Sometimes, this world can really get you down. You get surrounded, engulfed, swallowed up in the cacophony--the idiocy--the punditry.
Events--or, rather, gross misinterpretations of what might be events--swirl around your head. Ignorant, one sided, venomous journalists stand on the roof tops of the flooded city of your mind and pelt you with sharp objects. The only question you get answered on the news is: What if Chicken Little had been a rattle snake?
Meanwhile, lost in the fray of oversimplified, overglorified, lukewarm ignorance, there are a few beautifully good people out there, mixing it up with a fiesty minority of truly nefarious evil people. The lukewarm majority chaffs under their title ("INFERIOR"). And somehow the prevailing doctrine becomes: trivialize the whole deal by making politics the dividing line.
And you open your mouth to scream and either nothing comes out, or nobody hears (which is worse).
Or you raise your hand to say something, and all you hear is that horrifying, indecipherable horn sound that Charlie Brown's teacher makes, and you realize you just don't speak the world's language. And you start to feel like a note that God wrote in the margin.
Then, at some unpredictable juncture, the clouds part, and light shines through in glorious clarity.
For me, this happened the other day when I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up, and noticed, for the first time, a really pleasant sensation.
The fabric of my pants had some stretch to it.
It made bending over a whole new experience. And I realized: These are the girls pants.
And I wondered: Where has this fabulous stretchy corduroy been all my life? The perfect cut, the perfect color and texture--AND they give a little when I need it? Shame on you, ladies, for keeping this miracle to yourselves.
Or, maybe not. It isn't for me to say who should be let into the circle and when. Really, the pants found me. It's not like I was out looking for girl pants. Even when they found me, I was wrong about what they had to offer. But here I am, finally taking that vital step past the mock enlightenment of "my ass is as hot as the day is long," to a greater truth: I am comfortable.
I don't know if the Universe put them in the men's section of my local Salvation Army on purpose. It would be presumptuous to assume such specificity in the grand scheme. But I do know this: I would never have come to the pants in their so-called "natural place." They had to come to me. This doesn't mean I'll be shopping in the women's section. But I will be keeping my eyes, and my mind, open.
Surely there are more battles to fight, more hills to climb, more barbs to endure, and more philosphical incongruencies to unravel. There is ignorance, and evil, in ever increasing quantities, encroaching daily upon the sanity of us all. But each time I bend over, I'll feel the Universe reminding me:
"No matter what else happens, child, you've experienced perfection in this fallen world. Treasure that, my child. Treasure it."
lundi, octobre 24, 2005
dimanche, octobre 09, 2005
I Have Thrust My Sword into the Arena of Ideas . . . or, My Existence Has Been Encapsulated Just Above My Exhaust Pipe
Bumper Sticker Conundrum Kills Three.
Three motorists were killed, and several more injured, in a multi-car pile up Wednesday afternoon. Police on the scene said the accident was the result of a "particularly inane" bumper sticker.
Roger Cralen, who received only minor injuries, which were treated on the scene, was interviewed by police as his wife was life-flighted to Sutter Roseville ER.
"This old Volkswagen passed us and we noticed the bumper sticker that said 'honk if you hate bumper stickers that say honk if you love something.' I was about to honk, because I really hate those bumper stickers. But my wife pointed out that by honking, I was sort of
approving of those bumper stickers. The next thing we knew we were flying over the center divide."
When the Cralen's vehicle careened into oncoming traffic, they were side-swiped by a stickerless SUV which subsequently rolled accross several lanes before coming to a halt on top of a Geo Metro, whose only bumper sticker was the controversial "Mean People Suck." These two vehicles were then smashed into the fast lane by a Lincoln Continental with too many bumper stickers to name, most of which had something to do with "boogers." Medical officials on the scene reported that the drivers of all three vehilcles, (whose names are being withheld until the families can be notified), were killed instantly. At least 12 other cars had locked bumpers as traffic along the I-80 corridor came to a total stand still. Bush/Cheney stickers smashed into their Kerry/Edwards counterparts, and the driver of a "pro-choice" Honda was found pinned beneath the back wheel of a Toyota Prius bearing the Jesus Fish with the Darwin legs.
Emergency crews were able to open the far right lane as police began taking reports from eye-witnesses and victims, but progress was slow due to rubbernecking and the occasional gesture made towards one of the victim's anti war stickers.
"I don't know what's worse," said Mr. Cralen before being escorted to the hospital, "the rubbernecking or all these goddamn bumper stickers. There ought to be a law."
Police on the scene refused to lay blame for the disaster, saying only that the insurance companies will decide who is at fault, and that bumper stickers are still legal in Placer County.
The Volkswagen that allegedly caused the accident could not be located.
