Friday, September 30, 2011

First and Last Ride


I spent the first nine years of my life in Haslett, MI.  A small whistle stop of a town located about five or ten minutes from East Lansing.  I spent the majority of those years at 1368 Hickory St.  Which was just about the best place I can think of to grow up. 

Located on it’s own little dirt road, the property was about an acre square, with a large house, a large garage, an old concrete pool, and of course, Lake Lansing at the backyard.
As much as I love that home, and could ramble on and on about it; this is to be an Amusing Motorcycle Story.

I went to kindergarten about two miles away in town, at Haslett Community Church.  I don’t remember overly much about the place, except the kindergarten was in the basement, we had toys, there is a picture of me getting a blue Matchbox jet fighter from Santa there, and the tricycles.

There were only two of those.  All to be shared with what seemed at the time to be hundreds of kids.  Seriously, there were only 15 of us I’m sure.  But there was a large supply and demand issue with the tricycles nonetheless.

Every day at recess, the tricycles were the first to be taken.  Everyone else had to play with trucks, or in the sandbox, or jump rope.  You know, lame stuff.  The cool kids had the tricycles.

One day, I got out there first, and got a tricycle.  I felt like I was king.  I rode it around, my ego incredibly swollen.  Until I had to pee.  And I mean I really had to pee.

Recess was only half over, and there was no way I was giving up that tricycle.  So without another thought, I let it loose.  It felt predictable I’m sure.  Warm, wet, then cold and wet.  I didn’t let any of that slow me down though, I kept on pedaling that hog all over the place.

After recess I got in trouble, of course.  But I felt justified, and had no remorse.  Until my dad came to pick me up. 

It was a bad scene for me, for several reasons.  My dad had taken off work early to pick me up, and he was on his motorcycle.  A 1975 Honda CB550F.  A sweet metallic green ride.  That was to be my first time on a motorcycle on the road.

My dad wasn’t pleased with me, and my explanation about the tricycle situation did not hold water with him.  But he saddled me up anyways, wet pants and all, and we rode home. 

When we got home, I got in trouble.  And at recess I didn’t fight for the tricycles anymore.  The shine was off that apple for me. 

The motorcycle ride was awesome though, even though I was wet and embarrassed.  It was my first, and the last ride he ever gave me on his road bike. 

Cheers.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

A Choice Dreamlike Haunting


I've always liked the old joke about the bus driver/airline pilot.  It goes something like this typically:

I hope I die in my sleep like my dad; not screaming like his passengers.

It's pretty funny, in it's black way.  Which is the way I like it.

I do wish that I die like my dad though.  It wasn't in his sleep, but it was fast.

Sitting on the porch in a comfy chair, looking out over the lake.

Or maybe like my grandfather, well, the one on my mom's side.  He died during his morning constitution.  It couldn't have been too awful a way to go, he was still sitting there when they found him. 

Now, my dad's dad, the other grandfather; he was sick.  For some reason I always thought it was emphysema or something.  But now I'm told it was heart problems.  I was only 4 or 5, so go figure that I got the details wrong.

If I could choose a way to go, it would be in my sleep.  I really, really want to avoid the possibility of having a few moments of clarity.  A few seconds when you know, you just KNOW that you are dying.  That these are the last few thoughts you'll ever have.  And perhaps terror at the thought of the show going on without you, it's star player. 

I assure you, from where your brain is sitting, you are the lead in the play.

I had a dream the other night.  It was about my dad.  I don't know why I can't shake his ghost.  I swear, I've tried living up to all the things that he tried to teach me more in the years since he died, than I ever did while he was living.  I don't really mean to, it's just happening.

In the dream, I somehow went back in time.  To a slightly skewed version of the real past I guess.  I was with my dad when he was young, 18 or so.  I was as I am now.  We went out on the town, him not knowing who I was.  We had a great time.  We talked, played pool, even went to a strip club.  It was quite the oddly inverted father-son night. 

When the night was over, we returned to his house.  Where he went to his room, and promptly passed out on the floor.  I walked around the house.  Recognizing things from his past, little iconic snippets he'd shared with me over time.  His parents were not there, nor were his brother or sister. 

I ended up in his brother's room.  I'd always liked his brother Paul.  I always thought he was so cool.  And in my mind, his teenage room did not disappoint.  There was a guitar, lots of posters, records, a small record player.  For some reason it seemed just right.  I ended up spending the night listening to records, and looking at yearbooks and photo albums.

In the morning, my father awoke.  He stumbled into his brother's room, only to find me there sitting on the floor.  Finally recognizing me as a total stranger to him, he was surprised and asked me who the heck I was.  I paused a moment, then told him exactly who I was.

He sat down to think on the bed.  I went on, as if I couldn't stop.  I told him I was his 40 year old adopted son.  I told him about everything.  I broke every rule in the time traveler's handbook.  It was awful.  His life as I knew it, his marriage, his children, what was going to happen to his brother, even the time, place, and manner of his own death.

It was something else.

I'm not clear on what happened next.  But I started telling him how sorry I was, for how I was going to be in his future.  How I never lived up to what he wanted, how I made so many mistakes, how unhappy I sometimes made him.  I started crying, I couldn't talk anymore I was sobbing so bad.

And that's when I awoke.  I woke myself up with my own crying. 

Not the way I like to wake up.  And I was glad my wife was not in the room to see it.

I have been trying to parse the dream a little since I had it yesterday.  And besides some of the obvious psychology behind much of it, I don't know what to make of it.  I don't normally time travel to spill secrets and apologize to my father, or any other dead people for that matter.

I'm hoping it just means that I want to make better choices in life.  And that for some reason, I've finally had enough things happen for me to have motivation to do so.  I can't explain it, or isolate any one incident.  All I know is that I'm trying to do better.  Life is short, and I've piddled over half of mine away it seems.  Better choices are in order.

I'm sticking to my choice of dying in my sleep someday though.  I think it's a good one.

