I felt the telltale irritation in my throat the other day and knew I was in for a fight. It was either the cold or me, so I went on the offensive. The sniffles from my right sinuses were only a minor annoyance, and I knew they would get worse if I didn't do something quick. I believed with every fiber that I could still nip that sucker in the bud if I did the right thing.
So I did my usual chores inside, then spent most of the afternoon out in the yard, cleaning up after the storm that took down the neighbor's tree. The heavy work of cutting up the tree and stacking the limbs had been done, but the denuded trunk and a huge pile of branches was left to dispose of somehow. To minimize the amount we have to load in the truck and take to Kurtz Brothers for them to make into commercial mulch, I took the lesser traveled path.
If I tear the little needly branches off the big boughs, I can spread them around the flower beds as mulch and eliminate the middle man. When nature gives you a dead spruce tree, make sprucenade!
So far, that part of the plan is working perfectly. It took awhile, but there are now little twigs full of green needles covering all the perennial beds, and by the time the hostas come up in July our homegrown mulch should be a lovely reddish brown, nutrient-rich, weed-retarding layer of decaying organic matter. And I had the satisfaction of being outside in the sunshine inhaling fresh air while going through the labor-intensive process of saving a buck on commercial mulch. This appeals to me on so many levels.
The ulterior motive, aside from pure nordic frugality, was to use an afternoon of grunt manual labor to stoke the internal furnace to the point where no virus could survive. I was so sure of myself that I even started drafting a blog entry that night titled "Sven 2, Cold 0." This was the second time I've whupped the toxic attackers this year, and I was so very pleased with myself.
Of course you know what happened next. I woke up the next day with a full-blown, sneezing, runny-nosed, self-inflicted, hubris-induced, all-too-human cold. I won't gross you out by describing the all-day sniffling and nose-blowing in my cubicle, but my office mates can tell you how many gesundheits there were on Monday. I was not a happy camper, and I wasn't much fun to be around, either. Don't even ask if my work was top notch.
I would really like to know what I did to bring this demon virus on myself in the first place, but one doesn't usually get the chance to isolate particular causes of specific effects in this lifetime. Maybe it was the two days in a row last week that I did the taiji form on the left side only, not on both the right and the left sides, as I usually do (which begs the question of when a "positive" addiction is out of control). Maybe it was dashing from the car to the church a couple of times on Sunday without a jacket, but I doubt it. Maybe it was the extra jigger of Polish vodka in my Sunday night screwdriver that pushed my immune system over the edge.
Let's just make this whole thing a freaking moral parable, shall we? Maybe it's all because I haven't called my mother in a while. Yeah that's it. Insufficient filial piety is behind the common cold.
My point is that there are viruses around all the time; sometimes a person is more vulnerable to them, and sometimes a person's defenses repel the little attackers. Runners know that if you do your workout when a cold is coming on, chances are good you will sweat it out and not get sick. But sometimes the wrong workout at the wrong time drives the nasty little buggers deeper into the cells, and a mild cold becomes a debilitating force of nature. Then you've done the wrong thing.
Obviously I'm feeling a lot better now, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this tale of woe, I'd be huddled under three quilts watching Anthony Bourdain educate America on the finer points of the pastrami sandwich like I was last night. (Note to self: Eat lunch at Katz's Deli next time you're in New York.) I'm not completely over it, but I'm not suffering mightily and going through one handerchief after another like yesterday.
My initial hypothesis was wrong, so I caught a cold instead of warding it off. I'm wearing wool and lots of layers underneath, drinking tea, all that stuff. Now I'd do just about anything for a good night's sleep.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
shovel-ready
Why would anyone believe anything they hear, see, or read in the media about the highly touted economic stimulus plan - aka "stimulus package" (which strikes me as a little too sexy)?
a) Because they want to believe in something - anything - even if it's patently bullshit. In that case, any project it includes is automatically shovel-ready.
b) Because if they even pretend to believe it, maybe other people will really believe it, and that belief will translate into increased confidence in the financial system, which will then spark a widespread change in behavior that actually changes the economic conditions in some sector(s) of the economy.
c) Because my belief in lie X, rather than lie Y, encourages other people to buy product or service X, whose continued existence hinges on the perception that X is good and viable (and Y is not), which puts money in my pocket. It's a zero-sum game out there, folks, and money that goes in the pocket of the maker/seller/distributor of product Y doesn't go in my pocket, so screw them.
