?”
Those are the kind of games that my mind played with me for years because I allowed myself to buy into her choices. I thought that the right thing to do was to be the stand up guy, to do what I could to hold the marriage together because I loved her and she said she still loved me. The truth came through eventually; she chose yet another man over me and our marriage. (To be fair, it’s entirely possible that she wasn’t unfaithful again, but all the same signs were there that had been present the first time, and I wasn’t about to stick around long enough to find out.)
For anyone wrestling with this issue, I offer this simple statement: You are not responsible for the choices made by others. You make your own choices, which may contribute to your spouse’s emotional state…even be the reason they give for having strayed…but in the end, the most important thing you can do for yourself is to relinquish responsibility for the choices your unfaithful partner made and acknowledge that it was their choice.
If letting go of inappropriate responsibility is the most important step in regaining control of your life, the second most important step is holding your partner accountable for their actions, especially those following reconciliation. To this day, my ex-wife swears she has no idea why I left. It wasn’t her initial infidelity, it was that when given the opportunity, she chose another over me again. I’ve told her that several times, and she still doesn’t get it.
We are all individuals, and circumstances will absolutely differ, but what I’ve found is there comes a point when you either surrender completely, or you stand up and say, I will not take this any longer.
I’m not big on ultimatums. I figure that the leopard will show his or her spots sooner or later, and usually sooner. The key is to realize that those spots won’t change through any action of yours.
The saddest part of all is that there are no absolutes. I could say that if I had it to do again, I’d have followed through when I kicked her out the night it was finally all out in the open, but my decision to let her stay resulted in my younger daughter. She’s such a joy to have around that it’s simply not possible to regret changing my mind that night.
Don’t bank on any miracles, though.
And don’t give up your choices.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Wrap It Up
My sister and her husband work for Disney Feature Animation, which means that every once in a while, my daughter and I are invited to do fun stuff on Disney's nickel.
This photo was taken at the Cast & Crew Wrap Party for Disney's "Chicken Little" (FANTASTIC movie, by the way).
Wait, what do aging rock stars have to do with Chicken Little, you ask?
You pretty much had to be there.
The short version is that the director and producer are (evidently) rabid Bon Jovi fans.
So, across the front row are Mark Dindal (Director - Chicken Little), my daughter Heidi, my sister Kate, Randy Fullmer (Producer - Chicken Little), and the back row are me and my brother-in-law, Joe.
And check out the Chicken Little website. The movie will be out on November 4th.
Stuck
Ever put too much pressure on yourself?
I’ve been doing that lately. I haven’t written much because I’ve been struggling for clever ideas that would measure up to some of the blogs I’ve been reading, including my own. How dippy is that?
That’s got me to thinking about the lack of progress on my novel. I haven’t written a word for weeks, and the shortcut to the folder where I keep it just sits there on my computer desktop, mocking me.
Having become aware of not having written anything on that front, I’ve cast my self-examining eye about and realized that my writing is not the only part of my life that’s jammed up.
At work, I’ve been given the green light to go ahead with a project I’ve been begging to do for years, and all I’ve done is stare at the pile of reference material on my desk and surreptitiously surf through my favorite blogs.
Freckles really deserves to be pursued. (Or, to be more accurate, I really deserve to pursue Freckles.) I’ve been hemming and hawing about that for more than a month, and why? I seem to have this thing about rejection.
Oh, I know, everyone hates to be rejected, and I should just get over myself. I wish it were that simple.
My former downstairs neighbor has gone back to her husband, and her live-in boyfriend now lives with his high school sweetheart, just around the corner from me. All of this occurred over the summer. Since early August, actually. How does that happen? Was there no depth at all to the way they felt about each other? Maybe they were just nesting, the way puppies and kittens do in the pet store window.
By contrast, I haven’t been in a real relationship in five years. I’ve been willing, but sent away…because the objects of my desire felt they didn’t deserve me. That leaves me wondering about my choices. What does it say about me that the women I am most attracted to consider themselves damaged in some way? Am I trying to remain solitary?
When I go back to the beginning of my paralysis, I find myself standing in the midst of a crumbling marriage, thoroughly clueless about the depth of the impact her infidelity would have on my self-image. By the time all of that was said and done, my ex-wife managed to reject everything about me: my friendship, my skills as a lover, my skills as a parent, my beliefs, my intellect, my humanity. The only things she did not reject were the content of my wallet and my ability to refill it. Twelve years later, I’m still stunned.
Anyone who considers saying, “just get over it” really isn’t being helpful. I know. How does one get over a life-changing event? By rebuilding one’s life, of course.
That’s just what I’m doing, only once in a while I reach a “stuck point”, which is where I am now. I’ve rebuilt nearly everything but my willingness to handle rejection.
Maybe the right answer is just to dive in. Sometimes, courage means doing what needs to be done in spite of the bullets slung your way.
I guess we’ll know on Tuesday morning, when Freckles gets back from her vacation.
I’ve been doing that lately. I haven’t written much because I’ve been struggling for clever ideas that would measure up to some of the blogs I’ve been reading, including my own. How dippy is that?
That’s got me to thinking about the lack of progress on my novel. I haven’t written a word for weeks, and the shortcut to the folder where I keep it just sits there on my computer desktop, mocking me.
Having become aware of not having written anything on that front, I’ve cast my self-examining eye about and realized that my writing is not the only part of my life that’s jammed up.
At work, I’ve been given the green light to go ahead with a project I’ve been begging to do for years, and all I’ve done is stare at the pile of reference material on my desk and surreptitiously surf through my favorite blogs.
Freckles really deserves to be pursued. (Or, to be more accurate, I really deserve to pursue Freckles.) I’ve been hemming and hawing about that for more than a month, and why? I seem to have this thing about rejection.
Oh, I know, everyone hates to be rejected, and I should just get over myself. I wish it were that simple.
My former downstairs neighbor has gone back to her husband, and her live-in boyfriend now lives with his high school sweetheart, just around the corner from me. All of this occurred over the summer. Since early August, actually. How does that happen? Was there no depth at all to the way they felt about each other? Maybe they were just nesting, the way puppies and kittens do in the pet store window.