My father made a choice I think too.  Regarding his own death.  He might not have been able to choose the time or place.  But I have a sneaking suspicion he had an inkling of the manner.

About four or five years before he died, he had some pretty big doctor's appointments.  Why he went, I'll never know, my mom doesn't even know.  Whatever he found out, he took with him. 

Maybe what he did next was the influence of seeing his own father lingering with sickness in his late life.

All I know, is that from that point on, he did several things.  He started smoking again, as much as he wanted.  He took early retirement.  He built a fine retirement house for him and my mom.  He made sure that she was taken care of.  He gave away some pretty significant things to his children.  Then he died.

Three cheers for having choices in life.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Wrangling Abortion With a Hangman's Noose


I was sitting here, casually reading the CNN home page.  There was an article about Troy Davis, someone on death row in Texas.  I can’t debate if he was guilty or not, I have no idea about his particular case.  But I did just had a pretty important epiphany of sorts.  

 I don’t believe in the death penalty, at least I don't think I do.  Let's work with this:

I don’t have the whole solution for punishing the guilty in our society or anything; But I do know that people don’t deserve to die for the mistakes that they do.  More to the point:  Eye for an eye, is wrong. 

How I came to this, was an oddball memory, that happened to fire off, just as I was reading the article. 

When I was playing football in high school, we were doing inter-team scrimmage, just to practice all our plays and things.  One of the things we practice, of course, is getting off on the snap.  Just as important as getting off quick as the ball is snapped, is waiting until the ball is snapped.  When the QB calls for a long snap count, before the ball is hiked, it is usually with the hopes of drawing the defensive team offside.  But sometimes it backfires, and this own teammates, so used to going on a relatively short cadence call, will jump offside first. 

Well, that was happening that day.  Several times as a matter of fact.  Not me, but someone a few positions down from me, I think the opposite guard or something.  Anyways, the guy on defense, right across from me, was someone I went to grade school with, Ed.  He was second string, and was going against us, the first string.  Every time the guy on my side jumped at the wrong time.  Ed took it upon himself to go like hell at me.  Smashing into me, making a bunch of noise.  Now, I was waiting for the proper count to go, and was not moving as he ran into me.  It didn’t hurt me, Ed was about 160 pounds maybe at the time, and I was more like 220.  He did knock me back a few steps, and he just kept on going at me, until one of the coaches blew a whistle at him. 

This happened twice.  The second time, our coach, a man awesomely called Vance, told him to “Quit it!”. 

The next time it happened a few plays later though; there he went, going like hell at me.  I basically just stood back with a WTF look, as he did his darndest to flail at me and push me around. 

This time, the line coach got pissed at him, and called him front and center.  Yelling at him about why he thought it was ok and such.  I knew why he was doing it, it wasn’t personal on me, he was trying to show intensity, drive, etc.  He wanted to prove he should be on first string.  Heck, we all did.

Well, the coach called me over there too, and had Ed get down in his stance in front of me.  Coach looked at me, and told me to get him.   And Ed wasn’t allowed to be defensive, to just take it from me.  The coach thought I deserved it I guess.  Payback. 

I didn’t really want to.  Ed wasn’t my best friend, but I liked him just fine.  I didn’t want to wallop him like that.  Certainly not in front of everyone, as a ‘lesson’ type thing.  After I balked a bit, the coach talked me into doing it.  I did it kind of halfheartedly.  I tried to look convincing though.  But I didn’t like it.  So he made me do it again.  And after that, he had me do it again.  I felt awful about it.

I was 16, what was I going to do?  Say no?  Well, my hindsight says yes, I should have.  It would have been pretty character building to do so.  Maybe even talk to the coach after he punished me for disobeying him.  Tell him how I didn't think it was ok for him to use me as his tool of justice like that.  That if I had a problem with Ed, then I'd deal with it myself.  But, I didn't.

I’m not into the eye for an eye thing.  At least when it directly involves me.  If someone steals from me, I’d like my stuff back.  If someone hits me, I’d really prefer it if they stop.  I’m not all about personal justice.  So if I was killed by someone, whether they did it on purpose or not, I wouldn’t want them to die for it.  Everyone screws up.  It's actually a part of our nature.  We make mistakes, errors in judgment, or simply get it into our heads that a certain thing is the best way to go.

That, after some though, really only applies to when I'm involved as the victim.  I don't think I'd be as forgiving, at least at first, if it involved someone close to me, and I was powerless to stop it.  I might be out for blood.

It's hard to say if I would get to the point that I forgave someone enough that they should get a second chance on something like that.  Especially if it was intentional.

It is said, that those that are anti death penalty, yet are pro choice on abortion, are being fairly hypocritical.  I can't argue with the logic.  Especially since personal events in my life have given me some perspective on that.

I am still pro choice.  For the simple fact that everyone needs to make their own decisions, and shouldn't be facing death, from infection or tissue damage, from a botched job; as payment for doing it.  They should be able to access the proper facilities to get the job done right.  And then be free to live with their choice. 

I'm not saying every woman who has an abortion will think it's a mistake.  But some do, and I'm thinking of them in this.

After all, humanity's ability to learn, especially from our mistakes, is one of our best attributes.  Learning from a mistake gives you the ability to be a better person going forward, and to pass on your knowledge.  Living on as a member of society afterwards, gives one the chance to contribute, and try to make amends for mistakes, if that is what is needed.

Being put to death, rotting in a jail cell forever, or dying in a back alley after an abortion. 

Those things offer little hope for redemption. 

Those things ultimately offer no solace for the victims.

Those things don't unmake a mistake.

And thusly, are my two major issues of the Death Penalty, and Abortion Rights; brought a little more into focus.  At least for me.

I still don't know though, if I wouldn't want capital punishment for someone who killed a child of mine.  And I hope I never have to find out.

Cheers, to preserving that mystery.