Three motorists were killed, and several more injured, in a multi-car pile up Wednesday afternoon. Police on the scene said the accident was the result of a "particularly inane" bumper sticker.
Roger Cralen, who received only minor injuries, which were treated on the scene, was interviewed by police as his wife was life-flighted to Sutter Roseville ER.
"This old Volkswagen passed us and we noticed the bumper sticker that said 'honk if you hate bumper stickers that say honk if you love something.' I was about to honk, because I really hate those bumper stickers. But my wife pointed out that by honking, I was sort of
approving of those bumper stickers. The next thing we knew we were flying over the center divide."
When the Cralen's vehicle careened into oncoming traffic, they were side-swiped by a stickerless SUV which subsequently rolled accross several lanes before coming to a halt on top of a Geo Metro, whose only bumper sticker was the controversial "Mean People Suck." These two vehicles were then smashed into the fast lane by a Lincoln Continental with too many bumper stickers to name, most of which had something to do with "boogers." Medical officials on the scene reported that the drivers of all three vehilcles, (whose names are being withheld until the families can be notified), were killed instantly. At least 12 other cars had locked bumpers as traffic along the I-80 corridor came to a total stand still. Bush/Cheney stickers smashed into their Kerry/Edwards counterparts, and the driver of a "pro-choice" Honda was found pinned beneath the back wheel of a Toyota Prius bearing the Jesus Fish with the Darwin legs.
Emergency crews were able to open the far right lane as police began taking reports from eye-witnesses and victims, but progress was slow due to rubbernecking and the occasional gesture made towards one of the victim's anti war stickers.
"I don't know what's worse," said Mr. Cralen before being escorted to the hospital, "the rubbernecking or all these goddamn bumper stickers. There ought to be a law."
Police on the scene refused to lay blame for the disaster, saying only that the insurance companies will decide who is at fault, and that bumper stickers are still legal in Placer County.
The Volkswagen that allegedly caused the accident could not be located.
dimanche, septembre 18, 2005
Ear Tags
Go ahead, say it. You'll be doing us all a favor.
We were about to start the tagging and tracking program. But identification remained a dilemma. "Where to start?" the interns said. "And what if, in our haste, we tag the wrong person?"
Judging human potential is as morally wrong as it is mathematically unsound. Hence the tracking that follows the tagging. We assume that at some future point you might well have something to contribute. But we can't have you fooling people into giving anything you have to offer any credence. You must be tagged, if only to warn potential listeners. The identification was to be based on a combination of factors: your musical tastes; your blind acceptance of dogmatic jargon from any source; your susceptibility to propaganda from either side; your bumper stickers; ETC.
It was a complex social algorithm that involved hundreds of hours before we could even tranquilize you and attach the tracking tag to your ear. The Operation was on the verge of becoming prohibitively expensive.
But you just saved us the trouble.
By suggesting that America caused or allowed populated areas to flood on the basis of race, by shooting off charges of racism in a time when people should be coming together, you have labeled yourself officially "Irrelevant to the Public Discourse." If you have recently used a natural disaster to make political hay of any kind, you can expect a brief reprieve while a minor jurisdictional dispute is settled. Just bear in mind: it is highly probable that the "Loathsome Mass of Putrid Sludge Where Your Soul Should Be" tagging study will get to you first.
We appreciate your assistance in this matter. The tagging teams have been dispatched. Enjoy your time in the cellar beneath the Arena of Ideas. We look forward to your reinstatement in what is most likely the very distant future.
We were about to start the tagging and tracking program. But identification remained a dilemma. "Where to start?" the interns said. "And what if, in our haste, we tag the wrong person?"
Judging human potential is as morally wrong as it is mathematically unsound. Hence the tracking that follows the tagging. We assume that at some future point you might well have something to contribute. But we can't have you fooling people into giving anything you have to offer any credence. You must be tagged, if only to warn potential listeners. The identification was to be based on a combination of factors: your musical tastes; your blind acceptance of dogmatic jargon from any source; your susceptibility to propaganda from either side; your bumper stickers; ETC.
It was a complex social algorithm that involved hundreds of hours before we could even tranquilize you and attach the tracking tag to your ear. The Operation was on the verge of becoming prohibitively expensive.
But you just saved us the trouble.
By suggesting that America caused or allowed populated areas to flood on the basis of race, by shooting off charges of racism in a time when people should be coming together, you have labeled yourself officially "Irrelevant to the Public Discourse." If you have recently used a natural disaster to make political hay of any kind, you can expect a brief reprieve while a minor jurisdictional dispute is settled. Just bear in mind: it is highly probable that the "Loathsome Mass of Putrid Sludge Where Your Soul Should Be" tagging study will get to you first.