By contrast, I haven’t been in a real relationship in five years. I’ve been willing, but sent away…because the objects of my desire felt they didn’t deserve me. That leaves me wondering about my choices. What does it say about me that the women I am most attracted to consider themselves damaged in some way? Am I trying to remain solitary?
When I go back to the beginning of my paralysis, I find myself standing in the midst of a crumbling marriage, thoroughly clueless about the depth of the impact her infidelity would have on my self-image. By the time all of that was said and done, my ex-wife managed to reject everything about me: my friendship, my skills as a lover, my skills as a parent, my beliefs, my intellect, my humanity. The only things she did not reject were the content of my wallet and my ability to refill it. Twelve years later, I’m still stunned.
Anyone who considers saying, “just get over it” really isn’t being helpful. I know. How does one get over a life-changing event? By rebuilding one’s life, of course.
That’s just what I’m doing, only once in a while I reach a “stuck point”, which is where I am now. I’ve rebuilt nearly everything but my willingness to handle rejection.
Maybe the right answer is just to dive in. Sometimes, courage means doing what needs to be done in spite of the bullets slung your way.
I guess we’ll know on Tuesday morning, when Freckles gets back from her vacation.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to First Date Club***
The first rule of First Date Club is that you do not talk about other dates.
The second rule of First Date Club is that you do not talk about other dates.
The third rule of First Date Club: If someone yells “Stop!” or goes limp, the date is over.*
The fourth rule of First Date Club: Only two people to a date.
The fifth rule of First Date Club: One date at a time, folks!
The sixth rule of First Date Club: Nice shirt, nice shoes.
The seventh rule of First Date Club: Dates will go on as long as they have to.
And the eighth and final rule of First Date Club: If this is your first date together, you have to make each other laugh!
I know from long experience that dating could sometimes benefit from a little subversive activity, so I thought I'd put this out here. It began back when the movie Fight Club came out, as a sort of joke among the AOL San Diego Chat Room misfits. It still makes me smile (well, smirk, really) because my experience with post-divorce dating has been pretty thoroughly disappointing.
Don't think that I'm bitter...I'm actually not. I'm just so totally over the whole First Date Thing. And everything that comes before the First Date. I want to skip right to the fourth or fifth date, but I'm guessing that most women would be a little put off if I introduced myself and suggested that we meet at either her place or mine to make dinner together and curl up on the couch to watch a DVD.
Most people (including me, for the most part) expect things to happen in a certain order, and it throws us off our game if we have to improvise.
One of the reasons I don't do well with dating is that for many women (in California, at least) there's a schedule for things: First date, nice kiss. Second date, deeper kissing/moderate petting. Third date, sex.
I don't work that way!
I've always sort of marched to the beat of my own regiment of pipes and drums, and I tend to want to draw things out a little. Unless our third date has gone on for an extraordinary length of time -- say, a week or so -- I'm not likely to be comfortable having sex on the third date. Or the fourth. Sure, if you turn me on and lead me into the bedroom, I will not turn you down because I am male and I think with my penis just as much as the next hairy, fat guy...but I am likely to be a little embarrassed by this, and will absolutely feel pressured to perform magnificently (which, of course, I can, but generally not when I am feeling pressured to do so). The thought that the woman I'm shagging might at any moment be deciding that it's worth a couple dates with someone new for the outside chance that she'll find a guy with a better shot at hitting just the right spot pretty much takes all the pleasure out of third date coitus for me.
It's just that it seems so...expected, you know?
These days, I'd rather really get to know any woman I go out with. I want a whole series of "really? me, too!" moments. I want to know what makes her feel beautiful. I want to really nail down what makes her laugh. I want her to introduce me to her friends and have to say "no" when they ask, "So, have you slept with him, yet?" and I want them to articulate the next question for her: "Why not?" I want to be friends, to include her in my circle of friends and have her include me in hers. I want to show her my lunatic side and joyfully discover some hidden talent of hers, like spoon hanging or armpit farting.
Of course, all of these things remain in the future for members of the First Date Club.
* This has never happened on any of my first dates. I'm just saying, is all. Safety first.
***My deepest apologies to Tyler Durden.
The second rule of First Date Club is that you do not talk about other dates.
The third rule of First Date Club: If someone yells “Stop!” or goes limp, the date is over.*
The fourth rule of First Date Club: Only two people to a date.
The fifth rule of First Date Club: One date at a time, folks!
The sixth rule of First Date Club: Nice shirt, nice shoes.
The seventh rule of First Date Club: Dates will go on as long as they have to.
And the eighth and final rule of First Date Club: If this is your first date together, you have to make each other laugh!
I know from long experience that dating could sometimes benefit from a little subversive activity, so I thought I'd put this out here. It began back when the movie Fight Club came out, as a sort of joke among the AOL San Diego Chat Room misfits. It still makes me smile (well, smirk, really) because my experience with post-divorce dating has been pretty thoroughly disappointing.
Don't think that I'm bitter...I'm actually not. I'm just so totally over the whole First Date Thing. And everything that comes before the First Date. I want to skip right to the fourth or fifth date, but I'm guessing that most women would be a little put off if I introduced myself and suggested that we meet at either her place or mine to make dinner together and curl up on the couch to watch a DVD.
Most people (including me, for the most part) expect things to happen in a certain order, and it throws us off our game if we have to improvise.
One of the reasons I don't do well with dating is that for many women (in California, at least) there's a schedule for things: First date, nice kiss. Second date, deeper kissing/moderate petting. Third date, sex.
I don't work that way!
I've always sort of marched to the beat of my own regiment of pipes and drums, and I tend to want to draw things out a little. Unless our third date has gone on for an extraordinary length of time -- say, a week or so -- I'm not likely to be comfortable having sex on the third date. Or the fourth. Sure, if you turn me on and lead me into the bedroom, I will not turn you down because I am male and I think with my penis just as much as the next hairy, fat guy...but I am likely to be a little embarrassed by this, and will absolutely feel pressured to perform magnificently (which, of course, I can, but generally not when I am feeling pressured to do so). The thought that the woman I'm shagging might at any moment be deciding that it's worth a couple dates with someone new for the outside chance that she'll find a guy with a better shot at hitting just the right spot pretty much takes all the pleasure out of third date coitus for me.