EDIT - Addition on 3/26/2019

I posted a link to this on Google + back when it was new, and I just now stumbled upon the post, along with some thoughtful comments, from none other than my best friend on Earth (and, let's be honest, my wife from another life).  Since Google + will no longer be around, and all its contents purged in a week or so from now, I have added them here.  Comments to follow:



HER: What a thoughtful post! I read a statistic years ago that said that most pro-death penalty people are anti-choice... it stuck with me and it appears to be still holding true.
I don't get that. But then, maybe my anti-death penalty, pro-choice stance is just as questionable.
I always say I'm against the death penalty because I can't explain to Sage how killing can be right, how it's not vengeance, but justice...because it is vengeance, and in my head that's not right.
I waver on some things, like people who habitually molest or kill kids - but I think that's just me reacting to my own past. I'm angry that my past makes me want some level of vengeance, instead of justice, when I feel it is so wrong.
Plus, I can't see a way to proving that every single convicted criminal on death row is 100% guilty... As the saying goes, I'd rather a guilty man go free...
As for the abortion thing. You know I'm open and won't lie that I've been there... thank God for the life I have now, and for the ability to have come through it safely, because I wouldn't have a life like this if I hadn't had an abortion. I think i would have sought it, no matter if it was legal or not. I know women who found their way to illegal abortions back before it was legal, and thankfully lived through the horror of it.
Some women will always be faced with what they feel are desperate situations, and take that as a reproductive choice - they continue to do so whether it's legal or not. I'd rather that these daughters, mothers, sisters, don't die from what is already a difficult choice.
Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is that I agree with you, both of these subjects are close to my heart and have a lot of effect on my political choices. Hopefully I make those choices with some level of wisdom and respect for all of my fellow (wo)man and their needs.
Sorry it ended up so long. xx

HER: and btw, Coach was an asshole for putting a kid like you into that position. So there!

ME: I appreciate the length and breadth of your comment. Don't apologize. I'm still not clear on the details of how I think about both things. You know of my history on the one. And as far as the other, perhaps what you and I have both alluded to is true. That the victim, or the survivor (s) are not equipped to be the ones who determine what justice really is for a given situation. As crappy as that is. :(

I cannot help but think that there is a better solution for law breakers in general than the current justice system and it's institutionalized prison system. Some people come out of it better for it in some way. But the majority do not. It's just a grinder for humanity it seems.

HER: This is something i read recently, and it touches on justice/forgiveness etc. You may find it interesting.

http://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/1010092/jewish/Should-We-Forgive-the-Nazis.htm

HER: Now the reason I link that, is it has a different perspective - that only the person who has been sinned against (for lack of a better word) can determine what forgiveness is possible and what justice is. It brings up an interesting questions - because as you say - perhaps the victim or survivor may not be the best qualified... but then, who is. Especially for something so final as death.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

For Want of a Boat

Here it is another exciting Saturday night.  I’m at work, as usual.  Lunchtime is a little late today thanks to an airplane getting ready to leave, and the usual rush rush rush to get everything done. 

I decided I want a boat.  Which I need like a hole in my head.  So it is fitting:  A hole in the water instead.

I want an old boat, gotta be wood.  I really don’t care what brand it is.  I would prefer a Chris-Craft, but anything that fits the criteria would do.  I’m thinking 17’ to 22’ in length, wooden hull, inboard engine  of any kind (well, except a diesel, yuk), and has to have enough room for my and the family. 

There are lots of them out there for sale, most of them either expensive (relatively), or all torn down and a restoration started, and they want too much money for it being in that condition in my opinion.  I’m looking for one that is all together still.  Preferably with the interior not all rotten, but I could make some seats for it if I had to.  The engine must be at least fixable.  And the hull, well as long as I can epoxy it and paint it up to look decent, I don’t care if it’s rotten.  Well, there are limits of course.  If the wood is so rotten it’s crumbling away, then it won’t work for me.  I’m looking for something I can put back into service for a few years, and if I fall in love with it for some reason, then I’ll tear it down and restore it. 

I even have some name ideas for it.  Emblazoned in gold lettering (isn’t that what you put on the back of a mahogany boat?) on the back of the transom.  Something like Rotten, or Rotted.  I assume Worm Wood is too obvious.  Maybe the first two are as well.  So maybe in a different language? 

Verrot ; Rosse ; Verfault ; Mostruoso ; Podre  ?  All different ways to say Rotten.

Just a thought, all for the boat I’ll probably never get.  Not like I don’t have enough other stuff to do.  Like work on the house, and fix all the things around here that need it.  Yeah, I need a hobby.  Like a hole in the water. 

So what do I need?  I’m not sure.

I have a good job.  I have a wife.  I have three kids.  I have three dogs, and a hamster.  Not to mention several mice and chipmunks I am sure in the garages.  Have a house, two cars, an old motorcycle.  More stuff than I can use around the house. 

So really, what do I need?

In reality, I need so little.  I already have so much.  As long as I have my family and love in my life; what more is there?

So maybe I’ll just keep looking at boats for fun.  My father always said that the looking, and the accompanying research and such, is as much or more fun than buying.  In the case of an old high maintenance boat, I suspect he was more than adequately correct.

Cheers

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Sexual Awakenings via Chemistry 201


Mr. Knapp's Chemistry class, in Senior year of High School.  I got to sit next to Martha.

Martha was a pretty blonde girl, a little goth by today's standards.  She always wore fabulously unusual outfits that she had gotten at a thrift store, mostly things from before the 1960's it seems.  She was opinionated, and walked to her own beat.  I liked her immediately. 

We constantly got in trouble for talking amongst ourselves in class.  It didn't help that Mr. Knapp didn't like me much.  About as much as I liked chemistry class I think.  He'd bust me reading some sci-fi book when I was supposed to be listening to his lecture.  It was wonderful. 

Martha was always friendly with me, showing me the latest book she was reading, pointing out something unusual about her current day's outfit, or pestering me to get an earring. 