You're always selling. I have it from a reliable source that this is one of the natural laws of business. No matter what you're talking about, the discourse you and I are engaged in is a pitch for a version of reality in which something is at stake, and if you're not making the sale, you're losing the sale, sucker.
Okay, call me paranoid, call me skeptical, call me oh ye of little faith, whatever, but are the talking heads on channel 10 or CBS or Fox disinterested parties? Are the reporters for the Columbus Dispatch or the New York Freaking Times not stakeholders in this thing? Clueless and misguided stakeholders but stakeholders nonetheless. They are just doing what they know how to do, given their position in the food chain.
How about the high-minded radio voices of progressive wisdom on the self-congratulatory "All Things Considered" on NPR? Responsible journalists every one, but give me a break, why not just call their little show "Absolute Truth From the Mountaintop Interview with God." Robert Siegal, whom I like and who does an excellent job of reading the news that's written for him, wants to keep his job and his nice house in Chevy Chase or wherever he lives, and his employers want to keep their business afloat, and all of them have an interest in other people - millions of other people - believing a certain version of material reality that keeps them in white wine and broiled salmon.
Let's not kid ourselves. The minuscule minority of power brokers who control the flow of information about how to solve the current crisis have everything to gain by not changing the very institutions and conditions and procedures that created the crisis - or at least they believe they do, so their packaging of the information reflects, rather than rectifies, the kind of thinking that perpetuates the problem.
Do not rock the boat, do not change the system, and do not upset the applecart of immediate, short-term, known commodity, i.e. this paycheck, this supply chain, this management organization. Any structural change in the way of doing business could potentially damage the bottom line this week, month, or quarter, and even if that is a bump in the road toward long-term health, we here at channel 10 don't want that, so we're going to report the news that's good for channel 10.
If you and I sit in front of the TV screen and take it all in, uncritically absorbing the carefully crafted messages bottle-fed by the various talking heads - from the chubby, blow-dried local Cabot Rea to the studious and analytical national David Brooks - then we won't know any better. Otherwise have your shovel ready.
What Congress knows how to do is throw money at it. Problems on Wall Street? Look disgruntled on camera, deplore things for the microphone, have your staff investigate the problem, and then throw money at it. Don't change the rules of engagement in financial transactions, energy generation, vehicle manufacturing, or home financing, that might actually, um, you know, change something. I think they call that a lack of political will.
Don't stop building things that don't sell or don't work; don't stop mining fossil fuels that are poison to humans and other life forms; don't stop lending money in ways that guarantee very expensive failure by one or both parties. Just make more money available to keep doing what auto companies, oil and coal companies, and money lenders have been doing so badly for so long.
In the meantime, the same players are getting more money for doing what they have always done, the way they have always done it, which is the only way they know how. Why? Because it's easier - and politically more expedient - to get money out there quickly to fund those projects that don't require any new plans, new designs, new ideas, new start-ups, or doing anything that hasn't already been done before. That is, if your original, creative, groundbreaking, problem-solving project isn't shovel-ready to play the same old losing game, you need not apply.
a) Because they want to believe in something - anything - even if it's patently bullshit. In that case, any project it includes is automatically shovel-ready.
b) Because if they even pretend to believe it, maybe other people will really believe it, and that belief will translate into increased confidence in the financial system, which will then spark a widespread change in behavior that actually changes the economic conditions in some sector(s) of the economy.
c) Because my belief in lie X, rather than lie Y, encourages other people to buy product or service X, whose continued existence hinges on the perception that X is good and viable (and Y is not), which puts money in my pocket. It's a zero-sum game out there, folks, and money that goes in the pocket of the maker/seller/distributor of product Y doesn't go in my pocket, so screw them.
You're always selling. I have it from a reliable source that this is one of the natural laws of business. No matter what you're talking about, the discourse you and I are engaged in is a pitch for a version of reality in which something is at stake, and if you're not making the sale, you're losing the sale, sucker.
Okay, call me paranoid, call me skeptical, call me oh ye of little faith, whatever, but are the talking heads on channel 10 or CBS or Fox disinterested parties? Are the reporters for the Columbus Dispatch or the New York Freaking Times not stakeholders in this thing? Clueless and misguided stakeholders but stakeholders nonetheless. They are just doing what they know how to do, given their position in the food chain.