It's just that it seems so...expected, you know?
These days, I'd rather really get to know any woman I go out with. I want a whole series of "really? me, too!" moments. I want to know what makes her feel beautiful. I want to really nail down what makes her laugh. I want her to introduce me to her friends and have to say "no" when they ask, "So, have you slept with him, yet?" and I want them to articulate the next question for her: "Why not?" I want to be friends, to include her in my circle of friends and have her include me in hers. I want to show her my lunatic side and joyfully discover some hidden talent of hers, like spoon hanging or armpit farting.
Of course, all of these things remain in the future for members of the First Date Club.
* This has never happened on any of my first dates. I'm just saying, is all. Safety first.
***My deepest apologies to Tyler Durden.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
I Understand Now
Several months ago, a friend of mine (former fellow cubizen C) made the rather interesting observation that he and I are to our professional community what martial arts masters are to theirs.
What prompted this remark was the very long, painful session of "technical assistance" that he and I had just provided for a ship that had done nothing we had asked. We were both frustrated. Why, asked C, would anyone ask for help and then refuse to accept it?
Of course, anyone who has ever had a friend ask for advice after making an unwise choice in love knows why: When everything is as it should be, there's nothing to complain about.
I spent a rather unpleasant six hours trying to help a ship work through some of its technical... erm..deficiencies...today. It began with three simple questions:
1) Is the data communications path working?
2) Is your desktop computer configured correctly?
3) Is your fire control system configured correctly?
Naturally, I was not aboard this ship. I was in my extremely well air conditioned computer lab (read: it was f-ing freezing) in San Diego, and the ship was in Hawaii.
We were communicating by Chat.
I'd like to digress for a moment and say that I should have seen Chat coming. In 1997, I was aboard USS Coronado, chatting with a friend through the wonders of AOL, when a frustrated B-52 bombardier burst in and announced that he could not find any way to communicate with the bomber wing in Louisiana because the plethora of radios and telephones that the government had spent 348 gajillion dollars on had all simultaneously failed. He railed on for a moment about the impossibility of such a situation and suddenly stopped in mid rant.
"Is that AOL, Chief?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, my GOD! Our duty officer is an AOL FREAK...he meets all his women on AOL. Please say you're not picking up women on AOL while we're at sea, Chief."
"Uh, okay, I won't. What's his screen name? Maybe he's online."
In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have said that.
Now, everyone in the military has Chat. Even Marines. In the field. Remember all those movies about commandos...John Wayne in a green beret pushing through the jungle with nothing but an M-14 and a bayonet clenched in his bared teeth? Even those guys have Chat now.
So, perhaps you've forgotten about those three questions I asked. (Perhaps you even ignored them. Wouldn't be the first time. Hell, it wouldn't be the first time today.) I needed answers to those three questions so that I could help the ship find out why they couldn't do their job.
After half an hour of more or less continuous chat about various technical subjects, none of which answered my original three questions, I asked again. And I waited again.
Gentle Reader, two and one half hours elapsed before I got an answer to my questions.
The answers led me to make certain assumptions, which led to more questions, and more waiting...and answers that did not make sense. Consider the following (fictitious but illustrative) conversation:
Q: "So, what's the weather like where you are?"
A: "I'm having a dish of ice cream."
One might infer that the weather is warm, but it's a tenuous connection at best. I can tell you from personal experience that system engineers abhor this kind of answer.
I spent much of this afternoon wanting to type, "JUST ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION!!!" into the chat room.
Five hours after we started, the ship came back with something like, "we've just framulgated the garglewhoofer, " and it made no sense in any context, much less the context of the entire afternoon's troubleshooting efforts, so I was completely lost. I had no idea what the ship had done. I only know they have not done what I asked them to. And I realized, quite painfully, that I still did not really have answers to my first three questions.
I was at a loss for words.
If you know me, you know just exactly how rare this is.
Military protocol left me only one response, and I typed it: "OK."
The ship was confused by my response, and they typed back, "Int OK?" (For those of you who do not understand military chat shorthand...who do not spreckedy lingidy, this translates directly to, "Interrogative OK?" or more precisely, "What do you mean, OK?")
I was polite: "I have no idea what your problem is and I recommend a local tech assist." Translation: You have worn out my patience and I've decided that you should be someone else's problem now.
The problem with all this is that helping ships work through basic configuration issues is not my job, it's someone else's. I do it because if I don't, then I don't get to do what I'm actually paid to do, but of course, by spending my time helping them with the basics, I don't have any time left over to do my real job. It is a classic self-licking ice cream cone.
Several years ago, when I first began to study martial arts, I was shocked and embarrassed when my instructor, a Sixth Degree, silenced a joking classmate by barking, "If you're not going to pay attention in my class, you're wasting my time and you're wasting your classmates' time. Give me your full attention, or leave and don't come back." The guy left...not embarrassed, but pissed off.
During my first Kendo class, our instructor announced that we would have the great honor of hosting the former World Kendo Champion, and that he would honor the club by teaching a class. The instructor went on to say that those of us who had been studying for less than two years would not be permitted to participate in the class, as we did not yet know enough and the champion's time was too valuable to be wasted on teaching mere basics.
I don't think we Americans hold mastery in high enough regard, and as a result, we miss a great many valuable lessons. Most people seem to regard the phrase "All men are created equal" (as in "we hold these Truths to be self-evident") to mean the same thing as "All men are equal". The first phrase is undoubtedly true; the second is most decidedly not.
For example, while I can catch a football, I cannot run forty yards in under five seconds. I can dance a two-step, but forget about a pas-de-deux. I can perform "Margaritaville" but don't ask me to do "Malaguena".
The people who can do these things have worked hard to be able to do them, and I am by no means an equal within their fields of expertise. There is nothing wrong with affording them the respect they've earned for the levels of excellence they've achieved.