Two events stand out for me, when I think about her and I.

The first was when she handcuffed me to my desk, during class.  Much to Mr. Knapp's dismay.  She didn't have a key, and had to patiently pick the lock with a bobby pin.  That was the whole point of her locking me to the desk I suppose.  Showing me that she could do it.  It took her a long time.  About half of class as I recall.  Having her knelt down next to me, with one arm on my leg, and her little tongue sticking out of her mouth as she concentrated on picking the lock; made the always hard task of following anything that was going on in chemistry class, an impossibility.  She did get it off, and had to surrender the handcuffs to Mr. Knapp.  What he did with them, I don't know. 

The second, was when she loaned me a book.  The Story of O.  It was one of our happy talks about what was going on, and she told me she had just finished the best book ever.  She asked me if I would like to read it?  I didn't know, the version of the book she had was all white, with simple black lettering.  No pictures on the cover at all.  It looked pretty dry to me.  She assured me that I would like it.  So I took it for the weekend. 

I was a pretty fast reader, and had it done by Sunday afternoon.  The book was stunningly different from anything I had ever read.  It featured ideas, and lifestyles, that I had scarcely imagined.  Up until then, sex was interesting, to be sure; but it was pretty normal.  At least as I thought of it.  Of course, at that time in my life, I knew I liked girls, and I knew I wanted to be with them.  However, I was clueless as to how to go about it. 

To a boy such that I was, that book, with the story dealing with submission, domination, role playing, pain and pleasure; was like a peek into the all color world of Oz while standing in black and white Kansas.

When I returned the book to her on Monday, she smiled wickedly, and asked if I had liked it.  I turned a little red, and told her I had.

As the next step in this little narrative, I wish I could tell you that I started dating Martha.  I wish I could tell you that Martha introduced me to young physical love.  But I can't.  I never asked her out, even though my 20 plus years of hindsight tells me that she was into me.  Like I said, I was clueless. 

I knew what I wanted.  I just didn't know how to get there.  And so Martha and I parted ways at the end of that semester.

Although it was three more years before I finally found my bumbling way into the arms of a woman for the first time, I think that sharing time with Martha, and reading the book she loaned me, was a pretty significant signpost on my road of sexual awakening.  And with every year that passes, it seems I find a new wrinkle to my quest for understanding sex and human relations, which really didn't start in a mature type of way until Martha and that book.

I look back fondly on the clash of my naive values and the content of that book.  And how deliciously she knew exactly how it had made an impression on my brain.

I look back smiling, over the now 22 year gap separating us.

Thank you Martha.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Why Do an Every Day Project?


Well, there goes my feeling of uniqueness again.  I don't know what I was expecting, really.  It's akin to the rule 34 of the internet.  How no matter what you can imagine, there is probably a porn of it out there somewhere.  The rule that applies here, is probably a different one.  Simply, that even if you think you are doing something unique, you really aren't, probably. 

I didn't think I was alone in my daily Fritz365 poetry blog.  Far from it.  After all, I was inspired to do it, specifically by Jonathon Coulton's Thing a Week music project from a couple years ago.  Of course there have been numerous things of this genre.  People taking pictures of themselves every day, and making a montage.  I found a really neat musician named Sophie Madeleine who did a 30 Days 30 Covers project.  I like them a lot, link it here:  http://sophiemadeleine.com/30days.html

Pretty fun stuff there, as a matter of fact, I'm listening to them as I write here.  :)

Well, I have been actually avoiding published poetry since the start of the year, and my own poetry project.  Trying to avoid muddying the waters, so to speak.  But, a few days ago, as I was doing my cleaning purge, I stumbled upon A Light In The Attic.  So of course I sat down and had myself a big helping of Shel Silverstein.  I'm kind of glad that I did.  It showed me several things.  That I'm not as terrible as I think I am.  That I am very very different from Shel, in what I'm inclined to write about typically.  And that poems don't have to be long-ish to be 'normal'.  I've been striving to do around a page a poem. I don't know why.  I go longer, I go shorter, but that's my 'normal'.

Well, I sort of started rambling around the internet after that.  I found several sites, where someone writes something new every day, as far as poems.  On one, I thing it was a, oh crap, I forget.  Writer's .... something, two words.  Anyways, he has a Poetry Aside section he does every day or so.  And he has weekly poetry prompts.  He throws out a subject, and writes a little poem about it, and invites everyone to do the same.  People post theirs in the reply sections.  And you know what?  Most of them aren't bad at all. 
So right there, other people doing what I do, just as well.  Well, crap.

All that stuff, prompted several reactions in me.  First, I went through my files from earlier in the year, and I resurrected many 'snippets', as I liked to call them, unfinished poems in my eyes.  I read them, in their 4 to 8 line glory, and realized that they are not bad as they are.  So I will be inserting them occasionally into the poetry blog.

Secondly, I did a little self reflection on the poetry blog thing.  I've decided that I've never expected fame and fortune from writing poetry.  I wasn't that deluded even 20 years ago, when I started doing it.  I don't expect to get famous, and my typical 2 to 3 views a day on the blog prove that one out.  So why am I doing it?

I'm doing it for me.  I'm doing it to collect a years worth of thoughts and prose from myself.  It will, on it's whole, be a more true snapshot of who I am, than anything else I've ever done I think.  I'm going to put it together as a book on Lulu, put it into their fanciest binding, and get several copies delivered.  One for me, and one for each of my kids to have someday.  Sort of a "This was who your dad was in 2011" thing.  If I'm feeling particularly vain, I'll get a cheaper copy, and donate it to my high school library or something.  I will license it as Creative Commons, so others can base things off of it.  I'm a firm believer in the fact that our civilization stands upon each other's achievements and ideas.  If someone can build upon something I thought up, and push it as a seed towards something better, I want that. 