We appreciate your assistance in this matter. The tagging teams have been dispatched. Enjoy your time in the cellar beneath the Arena of Ideas. We look forward to your reinstatement in what is most likely the very distant future.
vendredi, août 26, 2005
Learn a new word everyday.
The word of the day is PIMPNOTIZE.
It refers to the mental effect a dope-ass pimp has on his humble employees. When a ho can't say no, even when she know he a bad man. She been pimpnotized.
By extension, if a non pimp has mesmerized you in any way, and you have, against your better judgment, complied with his wishes in any way--you may have been pimpnotized.
You might hear it pronounced with an M. Pimp-mo-tized. This is accepted, and in some places may even be the predominant usage, but it is, technically, an linguistical error. Pay close attention, whereas in some areas it may behoove you to adopt the local pronunciation.
It is considered poor decorum for a man to refer to himself as a pimpnotizer. This title should only be conferred by the pimpnotized, and to claim the title on one's own can only mean that one is, as it were, compensating.
The word can be particularly effective when attempting to warn a friend of her imminent descension into an unhealthy relation, or relationship. As in, "Baby, don't let yourself be pimpnotized by this loser! He flash alotta bling, but he ain't no good!"
Immediate implementation is encouraged.
Word.
It refers to the mental effect a dope-ass pimp has on his humble employees. When a ho can't say no, even when she know he a bad man. She been pimpnotized.
By extension, if a non pimp has mesmerized you in any way, and you have, against your better judgment, complied with his wishes in any way--you may have been pimpnotized.
You might hear it pronounced with an M. Pimp-mo-tized. This is accepted, and in some places may even be the predominant usage, but it is, technically, an linguistical error. Pay close attention, whereas in some areas it may behoove you to adopt the local pronunciation.
It is considered poor decorum for a man to refer to himself as a pimpnotizer. This title should only be conferred by the pimpnotized, and to claim the title on one's own can only mean that one is, as it were, compensating.
The word can be particularly effective when attempting to warn a friend of her imminent descension into an unhealthy relation, or relationship. As in, "Baby, don't let yourself be pimpnotized by this loser! He flash alotta bling, but he ain't no good!"
Immediate implementation is encouraged.
Word.
vendredi, juillet 29, 2005
The President is Dumb
Guess what? The President is dumb!
(In this place, I would traditionally insert some attempt at comedy, or insight, or some combination of the two. But given the genius--the originality--of the opening line, I see fit to pause, and bask in the white hot light of my discovery.)
This president is so dumb . . .
(Listen as the audience thirstily laps up the cavalcade. "How dumb is he?" you ask, bursting at the seems. The expectation is palpable. Nowhere have you seen such incisive wit. You've heard him flub lines. You saw him holding the book upside down. But no one thought to make a joke out of it! The combination of surprise and thanks turns the masses into mush. I don't even need to make the chimp comparisons, not that it would be redundant--certainly it wouldn't! It would sparkle fresh like the opening zinger, but I need to move on to something with even more show stopping glitter on it.)
INSERT *EVIL RICH WHITE GUY JOKE OR REFERENCE*
(Go ahead, faint. Take a breath. It's OK. I know you didn't see it coming. I don't even need to state the joke. The deft originality of the framework is enough. So many people--certainly the idiots who have met him or spent any time with him--forget that he is, in very fact, an evil rich white guy. At this point you'll forgive a brief pat on my own back. I could have directed my trenchant tongue to some easy target, some rampaged comedic territory so well traveled by others. But no: I took the hard, insightful road. The high road. You know, it isn't easy breaking ground. PS: You're Welcome!)
Bill Clinton was an overweight womanizer!
(Didn't know that either, did you! For eight years of the previous administration you sat back, and, while you couldn't elucidate your thoughts, deep down, your silent self wondered quietly "Why is no one making fun of the President's weight, or his penchant for turning every woman within the reach of his greasy hilbilly fingers into a sexual object?" And then here I come out of nowhere, busting loose with a dirty/fat joke--in the same sentence! I'll wait a moment while you to regain your composure. I don't even have time for my Pakistani-QuickyMart-Owner impression--we'll have to take on the threat of global terrorism later)
If only we could combine the best qualities of the last two presidents. Think of the Evil-Rich-Fat-Womanizing-Dumbass jokes that could be told!
Alas, I would be the only one telling them.
(In this place, I would traditionally insert some attempt at comedy, or insight, or some combination of the two. But given the genius--the originality--of the opening line, I see fit to pause, and bask in the white hot light of my discovery.)
This president is so dumb . . .
(Listen as the audience thirstily laps up the cavalcade. "How dumb is he?" you ask, bursting at the seems. The expectation is palpable. Nowhere have you seen such incisive wit. You've heard him flub lines. You saw him holding the book upside down. But no one thought to make a joke out of it! The combination of surprise and thanks turns the masses into mush. I don't even need to make the chimp comparisons, not that it would be redundant--certainly it wouldn't! It would sparkle fresh like the opening zinger, but I need to move on to something with even more show stopping glitter on it.)