I spoke with my military boss this evening about it, and I've proposed that whenever we encounter a ship that needs technical assistance, he allow me to put out the following before we begin:
I can help you, but remember that others may also need my help, and if you do not pay attention, I may decide they need my help more than you do.
I have been doing this longer than you have, and I know more than you do.
My way is not the only way, nor is it the right way, but it is a right way.
When I ask you a question, answer it promptly and directly.
When I instruct you to do something, do it immediately, and tell me the result.
If you do what I tell you, we will fix your problem and we will both learn.
If you do not do what I tell you, we may not fix your problem, and while I will still learn, you will not.
What prompted this remark was the very long, painful session of "technical assistance" that he and I had just provided for a ship that had done nothing we had asked. We were both frustrated. Why, asked C, would anyone ask for help and then refuse to accept it?
Of course, anyone who has ever had a friend ask for advice after making an unwise choice in love knows why: When everything is as it should be, there's nothing to complain about.
I spent a rather unpleasant six hours trying to help a ship work through some of its technical... erm..deficiencies...today. It began with three simple questions:
1) Is the data communications path working?
2) Is your desktop computer configured correctly?
3) Is your fire control system configured correctly?
Naturally, I was not aboard this ship. I was in my extremely well air conditioned computer lab (read: it was f-ing freezing) in San Diego, and the ship was in Hawaii.
We were communicating by Chat.
I'd like to digress for a moment and say that I should have seen Chat coming. In 1997, I was aboard USS Coronado, chatting with a friend through the wonders of AOL, when a frustrated B-52 bombardier burst in and announced that he could not find any way to communicate with the bomber wing in Louisiana because the plethora of radios and telephones that the government had spent 348 gajillion dollars on had all simultaneously failed. He railed on for a moment about the impossibility of such a situation and suddenly stopped in mid rant.
"Is that AOL, Chief?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Oh, my GOD! Our duty officer is an AOL FREAK...he meets all his women on AOL. Please say you're not picking up women on AOL while we're at sea, Chief."
"Uh, okay, I won't. What's his screen name? Maybe he's online."
In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have said that.
Now, everyone in the military has Chat. Even Marines. In the field. Remember all those movies about commandos...John Wayne in a green beret pushing through the jungle with nothing but an M-14 and a bayonet clenched in his bared teeth? Even those guys have Chat now.
So, perhaps you've forgotten about those three questions I asked. (Perhaps you even ignored them. Wouldn't be the first time. Hell, it wouldn't be the first time today.) I needed answers to those three questions so that I could help the ship find out why they couldn't do their job.
After half an hour of more or less continuous chat about various technical subjects, none of which answered my original three questions, I asked again. And I waited again.
Gentle Reader, two and one half hours elapsed before I got an answer to my questions.
The answers led me to make certain assumptions, which led to more questions, and more waiting...and answers that did not make sense. Consider the following (fictitious but illustrative) conversation:
Q: "So, what's the weather like where you are?"
A: "I'm having a dish of ice cream."
One might infer that the weather is warm, but it's a tenuous connection at best. I can tell you from personal experience that system engineers abhor this kind of answer.
I spent much of this afternoon wanting to type, "JUST ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTION!!!" into the chat room.
Five hours after we started, the ship came back with something like, "we've just framulgated the garglewhoofer, " and it made no sense in any context, much less the context of the entire afternoon's troubleshooting efforts, so I was completely lost. I had no idea what the ship had done. I only know they have not done what I asked them to. And I realized, quite painfully, that I still did not really have answers to my first three questions.
I was at a loss for words.
If you know me, you know just exactly how rare this is.
Military protocol left me only one response, and I typed it: "OK."
The ship was confused by my response, and they typed back, "Int OK?" (For those of you who do not understand military chat shorthand...who do not spreckedy lingidy, this translates directly to, "Interrogative OK?" or more precisely, "What do you mean, OK?")
I was polite: "I have no idea what your problem is and I recommend a local tech assist." Translation: You have worn out my patience and I've decided that you should be someone else's problem now.
The problem with all this is that helping ships work through basic configuration issues is not my job, it's someone else's. I do it because if I don't, then I don't get to do what I'm actually paid to do, but of course, by spending my time helping them with the basics, I don't have any time left over to do my real job. It is a classic self-licking ice cream cone.
Several years ago, when I first began to study martial arts, I was shocked and embarrassed when my instructor, a Sixth Degree, silenced a joking classmate by barking, "If you're not going to pay attention in my class, you're wasting my time and you're wasting your classmates' time. Give me your full attention, or leave and don't come back." The guy left...not embarrassed, but pissed off.
During my first Kendo class, our instructor announced that we would have the great honor of hosting the former World Kendo Champion, and that he would honor the club by teaching a class. The instructor went on to say that those of us who had been studying for less than two years would not be permitted to participate in the class, as we did not yet know enough and the champion's time was too valuable to be wasted on teaching mere basics.
I don't think we Americans hold mastery in high enough regard, and as a result, we miss a great many valuable lessons. Most people seem to regard the phrase "All men are created equal" (as in "we hold these Truths to be self-evident") to mean the same thing as "All men are equal". The first phrase is undoubtedly true; the second is most decidedly not.
For example, while I can catch a football, I cannot run forty yards in under five seconds. I can dance a two-step, but forget about a pas-de-deux. I can perform "Margaritaville" but don't ask me to do "Malaguena".
The people who can do these things have worked hard to be able to do them, and I am by no means an equal within their fields of expertise. There is nothing wrong with affording them the respect they've earned for the levels of excellence they've achieved.
I spoke with my military boss this evening about it, and I've proposed that whenever we encounter a ship that needs technical assistance, he allow me to put out the following before we begin:
I can help you, but remember that others may also need my help, and if you do not pay attention, I may decide they need my help more than you do.
I have been doing this longer than you have, and I know more than you do.
My way is not the only way, nor is it the right way, but it is a right way.
When I ask you a question, answer it promptly and directly.
When I instruct you to do something, do it immediately, and tell me the result.
If you do what I tell you, we will fix your problem and we will both learn.