That's what I expect to get out of this.  I'd like to focus on actually writing a book next year maybe.  I've been collecting ideas for it all year.  It's high time I gave it a try.  It's going to be about an aircraft mechanic.  Write what you know.  That's what I know, I guess.

I also am considering a podcast.  Ideas for that as well.  We'll see how many people I could lure into listening. 

Have a great fall season everyone.  Cheers

Saturday, September 17, 2011

What's Your Virtual Identity Like?


I’ve been hearing for years about how you should take care as to what you associate with yourself on the internet.  With the advent of the “real names” push from Google+ and Facebook, I think it’s gotten more important.

Who wants someone to look into them online for whatever reason, maybe it’s a potential employer, or just someone who wants to get to know you better, and have them find all kinds of embarrassing things.  Many of us have posted compromising pictures, or shared them with friends, or lovers.  Lovers and friends might not always be that to you, and your pictures are in their hands. 

How about postings on blogs; expressing far out views, or very conservative views.  Actually both could get you in trouble, depending on who is looking at your stuff, and why. 

Ever had a flame war with a troll on a message board?  That stuff is out there, somewhere in the ether.  I am told that it never totally goes away.  Just look at the people on the Geocities archive project.  They are working to save all the old Geocities sites, so that someday we can all look back on them. 

It’s out there, man.

I’ve heard some other opinions though, they point out that in the future, as most people grow up with the internet; everyone will have stuff out there.  Embarrassing and otherwise.  So actually, those that do not have anything ‘colorful’ out there on the internet will stick out as unusual.  This could actually make people think you have something to hide.  Where are all the blog posts, YouTube videos, party pictures, etc.
Something to think about.

Further, are we the sum of our internet selves?  Does our Facebook page really define us?  Or MySpace, Google+, and on.  Does our wish list on Amazon.com say something meaningful about us?  Or is that just stuff we wouldn’t mind having?  Strange questions for strange times.

What if someone could see everything you do online?  Do you play Second Life?  World of Warcraft?  Starcraft?  Do you love to read conspiracy websites, and go to Snopes.com all the time?  Too much time on Perez Hilton’s gossip site? 

I’m inclined to think that we are more than all that.  People who infer direct things about us from all that crap, are a little misguided.  I know that my internet peccadilloes would horrify lots of people.  But the good news, is that I’m starting not to care.  Yes, what I do on the internet, including this blog and my poetry project, show a little of what I care about, and am interested in.  But to get the whole picture, you need to get to know me. 

Nothing here shows what kind of an employee I am, how much I really know, or if I am dependable.  Whether I’m a good person or not, or trustworthy.

Sure, things could be inferred, but to know for sure; the virtual me, just wouldn’t be enough.

Cheers

Friday, September 16, 2011

Big Concepts: Small Brain



I have a problem with big concepts.  Mostly, that they hurt my head.  Almost literally.

When I was younger, maybe 18 or 19, I took some time out to seriously ponder some things.  Specifically, the endlessness of space.  It was late at night, and I was tired.  I had just gotten done reading a short story that dealt with such things.  Inside my head, I wondered what endless space might look like.  So I tried.  I really tried hard.  I think, I almost got to visualize a hint of it.  At that point I felt a little queasy.  It is the hardest thing to describe.  Like going over the top on a roller coaster, losing your equilibrium perhaps.  It was something else.

Getting to that point, I thought of another aspect, the reverse side of that same coin, if you will.  What if space actually had and end?  What the heck would that be like? 

That time it was even worse.  I really felt kind of sick.  Getting to the point that you can envision space having boundaries, or walls, or just trailing off into the white of a blank page, ala a Warner Brothers Cartoon where Bugs Bunny is the artist. 

I haven’t been able to envision either concept that deeply ever since.  Not that that’s a big deal, after all, who wants to be all queasy and woozy thinking about such crap all the time. 

There is math to describe all the deep concepts that perplex me.  As well as better ways to express them in language.  Of that I am sure.  I have what I have though.

A good friend responded to my “Vacuum of Faith” posting.  She expressed that it made her happy to think that something had a hand in making the Big Bang.  Rather than that nothing became something for no reason at all and that's that.

I took a few minutes to chase that chain of thought down my rabbit hole a little bit.  Almost hurt my head on that one.  Looking at it both ways a bit.

The “No Hand” train of thought seemed pretty straightforward:  Lots of matter collecting, natural forces building, until BOOM!  A big bang.  Although it isn’t that simple.  Why was all that stuff congregating?  Did it gather together naturally?  Randomly?  Is that just the nature of matter?  To be inexorably pulled towards each other, even down to the most microscopic particles?  The short answer could be “yes” I suppose.

But that train of thought, almost naturally feeds into the “Hand” idea.  It’s pretty bloody unlikely for all that to happen naturally, isn’t it?  What if, something did give things a little nudge to start it going?  On purpose, or by accident.  That would open a bottomless pit of speculation in our rabbit hole.  Second only to the one generated when we think on all that matter existing forever, without a beginning, only to come together to form our universe of matter in all it’s variety.

If someone/something did give the nudge to start the ball rolling…….where did they, or it, come from.  And if that entity had a hand in our chain of existence, who or what had a hand in their chain of existence?  How far back does it go?  How far can it go?  To the beginning of time?

Time, as a necessary part of this discussion, seems to be a human creation, to give us linear logic.  So no, not the beginning of time.  There was no beginning.  It all just always has been, and will be.  Long before our big bang, and long after our eventual big crunch.

To further the wild analogies, the Sci-Fi idea that we are some colossal science experiment by some other race of super beings, actually starts to sound not completely improbable.  Which just would rock my mind to think about seriously.  So I won’t.

So without  thinking, I’ll throw this out there. 