INSERT *EVIL RICH WHITE GUY JOKE OR REFERENCE*
(Go ahead, faint. Take a breath. It's OK. I know you didn't see it coming. I don't even need to state the joke. The deft originality of the framework is enough. So many people--certainly the idiots who have met him or spent any time with him--forget that he is, in very fact, an evil rich white guy. At this point you'll forgive a brief pat on my own back. I could have directed my trenchant tongue to some easy target, some rampaged comedic territory so well traveled by others. But no: I took the hard, insightful road. The high road. You know, it isn't easy breaking ground. PS: You're Welcome!)
Bill Clinton was an overweight womanizer!
(Didn't know that either, did you! For eight years of the previous administration you sat back, and, while you couldn't elucidate your thoughts, deep down, your silent self wondered quietly "Why is no one making fun of the President's weight, or his penchant for turning every woman within the reach of his greasy hilbilly fingers into a sexual object?" And then here I come out of nowhere, busting loose with a dirty/fat joke--in the same sentence! I'll wait a moment while you to regain your composure. I don't even have time for my Pakistani-QuickyMart-Owner impression--we'll have to take on the threat of global terrorism later)
If only we could combine the best qualities of the last two presidents. Think of the Evil-Rich-Fat-Womanizing-Dumbass jokes that could be told!
Alas, I would be the only one telling them.
vendredi, juillet 08, 2005
Fawlty Towers
The Supreme Court just put every house in America up for sale.
I was distressed about this. But buns cradled gently in stretchy black corduroy cannot long clench, nor quiver. Soon enough, a little voice whispered: "You do not live on prime, hotel ready property."
If only we could amend the law to stipulate that any hotel built on eminent domain property be run by a Basil Fawlty kind of character, with a documented minimum for wacky antics and subtle class commentary, I would have no problem whatsoever with the Court's decision.
The problem is that there really is only one John Cleese (as John Laroquette so unfortunately proved), and such a wealth of eminently seizable hotel-ready property. I don't think Mr. Cleese is up to running a hotel any more. He is currently enjoying pretty sweet retirement, living off royalties and occasionally posting a blog about how stupid Americans are. He might be induced to invest in the Supreme Court Inn & Resort hotel chain, but if he's not personally running the hotel, then count me out.
I just keep wondering: Was the seized house an eyesore? Seriously, because there are some real dumps behind my house in our otherwise charming little Colfax neighborhood. I'm quite sure that a lovely Bed & Breakfast with a quaint garden fountain would be in the best interests of our town. But then the little voice returns, and reminds me that, sadly, the Supreme Court hotel chain will most like not have my town on their acquisition list.
If we're lucky, this new interpretation of the Constitution might someday result in the seizing of ugly houses that are detrimental to property values.
That's my problem. I want freedom for everyone except the low income white trash shack dwellers and their unsightly TV antennae that sully my view of the canyon.
Maybe if Ben Franklin had left Jefferson's original "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of PROPERTY" line alone, we wouldn't be having to fret about this.
I was distressed about this. But buns cradled gently in stretchy black corduroy cannot long clench, nor quiver. Soon enough, a little voice whispered: "You do not live on prime, hotel ready property."
If only we could amend the law to stipulate that any hotel built on eminent domain property be run by a Basil Fawlty kind of character, with a documented minimum for wacky antics and subtle class commentary, I would have no problem whatsoever with the Court's decision.
The problem is that there really is only one John Cleese (as John Laroquette so unfortunately proved), and such a wealth of eminently seizable hotel-ready property. I don't think Mr. Cleese is up to running a hotel any more. He is currently enjoying pretty sweet retirement, living off royalties and occasionally posting a blog about how stupid Americans are. He might be induced to invest in the Supreme Court Inn & Resort hotel chain, but if he's not personally running the hotel, then count me out.
I just keep wondering: Was the seized house an eyesore? Seriously, because there are some real dumps behind my house in our otherwise charming little Colfax neighborhood. I'm quite sure that a lovely Bed & Breakfast with a quaint garden fountain would be in the best interests of our town. But then the little voice returns, and reminds me that, sadly, the Supreme Court hotel chain will most like not have my town on their acquisition list.
If we're lucky, this new interpretation of the Constitution might someday result in the seizing of ugly houses that are detrimental to property values.
That's my problem. I want freedom for everyone except the low income white trash shack dwellers and their unsightly TV antennae that sully my view of the canyon.
Maybe if Ben Franklin had left Jefferson's original "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of PROPERTY" line alone, we wouldn't be having to fret about this.
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