If you do not do what I tell you, we may not fix your problem, and while I will still learn, you will not.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
It's The Law
When I was a kid, my dad bought a book entitled, "The Official Rules" by Paul Dickson. Being a complete and total dork, I have spent the intervening years watching closely for any sign that I might have discovered some previously undocumented natural law...something that might put me in with such heady company as Albert Einstein, Sir Isaac Newton, and that famous optimist, Murphy.
From time to time, I have been inspired by some situation and put forward an apparently good candidate, only to have it fall apart in the examination process. For example, I once offered a friend this sage advice:
"Never sleep with a woman who drives a pickup truck."
"Why?" he asked.
"I have absolutely no idea," I said.
Clearly, that candidate for immortality seemed interesting at the time, but failed on closer examination.
I have stumbled on a couple concepts that have borne up to all tests, and here they are, in all their glory:
Kalbfleisch's First Law: There is no such thing as a fifteen minute job.
This is because for any task that could be completed in less than fifteen minutes, it will take an additional fifteen minutes to find the tools needed to actually perform it, and there is a very high likelihood that a trip to the store will be necessary. I could go on, but I've only got fifteen minutes to finish this entry.
Kalbfleisch's Second Law: The number of ways to skin a cat increases exponentially with the number of cats that need skinning.
I discovered this one while sitting in a professional conference this week and watching the goings on. A new missile system which has basically five major new capabilities has brought the entire community to a stand-still while each member argues in favor of his or her particular employment solution. Which leads me to the first corollary:
Increasing the number of skinners will increase the number of ways to skin cats, but have no appreciable impact on the number of cats that still need skinning.
I'm sure there will be more.
Stay tuned.
And no, I did not finish this post in less than fifteen minutes.
From time to time, I have been inspired by some situation and put forward an apparently good candidate, only to have it fall apart in the examination process. For example, I once offered a friend this sage advice:
"Never sleep with a woman who drives a pickup truck."
"Why?" he asked.
"I have absolutely no idea," I said.
Clearly, that candidate for immortality seemed interesting at the time, but failed on closer examination.
I have stumbled on a couple concepts that have borne up to all tests, and here they are, in all their glory:
Kalbfleisch's First Law: There is no such thing as a fifteen minute job.
This is because for any task that could be completed in less than fifteen minutes, it will take an additional fifteen minutes to find the tools needed to actually perform it, and there is a very high likelihood that a trip to the store will be necessary. I could go on, but I've only got fifteen minutes to finish this entry.
Kalbfleisch's Second Law: The number of ways to skin a cat increases exponentially with the number of cats that need skinning.
I discovered this one while sitting in a professional conference this week and watching the goings on. A new missile system which has basically five major new capabilities has brought the entire community to a stand-still while each member argues in favor of his or her particular employment solution. Which leads me to the first corollary:
Increasing the number of skinners will increase the number of ways to skin cats, but have no appreciable impact on the number of cats that still need skinning.
I'm sure there will be more.
Stay tuned.
And no, I did not finish this post in less than fifteen minutes.
The Lynndie Shuffle
Can't stay quiet any longer.
This story bugs me: Iraqis Call Lynndie England Sentence Travesty
Now, I know that a lot of folks find what was done to prisoners at Abu Ghraib to be reprehensible, and a low point in American history. Personally, I find it merely silly, or at worst, mildly embarrassing.
The name Abu Ghraib is apparently supposed to evoke universal shudders. Television shows like "Law & Order" mention Abu Ghraib for dramatic effect, as though it's in the same class as Auschwitz or Treblinka.
Let me make this one perfectly clear: Compared to the way the Nazis treated non-Aryans, what Lynndie England did was a college prank.
Now, did she break the law? Absolutely. Was what they did at Abu Ghraib really an atrocity? Yeah, I'm embarrassed to admit that it was. Unfortunately, Lynndie England is the tip of the iceberg, and knowing something about young service people, she was also trying to survive in the environment created by her superiors. I did a search this morning for reports on Abu Ghraib, and the infamous pictures of her look to me like she was showing off for her immediate chain of command. She was clearly in over her head.
Not that I'm condoning what she did. I just think the sentence is appropriate.
And it pisses me off that Iraqis disagree.
Captured Americans (and citizens of other nations helping to rebuild Iraq) are being beheaded, and so far, not one of those butchers has even been caught. Are Iraqis demanding that the world know how embarrassed they are about the mistreatment of American (mostly noncombatant) prisoners?
Perhaps the lesson the Iraqis have for us today is that if you're going to be photographed committing an atrocity, it's best to wear a hood.
This story bugs me: Iraqis Call Lynndie England Sentence Travesty
Now, I know that a lot of folks find what was done to prisoners at Abu Ghraib to be reprehensible, and a low point in American history. Personally, I find it merely silly, or at worst, mildly embarrassing.
The name Abu Ghraib is apparently supposed to evoke universal shudders. Television shows like "Law & Order" mention Abu Ghraib for dramatic effect, as though it's in the same class as Auschwitz or Treblinka.
Let me make this one perfectly clear: Compared to the way the Nazis treated non-Aryans, what Lynndie England did was a college prank.
Now, did she break the law? Absolutely. Was what they did at Abu Ghraib really an atrocity? Yeah, I'm embarrassed to admit that it was. Unfortunately, Lynndie England is the tip of the iceberg, and knowing something about young service people, she was also trying to survive in the environment created by her superiors. I did a search this morning for reports on Abu Ghraib, and the infamous pictures of her look to me like she was showing off for her immediate chain of command. She was clearly in over her head.
Not that I'm condoning what she did. I just think the sentence is appropriate.
And it pisses me off that Iraqis disagree.
Captured Americans (and citizens of other nations helping to rebuild Iraq) are being beheaded, and so far, not one of those butchers has even been caught. Are Iraqis demanding that the world know how embarrassed they are about the mistreatment of American (mostly noncombatant) prisoners?
Perhaps the lesson the Iraqis have for us today is that if you're going to be photographed committing an atrocity, it's best to wear a hood.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Trophy
I have a hobby.