Amongst the race of En, there was the being called Eb.  Eb was experimenting with his theories of evolution and creation.  So Eb set up a universe in a bottle (which Eb may or may not have gotten via mail order from the back of a comic book), set it into an accelerator field, so as to make things happen within a reasonable period.  Then Eb sat down and watched, and took notes.  When Eb's collection of ingredients condensed, Eb applied heat and pressure to his bottle, causing everything to compress and mix.  Releasing the pressure, Eb's experiment exploded.  Though a very small explosion contained to the bottle on Eb's desk in his bedroom, it did create our universe.  Eb took note of everything he saw, using the best scientific methods he knew.  When life appeared in various places due to the strategic seeding of certain ingredients, Eb took notes.  When the universe reached the limits of the confines of the bottle on Eb's desk; Eb turned the heat down, and watched as the universe slowly contracted.  All life was slowly extinguished, until all that was left was a smallish, black pebble of matter.  At this time, Eb took photos, and more notes, cleaned out the bottle, threw away the used up matter from the experiment in the appropriate biohazard container; and worked up a paper describing what he'd seen.  Eb submitted this paper to his university, and received a doctorate for a job well done.  Eb went on with his life.  Never suspecting that his own universe was nothing more than a science experiment on a giant, unseen beings desk, in a bottle, in a bedroom. 

Huzzah.

I would say I was rambling, and maybe you will.  But really, where is the logical place to go with this discussion?  I haven’t a clue. 

And hence, my worry of the day.

Oh, and if you are currently rolling your eyes at my naïveté and amateur long winded philosophizing quasi science:  My friends did the exact same thing when I was 18 when I tried explaining my thoughts as well.  So you would be in good company.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

9/11 As Hardwired Guilty Memorial Symbolism


As I write this, the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the USA is tomorrow.  I’m feeling mixed about the whole thing.  I don’t know if it’s because I’m a shallow bastard, or if I just analyze things too much.

That that day was a tragedy for this country, I feel for certain.  But for what reasons?  Therein lies the mixed up part.

I know where I was that day.  I was at work, in Plattsburgh, NY; at the Pratt & Whitney main hangar.  There was a large group of us working on N747UT that day, we had a fair sized group of contracting mechanics helping out as well.  One of those mechanics, had his pocket radio and ear buds going.  He heard about the World Trade Center attacks first.  He started telling people around him what he was hearing.  As you probably remember, first reports were confusing:   The buildings are on fire, there was a bomb, a plane hit the tower.  Then the second plane hit, and the thought that it was an accident started to sound a little stretched.  We all began talking about it, work kind of slowed to a halt in the hangar.  A little later on, we heard word of the Pentagon crash.

 I felt angry.  I was angry that someone took a jetliner and did this.  That many people died, I knew from common sense.  Whether I was angriest about that, or that they’d used an airplane to do it, I don’t know.  Airplanes were and are, how I make my living.  I really like airplanes, I have lots of books, lots of models, and did I mention I’ve been working on them since the early ‘90’s?

Our head project guy, an old ex-military man, decided he needed to gather everyone together at lunchtime, and give a short talk.  The gist of it was this:  He believed that what had happened today, were terrorist attacks.  And that the best way that we personally could counter them, was to get back to work.  If we let this upset us, and stop us from doing our jobs, then that is exactly what the terrorists want, and they will have won.

I think he said some patriotic stuff too, but I forget.  It was sort of a self serving statement he gave, in the sense that it was important to him that we get back to work, so that production on his airplane could continue.  But it was also a true statement, and I’ve tried to remember that part.

As an aside to this whole 10 year discussion, and that above statement.  I almost feel that the terrorists have won in a way.  If you look back at the last ten years, and see how much freedom we’ve given up, for the sake of security screenings, border patrols, data tracking, warrant-less searches, kidnapping suspects and putting them in Guantanamo Bay.  Looking at all of that, as a whole;  I am saddened for what 9/11 did to this country.  And I guess I can say that if the terrorists didn’t win, then they certainly forced us to change, and not for the better.

Back to that day though; those of us there at work got back to work.  The day passed fairly quickly.  When I went home, I had the experience of telling my wife what she had missed during the day.  Our children were almost 2 years old at the time, and the only television in the house had been tuned to PBS all morning for the kids programming.  PBS did not interrupt the kids programming to tell all about the attacks, which I think was a good thing.  So my wife didn't know about it, and we sat down and talked about it, and watched the news for awhile. 

At work the next day, we worked.  And though we were working hard on the airplanes that we had there at the hangar, there were none in the skies yet.  Just the occasional rumble from the Air National Guard F-16's from Burlington, VT.  It was a strange, planeless sky for those few days. 

Eventually, life got normal.  As it does after things like that.  At least for those not directly involved. 

I look at sensationalistic things a little jaded these days, and what the media did with 9/11 is a perfect example.  For the most part, I was only exposed to US media.  The BBC was on very early, or late at night, and I seldom caught it.  What I saw the US media do, was their usual routine, of wringing every bit of air time out of things as they could.  Until much meaning was lost, and the big picture perspective was completely lost. 

9/11 became our symbol, our badge, our own little tempest in a teacup of perpetual motion, that kept us motivated to hate those who had done this to us.  And, since it was hard to hate the ones who had actually done it, as they were dead, we switched to their bosses, who weren't easy to find.  When finding most of them failed, we flailed around the world, lashing out at anyone we thought had any ties to terrorism.  History demonstrates the effectiveness of this.

Lost to most of us, was the perspective on the day. 

Was the fact that violence took place out of the ordinary?  No, not on a global scale certainly. 

Was the number of people who died uncommon?  No, it wasn't.  Trolling the subject of disasters, or wars, or genocides, or death squads, etc... on the internet shows it isn't. 

The two things that made it stick out for us, was the method and the location.

The method, was certainly sort of novel.  Although, looked at with historical perspective, it was a sort of evolutional thing.  Terrorists have been hijacking planes for years, with varying degrees of success.  The idea of a suicide plane is not new, think on the Japanese Kamikaze for an easy example.  Planes crashing into buildings?  Well, there are accidents I know of.  One in New York City as a matter of fact, when a B-25 bomber I think it was, crashed into the Empire State Building during WW2.