How about the high-minded radio voices of progressive wisdom on the self-congratulatory "All Things Considered" on NPR? Responsible journalists every one, but give me a break, why not just call their little show "Absolute Truth From the Mountaintop Interview with God." Robert Siegal, whom I like and who does an excellent job of reading the news that's written for him, wants to keep his job and his nice house in Chevy Chase or wherever he lives, and his employers want to keep their business afloat, and all of them have an interest in other people - millions of other people - believing a certain version of material reality that keeps them in white wine and broiled salmon.
Let's not kid ourselves. The minuscule minority of power brokers who control the flow of information about how to solve the current crisis have everything to gain by not changing the very institutions and conditions and procedures that created the crisis - or at least they believe they do, so their packaging of the information reflects, rather than rectifies, the kind of thinking that perpetuates the problem.
Do not rock the boat, do not change the system, and do not upset the applecart of immediate, short-term, known commodity, i.e. this paycheck, this supply chain, this management organization. Any structural change in the way of doing business could potentially damage the bottom line this week, month, or quarter, and even if that is a bump in the road toward long-term health, we here at channel 10 don't want that, so we're going to report the news that's good for channel 10.
If you and I sit in front of the TV screen and take it all in, uncritically absorbing the carefully crafted messages bottle-fed by the various talking heads - from the chubby, blow-dried local Cabot Rea to the studious and analytical national David Brooks - then we won't know any better. Otherwise have your shovel ready.
What Congress knows how to do is throw money at it. Problems on Wall Street? Look disgruntled on camera, deplore things for the microphone, have your staff investigate the problem, and then throw money at it. Don't change the rules of engagement in financial transactions, energy generation, vehicle manufacturing, or home financing, that might actually, um, you know, change something. I think they call that a lack of political will.
Don't stop building things that don't sell or don't work; don't stop mining fossil fuels that are poison to humans and other life forms; don't stop lending money in ways that guarantee very expensive failure by one or both parties. Just make more money available to keep doing what auto companies, oil and coal companies, and money lenders have been doing so badly for so long.
In the meantime, the same players are getting more money for doing what they have always done, the way they have always done it, which is the only way they know how. Why? Because it's easier - and politically more expedient - to get money out there quickly to fund those projects that don't require any new plans, new designs, new ideas, new start-ups, or doing anything that hasn't already been done before. That is, if your original, creative, groundbreaking, problem-solving project isn't shovel-ready to play the same old losing game, you need not apply.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
this crazy dream
I'm test-driving a new/used car that I know right away is not right for me. It's a huge four-door Lincoln, one of the older models with big square fenders front and back, way too big and fancy despite being a nice ride, so I reconsider and take it back.
The second test-drive is a smaller car with zero comfort or sex appeal, but at first seems to fit the profile of a cheaper, more practical vehicle. The body is the opposite of the Lincoln, with a rounded hood, rounded trunk, rounded everything. It's like a Rambler American, kind of a homely economy car, and it drives like a small boat, with limited visibility and loosie-goosie steering and really bad, bouncy suspension, so I park it on a side street and get out.
I picked that street arbitrarily, and it happened to be a cul-de-sac, so I thought it would be easy to get back to the car without getting lost. I mean how could you get lost on a cul-de-sac, even in a strange neighborhood, so I only walked a block or two, turned around, but when I returned to where I had been, or so I thought, the car wasn't there, so I must have been on a different cul-de-sac with slightly different houses, very confusing, and no ugly car, which I didn't want anyway.
Scene changes from the quiet residential street to large, multi-story urban apartment building, don't ask me why, this is a dream, remember? I'm looking around a large, vacant apartment on the third or fourth floor, open spaces with lots of light, and several other people are walking around with me, I don't know who they are. Everything looks very nice, very clean and well taken care of, but I'm not sure if I can afford this much space, and anyway who are all these other people checking out the same apartment?
Down a flight or two is a smaller apartment, maybe just a studio, not as much light, not as much space, but aesthetically appealing with good, solid woodwork and exposed brick, and something about the shape of the rooms makes me think it's probably more my speed. There is an exit onto a quiet side street near some shops with awnings, kind of friendly.
If any of my devoted readers would like to point out the obvious Freudian or Jungian symbols that are staring me in the face, feel free. Square fenders vs. rounded, large upstairs apartment vs. small groundfloor studio. What am I missing here?
The second test-drive is a smaller car with zero comfort or sex appeal, but at first seems to fit the profile of a cheaper, more practical vehicle. The body is the opposite of the Lincoln, with a rounded hood, rounded trunk, rounded everything. It's like a Rambler American, kind of a homely economy car, and it drives like a small boat, with limited visibility and loosie-goosie steering and really bad, bouncy suspension, so I park it on a side street and get out.