I am not particularly fanatical about it. Not in the same sense that many people are fanatical...nay, maniacal...about their hobbies. I enjoy it, and I have permited it to consume a good deal of my time over the last twenty years.
For most of the last twenty years, it's been a pretty solitary hobby for me...very little interaction with other hobbyists, except through the Internet. Quite frankly, there hasn't been too terribly much of that because the Internet allows one the freedom of anonymity, from which one can say nearly anything without fear of meaningful consequence. Forums for hobbyists are generally full of pseudo-experts and blow-hards, and quite frankly, I get enough of that elsewhere in my life, I don't want to waste too much of my free time on such people.
It's not so much a solitary thing any more, particularly after last weekend.
Okay, so what's the hobby, Kurt?
I enjoy computer flight simulation.
I started twenty years ago when I was learning to fly real airplanes, as a way of practicing my navigating skills. Back then, that was all it was good for...on a Commodore 64. It's come a long way since then, and I submit this picture as evidence: No, this is not a sunset shot of a real airplane descending into clouds over the ocean, it's a virtual airplane, created entirely in the computer.
And I'm the guy flying it.
Now, ordinarily, it takes years to get to the point where anyone will trust you with a multi-million-dollar airplane in real life, but anybody with $30 is welcome to try it out in the sim.
I stopped flying real airplanes when it got prohibitively expensive, but by then, I was hooked on the hobby. I've always loved airplanes, and if you spend any amount of time around me at all, you'll notice that I look skyward at every airplane I hear. Combine that with a thin wallet, and it's easy to understand why I enjoy flight simulators.
Sure, if I loved flying enough, I could figure out a way to do it...lots of guys do. But consider this: aviation fuel is 50% more expensive than the stuff you put in your car. An airplane such as the one in the picture costs about $600 an hour to operate, if you own it. You can rent one for about $1,000 an hour. There's a lot of sacrifice in every tank. (Contrast that with the time I've spent with that airplane in the sim: it's cost me about five bucks an hour, if you include the cost of my current computer.)
Mostly, what I enjoy is the learning about airplanes. I enjoy knowing about them. These days, the simulator aircraft you buy for $30 or so work exactly like the real thing, and that's pretty amazing. The Navy issues a copy of Microsoft's Flight Simulator to every one of its flight school students, because doing so means fewer accidents when those same students climb in the cockpit of a real airplane.
I can't deny that there's a certain amount of escapism to the hobby for me. I've now flown nearly all the way around the virtual world with the airplane in that picture...that's my most recent approach, to Christmas Island, about 6 hours flying time or eleven hundred miles south of Hawaii, depending on how you reckon it. I've got just three legs remaining on my round the world flight...17 hours total flying time, or so. I've visited a number of virtual places on this trip that I've visited in real life: Malaga, Dubai, Perth and others. It's nice to remember those places.
But how can a solo round-the-world virtual flight not be a solitary thing?
Okay, that is, but the hobby itself isn't...I spent most of last weekend in the company of other folks involved in the same hobby when I attended the Avsim Convention. I've recently found a club here in San Diego...a group of like-minded guys who get together once a month and talk about flying and flight simulation and airplanes. They're a cool bunch of guys.
And that airplane in the picture? In July, the developers of that particular add-on for Microsoft's Flight Simulator invited me to join their beta test team. So, I flew their airplane in my kitchen for about three weeks of evenings, and did my level best to make sure it worked the way the real one does. Along the way, the lead developer and I became friends.
And last weekend, because he couldn't be at the convention, I got to walk up on stage and accept the award they won for their airplane. It was quite an honor to be their representative.
I am not particularly fanatical about it. Not in the same sense that many people are fanatical...nay, maniacal...about their hobbies. I enjoy it, and I have permited it to consume a good deal of my time over the last twenty years.
For most of the last twenty years, it's been a pretty solitary hobby for me...very little interaction with other hobbyists, except through the Internet. Quite frankly, there hasn't been too terribly much of that because the Internet allows one the freedom of anonymity, from which one can say nearly anything without fear of meaningful consequence. Forums for hobbyists are generally full of pseudo-experts and blow-hards, and quite frankly, I get enough of that elsewhere in my life, I don't want to waste too much of my free time on such people.
It's not so much a solitary thing any more, particularly after last weekend.
Okay, so what's the hobby, Kurt?
I enjoy computer flight simulation.
I started twenty years ago when I was learning to fly real airplanes, as a way of practicing my navigating skills. Back then, that was all it was good for...on a Commodore 64. It's come a long way since then, and I submit this picture as evidence: No, this is not a sunset shot of a real airplane descending into clouds over the ocean, it's a virtual airplane, created entirely in the computer.And I'm the guy flying it.
Now, ordinarily, it takes years to get to the point where anyone will trust you with a multi-million-dollar airplane in real life, but anybody with $30 is welcome to try it out in the sim.
I stopped flying real airplanes when it got prohibitively expensive, but by then, I was hooked on the hobby. I've always loved airplanes, and if you spend any amount of time around me at all, you'll notice that I look skyward at every airplane I hear. Combine that with a thin wallet, and it's easy to understand why I enjoy flight simulators.
Sure, if I loved flying enough, I could figure out a way to do it...lots of guys do. But consider this: aviation fuel is 50% more expensive than the stuff you put in your car. An airplane such as the one in the picture costs about $600 an hour to operate, if you own it. You can rent one for about $1,000 an hour. There's a lot of sacrifice in every tank. (Contrast that with the time I've spent with that airplane in the sim: it's cost me about five bucks an hour, if you include the cost of my current computer.)
Mostly, what I enjoy is the learning about airplanes. I enjoy knowing about them. These days, the simulator aircraft you buy for $30 or so work exactly like the real thing, and that's pretty amazing. The Navy issues a copy of Microsoft's Flight Simulator to every one of its flight school students, because doing so means fewer accidents when those same students climb in the cockpit of a real airplane.