I'm sure you can connect the dots in your own way.

Most importantly though, location.  As they say in real estate, "Location, location, location!"  This attack had it all in spades. 

First, obviously, it was on American soil.  A place that we has seen very little external attack historically.  Second, was what they were attacking.  The World Trade Center twin towers was a symbol of success, excess, and the American Way; well at least to some people.  Remember, this wasn't the first time a terrorist had tried to bring one of them down.  The buildings were famous in their own right, and a fixture on the skyline of NYC for anyone who has been there, or seen a picture.

The Pentagon, was a symbol of our military, and situated just across the river from the rest of our government.  We can be thankful that the other plane was brought down before it was able to hit the White House, which was suspected to be that planes target. 

Yet another aside:  Flight 93, whether it was brought down by the direct cause of the passengers on board fighting back to retake the plane; or by a military missile; does not matter.  The people on board are deservedly called heroes.  By all accounts they were fighting back near the time their plane went down.  That's one time that trying counts as much as succeeding in my book.

Back to the thread though.  So we have the location.  It hits hard to home for us Americans. 

Take all that shock at being attacked at those locations, and those symbols.  Now combine it with media frenzy of coverage and opinion, and constant bombardment of video and pictures.  Add in some rampant patriotic talk.....and there you have the point where I tune out.

It's not that I don't believe that terrorists did it, I'm not one of those that thinks it was a government conspiracy.  I sympathize, and my heart aches for those that lost someone they knew or loved.  And I was, in general, upset about it.

Why though?  And hence, the subject's place here, in the realm of Worry. 

Because here, ten years on.  I guess I'm over it.  The dead are dead, they have been mourned.  The people who lost someone, live with that loss every goddamned day, they don't need anniversaries to remind them of it.  The people who were there, and are suffering some kind of sickness from all the stuff that was flying around near the buildings, they also live with it every day.  I would express my condolences to the one, and my heartfelt thanks to the other.  But I wouldn't wait for an anniversary to do it, and I sure as shit wouldn't do it every year on the same day.  The people who were directly effected by 9/11, do not need our national diarrhea of guilt to soothe them.

9/11/2011, will be just another day.  I will treat it as such.  I will work on my house, I will have lunch with my family, I will watch a movie, I will have sex with my wife.  I will not dwell on the tragedies of the past.

I will do all of those things.

Because if I do not, then the terrorists win.



Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Adopted, and Happy For It


Someone I went to gradeschool with just announced recently on the Facebook, that she had gotten a job assisting in  the adoption of children.  This caused some reflection on my own part, as I am an adoptee.

I was adopted as an infant of a couple months old, in 1971.  My parents had been  unable to have children of their own, so had gone through the necessary steps to adopt me.  They hadn’t picked me out, or met me ahead of time.  They were called, years after they had applied, and told that I was to be their baby.

I had a wonderful childhood.  It would have been hard to have been placed with a better Mom and Dad.  And that’s what they are to me, forever, Mom and Dad.  I’ve known no other.  Growing up, the fact that I was adopted was never kept a secret.  Quite the opposite as a matter of fact.  We celebrated my birthday, as the usual custom.  But we also celebrated my adoption day.  It was known as my "Special Day".  It wasn't as extravagant as birthdays, but it always involved a special meal, extra love, and perhaps a gift or two.  One of the gifts I was given on one of my special days, was a book.  The Chosen Baby, by Valentina Wasson.  I seem to remember another book as well, but the name escapes me.  I know that my mother read that book to me many times. 

I have never understood families who keep adoption a secret from their adopted children.  I understand that it can cause lots of problems when the child does find out.  The root being, "Why did you keep it a secret from me?"

I know many adoptees are driven to find their birth parents, for various reasons.  But I have never felt a real pressing need.  My motivations for finding them, are lukewarm at best.  Certainly not because I'm angry with them or anything.  I am eternally grateful, that there was love in their hearts, and I was not aborted, but rather given up for adoption with both of their consents.

I was adopted during the period in Michigan, when most adoptions were ‘closed’ adoptions, and I can’t see my original birth certificate without either a court order, or written permission of the birth parents being in the file.  I did try a couple of times to have the records opened to me.  Both times I was refused, but I got a tiny bit more of ‘non identifying’ information.  I know my birth name now, first only of course.  I know my basic nationality, and a general description of my birth parents, and what they were up to at the time of my birth.  That’s it. 

I filled out a form at the time of my first refusal.  This was a consent form, which said that I gave permission to my birth parents, and any later siblings that may have been born, to see all my information, and I updated it as well.  I have never heard anything from them.  I have made my contact information available a couple other ways as well, in an earlier post on this blog from a few years ago.  Also on a couple adoption reunion websites.

I was offered an opportunity to work with a confidential intermediary by the court, so that that person could see the records, and contact my birth parents, and see if they wanted to make contact with me, as I was looking for them.  But due to my reasons for looking in the first place, I declined.

I put my reasons on paper and looked at them at the time, and they were not particularly compelling as far as a long lost reunion.  My non-identifying information sheets list me as being four nationalities:  Irish, German, French Canadian, and Indian.  The Indian entry interested me the most.  I always assumed it meant Indian, as in Native American.  I suppose it could mean Indian, as in from India.  I used to say that I’m so pale of complexion that it couldn’t possibly be India Indian.  But somewhere along the line I realized that Native American Indians aren’t very pale either.  So I really don’t know.

As an aside;  Isn't it a sign of the times in 1971, that it was listed as "Indian"?

I wanted a tattoo, and I thought it would be neat to know what tribe I was from, so as to get a meaningful  tattoo along those lines.  Also, I thought I might like to join whatever tribe I was from, so as to participate in whatever they have going on.  Yes, a share of gaming money did cross my head, in all honesty.