I picked that street arbitrarily, and it happened to be a cul-de-sac, so I thought it would be easy to get back to the car without getting lost. I mean how could you get lost on a cul-de-sac, even in a strange neighborhood, so I only walked a block or two, turned around, but when I returned to where I had been, or so I thought, the car wasn't there, so I must have been on a different cul-de-sac with slightly different houses, very confusing, and no ugly car, which I didn't want anyway.
Scene changes from the quiet residential street to large, multi-story urban apartment building, don't ask me why, this is a dream, remember? I'm looking around a large, vacant apartment on the third or fourth floor, open spaces with lots of light, and several other people are walking around with me, I don't know who they are. Everything looks very nice, very clean and well taken care of, but I'm not sure if I can afford this much space, and anyway who are all these other people checking out the same apartment?
Down a flight or two is a smaller apartment, maybe just a studio, not as much light, not as much space, but aesthetically appealing with good, solid woodwork and exposed brick, and something about the shape of the rooms makes me think it's probably more my speed. There is an exit onto a quiet side street near some shops with awnings, kind of friendly.
If any of my devoted readers would like to point out the obvious Freudian or Jungian symbols that are staring me in the face, feel free. Square fenders vs. rounded, large upstairs apartment vs. small groundfloor studio. What am I missing here?
Monday, February 16, 2009
Just Plain Odd
There was nothing exceptional about it. An hour of meditation went fast, but maybe that's because I got there ten minutes late. The guy sitting next to me, whom I met once when I was doing a landscaping gig in Clintonville, couldn't or wouldn't sit still and wore slippers in the shrine room, and there's something furtive about him.
At the tea break, I sat between a guy who told me about his career as a nurse and subsequent health problems due to a fall from a dump truck in his youth, which he recalled in great detail, and a lama from a small town in Colorado, somewhere in the mountains southwest of Boulder. I enjoyed their company, and the mint tea was good too.
I had time to kill before my appointment to give blood, so I went to Half Price Books on Lane Avenue to use up my gift card. As soon as I stepped in the door I saw my old friend Joe from Grandview, and we had a lot of catching up to do. Our sons were friends in elementary school, and Joe and I coached their soccer team -actually Joe coached and I wore the sweatshirt - and now he works at the same store as my daughter. Central Swingstate is a big small town.
When Joe went to lunch, I went to look at dictionaries and realized I had left my glasses in Franklinton. Funny, that's the second time I've done that. I had a spare pair in the car, so I looked at books, and I actually found one to buy, a Descriptionary, or Thematic Dictionary, published by Facts on File. I think it will be useful, or at least fun to peruse, and I love how everything is categorized, like a condensed Dewey Decimal System populated by words but organized by the kinds of things they represent. The TOC is like:
How did the Linnaeus-wannabe author, Marc McCutcheon, come up with these categories, of all the possible groupings in the English-language universe? Each section has a number of subcategories, so under Furniture there are Beds; Bureaus, Cabinets, and Chests; Chairs and Sofas; Decorative and Construction Elements; Styles; Tables and Desks. Under Weapons thee are Clubs and Hammers, Daggers, Guns and Bullets, Pole Arms, Swords. Okay. This selection of themes is, shall we say, a little idiosyncratic, and it's clear this is the work not just of a geek, but a certain kind of geek. Maybe there's word for it in the Descriptionary.
I also found three jazz CDs I coveted: a live John Coltrane concert from 1965, Herbie Hancock covers of Joni Mitchell songs, and a Benny Goodman quartet from 1935. I'm not going to analyze my selections; they weren't exactly what I was looking for, but they looked interesting, and it remains to be seen (heard) whether they will "take" - one out of three if I'm lucky.
The total was only slightly more than the gift card, one more reason to return to HPB - you get twice as much stuff - and the whole store is so not Barnes and Noble. I asked the clerk if she could give my daughter a card, like leave it in a cubby in the break room or something, but a second later, there was Zelda walking toward us, so I gave her the card myself. It's just a silly valentine. We stood and talked, and I saw her new haircut, and it looks good.
So far, nothing has gone as planned, but when does anything really? I went to Lowe's on Silver Drive and gave blood at the Red Cross Bloodmobile, and I actually had a conversation with the phlebotomist from Mansfield. He asked what I do, and I told him, and he has concerns about the public schools, not just the academic side but the social environment, which we agreed makes a big difference, so he's working weekends to be able to send his kids to private schools. The time went fast. He took my blood, I took my Lorna Doones and bottled water, and I was on my way.