I can't deny that there's a certain amount of escapism to the hobby for me. I've now flown nearly all the way around the virtual world with the airplane in that picture...that's my most recent approach, to Christmas Island, about 6 hours flying time or eleven hundred miles south of Hawaii, depending on how you reckon it. I've got just three legs remaining on my round the world flight...17 hours total flying time, or so. I've visited a number of virtual places on this trip that I've visited in real life: Malaga, Dubai, Perth and others. It's nice to remember those places.
But how can a solo round-the-world virtual flight not be a solitary thing?
Okay, that is, but the hobby itself isn't...I spent most of last weekend in the company of other folks involved in the same hobby when I attended the Avsim Convention. I've recently found a club here in San Diego...a group of like-minded guys who get together once a month and talk about flying and flight simulation and airplanes. They're a cool bunch of guys.
And that airplane in the picture? In July, the developers of that particular add-on for Microsoft's Flight Simulator invited me to join their beta test team. So, I flew their airplane in my kitchen for about three weeks of evenings, and did my level best to make sure it worked the way the real one does. Along the way, the lead developer and I became friends.
And last weekend, because he couldn't be at the convention, I got to walk up on stage and accept the award they won for their airplane. It was quite an honor to be their representative.
Friday, September 16, 2005
I'll Have The Ravioli With Meat Sauce And Boobs, Please
I am pleased to report that there is justice in the world: Today was the first day of RadiantSmile's new visitation plan, which gives her malignant ex just three days every two weeks, instead of alternate weeks.
RadiantSmile and I celebrated with an impromptu lunch meeting, in between her flight in with her son and her flight out without him. I took her to a wonderful Italian place in Point Loma called La Scala. A conversation with my usual waiter generally starts like this:
Waiter: "Good evening, and welcome to La Scala. What can I get for you this evening?"
Customer: "Well, what's good here?"
W: "I was hoping you'd tell me."
C: "Yes, well, how's the lasagna?"
W: "I'm not sure we have that here. This is an Italian restaurant, after all. Just in case you were confused."
C: "Oh --"
W: "I hear the Chinese is really good here, though."
C: "Okay --"
W: "I wouldn't know, because I never eat here."
C: "Never?"
W: "Never. The waiter never washes his hands."
And so it goes. I had hoped to share that amusing experience with RadiantSmile today, but he wasn't around and we were served by the owner, instead. The owner's a very sweet lady who treats everyone as though they are sitting down for a meal in her home. There is a great deal of trust involved in being served by this terrific lady: she rarely speaks above a mumble, and with a very heavy accent, to boot. She can be intimidating...in that way that only Italian women can be. As she cleared RadiantSmile's plate, she looked at mine, which still had a crust of garlic bread on it, and said, "You're not done. You eat all your bread...then you're done." And then she smiled and walked away without clearing my plate.
It was not difficult to imagine that, if this actually were her kitchen we were eating in, she'd have smacked the back of my head for emphasis.
I finished the garlic bread.
Anyhow...RadiantSmile and I shared the usual easy conversation about life, love, anything, you name it. Keeping up with each other's lives in greater detail than is possible on the phone or by e-mail. It was a leisurely and intimate conversation, the kind you can only have with a friend to whom you'd gladly give a kidney. The kind of leisurely and intimate conversation you might have when you have an Italian restaurant all to yourselves.
After one particular quiet moment, RadiantSmile casually leans forward and says, "I went to see the surgeon who did my lumpectomy. I'm thinking about having some reconstructive surgery done."
I knew, of course, that she had had a sizable lump removed earlier this year and that the lump had turned out to be benign. I had no idea that what had been removed had been enough to require reconstructive surgery, though, and I said so. It's not surprising, since she's small-breasted, but still, you know, from her description of the surgery, they'd removed the lump with a needle.
Clearly, I had an incorrect impression, though RadiantSmile is far too gracious to put it that way.
"The surgeon did a terrific job," she said, "and there's hardly any scar, but one boob is smaller than the other, and it's noticable enough that I didn't want to wear a bathing suit all summer."
Okay.
"The surgeon is a woman and she understands body image from a woman's point of view, but she thinks I'm being ridiculous about it."
Okay.
"I hate seeing the difference in the mirror when I get out of the shower every morning. I want my boobs to be the same size again. Is that crazy?"
No, I assure her. It is not crazy or ridiculous to want to correct things about our bodies that we're uncomfortable with.
She casts a furtive glance around the restaurant, and says, "There's no one else here to see, so would you be offended if I showed you what I mean?"
Um. Hmm.
A number of possible responses appeared, menu-fashion, on the monitor of my Inner Monologue Processor. You know, the device that lets you play several possible conversations in your head before you actually respond to a question that might get you in trouble (or if you're a guy, might get you laid). Those most useful responses were:
a) No, I wouldn't be offended at all.
b) Uh. Ahem. Uh. Ahem.
c) Yes, please.
d) Free the Twins! Free the Twins!
e) Hot diggity! If those are for lunch, what's for supper?
Now, I need to make it clear exactly how confused I was at this juncture. RadiantSmile and I are, after all, not romantically involved. I managed to pull together enough functioning neurons to offer answer "a" for her consideration, and she seemed quite pleased with that one, so I'm reasonably sure I didn't screw up.
She expanded on her story a little more, for effect, and then, after one last quick glance around the restaurant, she pulled the collar of her shirt down to show me...er...what she meant.
Yes, I agreed. They are clearly different sizes. And given that the difference is so obvious, I can certainly understand why she might want to get reconstructive surgery. I told her that, as a man who has dated a woman with augmented breasts, I can say from experience that they do not feel natural at all...my opinion, of course. I told her that if she's doing it purely for herself and how she feels when she looks in the mirror, then she should do what makes her feel best.
And I also told her (with absolute honesty) that I think her breasts are perfect just exactly the way they are, and that she can feel free to show them to me again any time she likes. Honesty is, after all, the absolute best policy.
Hours later, I am still struck by that moment. I must say, it differed a bit from my fantasies.
I don't understand much about women. Very little, in fact. One thing I do know is that women continually test the men in their acquaintance. They do it all the time. So, I am aware that this discussion of her breasts was another of her tests; a cautious foray into deeper intimacy* with a man she trusts. On some level, she wants me to notice her sexually, even if she's unwilling to have sex.