The other big reason I had, didn’t come into play until after I got married, and had kids.  I was wondering on my family medical history, to see what I might be passing along to my kids, along with what might be in store for myself.

You’ll notice that I didn’t list that I wanted to have a relationship with my birth parents.  I mean, I wouldn’t mind meeting them.  But I already have parents.  My only parents I’ve ever known.  I really don’t have the need or want of a meaningful, time consuming, relationship with any birth parents.  Maybe that means I’m shallow, I don’t know.

I'm so very glad to have been born to who I was, then given up to my parents, who raised me the way that they did.  In the big picture, I have a wonderful life.  And it all started when I was adopted.

Monday, September 5, 2011

Drunken Warthog Prayers

Ok, here's the deal; if you take this hangover away, I will do anything.  You hear me?  Anything, God, please, just make the pounding stop!  Oh no, I'm....(throws up)

That, and many other reasons, is why I've not been drinking anymore.  It started kind of innocently a few years ago.  I just didn't want the accompanying shitty feeling the next morning anymore, after getting into my beer.  Then, I slowly realized, that I really didn't like the getting drunk thing anymore.  For, when I did do it, just for the sake of getting drunk, I had to drink so much beer, so fast, that I got sick almost as much from the amount of liquid I drank, as the being drunk itself part.  Pretty much a waste of time.  All for the pleasure of poisoning myself.  And I got enough of that going on, without doing it recreationally.

So here I am, forty years old, listening to Irish and Scottish drinking rock of course, and writing about this, of all things.

I had several issues when I drank to excess, or at all.  I never got in any legal trouble or anything, and I didn't hurt anyone or anything.  But there was drama all the same. 

The high points of what I do when I get that way, is that I always, ALWAYS, feel too hot for clothes.  And, they come off eventually.  It's pretty embarrassing to constantly wake up naked somewhere.  Usually with my clothes scattered hither and yon, thanks to my sensitive friends, who figured I should have to earn those clothes back after displaying my nude awesomeness to them.  I guess that parts sort of funny.

Allow me to relate one of my most 'complete' drunken nights.  By complete, I mean I displayed almost all my drunken prowess. 

It was at Archie's Bar in Onondaga, MI.  It was back when I was in A&P school, I think I was 21, maybe.  The owner's son, nicknamed Beep, went to school with us, so a group of us went out there for a get together.  We had lots of food, tacos maybe?  maybe not, I think they only served tacos on one day.  Anyways, food, beer, and Hurricanes.  Pitchers of them.  I don't know what is in a Hurricane, but I like them.  Sweet, sort of orangey pink in color, and super yum.  After many pitchers of those, singing with the jukebox, and talking of very important things, no doubt.  Someone said it was time to go, because I had just tipped over the whole table when I tried to get up to go take a piss.  Knocked all the drinks and a pitcher of the aforementioned Hurricane concoction onto the floor.  Yep, time to go. 

We were spending the night at Beep's house, which he shared with his fiance.  I ended up on the couch downstairs.  Beep and his fiance had their bedroom downstairs also.  Here's what happened after everyone went to sleep, and I've pieced this together from what I sort of remember, and what I was told. 

At some point, I got super hot, and took off all my clothes, and sat at the kitchen table alone, in the dark.  Beep got up to use the bathroom, and had to pass by the kitchen to do it, and he saw me, and asked if I was ok.  I must have grunted ok, because he went on.  Oh yea, he was naked too, important in a second.  As he went into the bathroom, I got up, and went into his bedroom.  I climbed into bed with his fiance, who was nude as well.  She didn't notice it was me, and I sort of drifted off for a minute.  Next thing I know, I'm being shaken by the shoulder, and I open my eyes, and Beep's cock is right in front of my face.  He is saying, "Wrong bed dude, wrong bed."  I grunt some more, and get up, and go back out to the living room.  A little later, I have to go to the bathroom, so I go over near the bathroom, where they had a clothes hamper, I lift the lid, and pee inside of it.  Then I laid back down on the bed. 

Morning comes, finally.  I have a ripping headache, and feel like I'm going to be sick.  I realize that I'm naked, and feel wicked embarrassed.  But, more importantly, I become aware of a discussion taking place at the kitchen table.  Beep is talking to my friend Fred, and Beep is wondering whether or not he should kick my ass, because I jumped in bed with his fiance.  Fred talks him into not kicking my ass, telling him I was drunk, and didn't mean anything by it.....I didn't by the way.  I distinctly remember seeing his bed, and thinking; A bed!  I want a bed, bed is nice...so sleepy.

So I'm not a perv or anything, at least not that time.

I was so embarrassed when they told me what I had done.  And nobody had found out I peed in the clothes hamper yet.  That didn't happen until the next day, and I heard about it at school.  So, the story became: 

Sure dude, I take you to my bar, feed you, get you drunk, let you sleep at my house; then you try to sleep with my fiance, and when I tell you no, you piss on my clothes!!

He said it with good humor, he's a good person.  He was in the military, and seen lots of stuff at his bar too.  Luckily for me, nothing I did had really shocked him.

That's the most amusing story of me on the sauce I think.  Others involve allegedly trying to tackle trees in the center of town, singing in inappropriate places, more nakedness.  etc 

That, and the driving.  Boy did I drive home sometimes when I shouldn't have.  I know I'm not alone in this, even when we all didn't get caught.  I feel bad though, so many bullets, so narrowly avoided. 

I feel better about life since I decided that drinking wasn't for me.  I mean, I could still have a drink if I wanted, I haven't taken a vow or anything.  I just don't want to.  Most drinks don't taste good to me anyways.  Since I had my kidney stone last year, I've been scared away from most anything other than water.  I still have milk with my cereal, but other than that, I drink only water.  For almost 9 months now.  Wow, I never thought that would happen.  I used to drink Mountain Dew like it was water itself.  But that's another story, for another day.

Kisses all.  Careful where you get shitfaced!