On another, far more important level, she's reached a point where she trusts me with the details of her body image. It's certainly not uncommon for a woman to casually remark that she misses the body she had before she had a baby, or that she wishes she had smallerbiggerfirmerfuller breasts/ass/thighs/tummy, but it's entirely different for a woman to ask, "does this flaw matter to you?"
I don't know. It's entirely possible that, living as I do in a constant testosterone-induced mental fog, I don't get it at all. It's been pretty well established that I am a dork.
*Okay, perhaps not so cautious, being as she was showing me her breasts in a restaurant.
RadiantSmile and I celebrated with an impromptu lunch meeting, in between her flight in with her son and her flight out without him. I took her to a wonderful Italian place in Point Loma called La Scala. A conversation with my usual waiter generally starts like this:
Waiter: "Good evening, and welcome to La Scala. What can I get for you this evening?"
Customer: "Well, what's good here?"
W: "I was hoping you'd tell me."
C: "Yes, well, how's the lasagna?"
W: "I'm not sure we have that here. This is an Italian restaurant, after all. Just in case you were confused."
C: "Oh --"
W: "I hear the Chinese is really good here, though."
C: "Okay --"
W: "I wouldn't know, because I never eat here."
C: "Never?"
W: "Never. The waiter never washes his hands."
And so it goes. I had hoped to share that amusing experience with RadiantSmile today, but he wasn't around and we were served by the owner, instead. The owner's a very sweet lady who treats everyone as though they are sitting down for a meal in her home. There is a great deal of trust involved in being served by this terrific lady: she rarely speaks above a mumble, and with a very heavy accent, to boot. She can be intimidating...in that way that only Italian women can be. As she cleared RadiantSmile's plate, she looked at mine, which still had a crust of garlic bread on it, and said, "You're not done. You eat all your bread...then you're done." And then she smiled and walked away without clearing my plate.
It was not difficult to imagine that, if this actually were her kitchen we were eating in, she'd have smacked the back of my head for emphasis.
I finished the garlic bread.
Anyhow...RadiantSmile and I shared the usual easy conversation about life, love, anything, you name it. Keeping up with each other's lives in greater detail than is possible on the phone or by e-mail. It was a leisurely and intimate conversation, the kind you can only have with a friend to whom you'd gladly give a kidney. The kind of leisurely and intimate conversation you might have when you have an Italian restaurant all to yourselves.
After one particular quiet moment, RadiantSmile casually leans forward and says, "I went to see the surgeon who did my lumpectomy. I'm thinking about having some reconstructive surgery done."
I knew, of course, that she had had a sizable lump removed earlier this year and that the lump had turned out to be benign. I had no idea that what had been removed had been enough to require reconstructive surgery, though, and I said so. It's not surprising, since she's small-breasted, but still, you know, from her description of the surgery, they'd removed the lump with a needle.
Clearly, I had an incorrect impression, though RadiantSmile is far too gracious to put it that way.
"The surgeon did a terrific job," she said, "and there's hardly any scar, but one boob is smaller than the other, and it's noticable enough that I didn't want to wear a bathing suit all summer."
Okay.
"The surgeon is a woman and she understands body image from a woman's point of view, but she thinks I'm being ridiculous about it."
Okay.
"I hate seeing the difference in the mirror when I get out of the shower every morning. I want my boobs to be the same size again. Is that crazy?"
No, I assure her. It is not crazy or ridiculous to want to correct things about our bodies that we're uncomfortable with.
She casts a furtive glance around the restaurant, and says, "There's no one else here to see, so would you be offended if I showed you what I mean?"
Um. Hmm.
A number of possible responses appeared, menu-fashion, on the monitor of my Inner Monologue Processor. You know, the device that lets you play several possible conversations in your head before you actually respond to a question that might get you in trouble (or if you're a guy, might get you laid). Those most useful responses were:
a) No, I wouldn't be offended at all.
b) Uh. Ahem. Uh. Ahem.
c) Yes, please.
d) Free the Twins! Free the Twins!
e) Hot diggity! If those are for lunch, what's for supper?
Now, I need to make it clear exactly how confused I was at this juncture. RadiantSmile and I are, after all, not romantically involved. I managed to pull together enough functioning neurons to offer answer "a" for her consideration, and she seemed quite pleased with that one, so I'm reasonably sure I didn't screw up.
She expanded on her story a little more, for effect, and then, after one last quick glance around the restaurant, she pulled the collar of her shirt down to show me...er...what she meant.
Yes, I agreed. They are clearly different sizes. And given that the difference is so obvious, I can certainly understand why she might want to get reconstructive surgery. I told her that, as a man who has dated a woman with augmented breasts, I can say from experience that they do not feel natural at all...my opinion, of course. I told her that if she's doing it purely for herself and how she feels when she looks in the mirror, then she should do what makes her feel best.
And I also told her (with absolute honesty) that I think her breasts are perfect just exactly the way they are, and that she can feel free to show them to me again any time she likes. Honesty is, after all, the absolute best policy.
Hours later, I am still struck by that moment. I must say, it differed a bit from my fantasies.
I don't understand much about women. Very little, in fact. One thing I do know is that women continually test the men in their acquaintance. They do it all the time. So, I am aware that this discussion of her breasts was another of her tests; a cautious foray into deeper intimacy* with a man she trusts. On some level, she wants me to notice her sexually, even if she's unwilling to have sex.
On another, far more important level, she's reached a point where she trusts me with the details of her body image. It's certainly not uncommon for a woman to casually remark that she misses the body she had before she had a baby, or that she wishes she had smallerbiggerfirmerfuller breasts/ass/thighs/tummy, but it's entirely different for a woman to ask, "does this flaw matter to you?"
I don't know. It's entirely possible that, living as I do in a constant testosterone-induced mental fog, I don't get it at all. It's been pretty well established that I am a dork.
*Okay, perhaps not so cautious, being as she was showing me her breasts in a restaurant.
Once In A While...
A website comes along that fairly requires that I link to it and needs no introduction...
http://www.extremeironing.com/
http://www.extremeironing.com/
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