Luckily I remembered that I'd forgotten my glasses, and people were still there in the meditation hall putting things away, and someone had found and set them aside. In fact, since I seem to have a history of doing this, one of them recognized the case from the last time I left them there, so now I'm the old forgetful guy who keeps losing his old glasses case that's held together with duct tape, dontchaknow.
Satisfied, I went home to drink coffee, which I needed by this time, nothing against the mint tea and bottled water, and read the Sunday paper, which is part of the sabbath after all. Leftover ratatouille was perfect for lunch, you know it's always better the second day, and that was an opportunity to listen to my new CDs. So far it's Benny Goodman by a mile.
At the tea break, I sat between a guy who told me about his career as a nurse and subsequent health problems due to a fall from a dump truck in his youth, which he recalled in great detail, and a lama from a small town in Colorado, somewhere in the mountains southwest of Boulder. I enjoyed their company, and the mint tea was good too.
I had time to kill before my appointment to give blood, so I went to Half Price Books on Lane Avenue to use up my gift card. As soon as I stepped in the door I saw my old friend Joe from Grandview, and we had a lot of catching up to do. Our sons were friends in elementary school, and Joe and I coached their soccer team -actually Joe coached and I wore the sweatshirt - and now he works at the same store as my daughter. Central Swingstate is a big small town.
When Joe went to lunch, I went to look at dictionaries and realized I had left my glasses in Franklinton. Funny, that's the second time I've done that. I had a spare pair in the car, so I looked at books, and I actually found one to buy, a Descriptionary, or Thematic Dictionary, published by Facts on File. I think it will be useful, or at least fun to peruse, and I love how everything is categorized, like a condensed Dewey Decimal System populated by words but organized by the kinds of things they represent. The TOC is like:
Animals and Insects; Architecture; Art; Clothing; Electronics; Environment; Finance; Food and Drink; Furniture; Human Body and Mind; Language; Law; Magic and the Occult; Medicine; Military; Music; Occupations; Performing Arts and Broadcasting; Physics, Chemistry, and Astronomy; Religions; Sports; Tools; Transportation; Weapons.
How did the Linnaeus-wannabe author, Marc McCutcheon, come up with these categories, of all the possible groupings in the English-language universe? Each section has a number of subcategories, so under Furniture there are Beds; Bureaus, Cabinets, and Chests; Chairs and Sofas; Decorative and Construction Elements; Styles; Tables and Desks. Under Weapons thee are Clubs and Hammers, Daggers, Guns and Bullets, Pole Arms, Swords. Okay. This selection of themes is, shall we say, a little idiosyncratic, and it's clear this is the work not just of a geek, but a certain kind of geek. Maybe there's word for it in the Descriptionary.
I also found three jazz CDs I coveted: a live John Coltrane concert from 1965, Herbie Hancock covers of Joni Mitchell songs, and a Benny Goodman quartet from 1935. I'm not going to analyze my selections; they weren't exactly what I was looking for, but they looked interesting, and it remains to be seen (heard) whether they will "take" - one out of three if I'm lucky.
The total was only slightly more than the gift card, one more reason to return to HPB - you get twice as much stuff - and the whole store is so not Barnes and Noble. I asked the clerk if she could give my daughter a card, like leave it in a cubby in the break room or something, but a second later, there was Zelda walking toward us, so I gave her the card myself. It's just a silly valentine. We stood and talked, and I saw her new haircut, and it looks good.
So far, nothing has gone as planned, but when does anything really? I went to Lowe's on Silver Drive and gave blood at the Red Cross Bloodmobile, and I actually had a conversation with the phlebotomist from Mansfield. He asked what I do, and I told him, and he has concerns about the public schools, not just the academic side but the social environment, which we agreed makes a big difference, so he's working weekends to be able to send his kids to private schools. The time went fast. He took my blood, I took my Lorna Doones and bottled water, and I was on my way.
Luckily I remembered that I'd forgotten my glasses, and people were still there in the meditation hall putting things away, and someone had found and set them aside. In fact, since I seem to have a history of doing this, one of them recognized the case from the last time I left them there, so now I'm the old forgetful guy who keeps losing his old glasses case that's held together with duct tape, dontchaknow.
Satisfied, I went home to drink coffee, which I needed by this time, nothing against the mint tea and bottled water, and read the Sunday paper, which is part of the sabbath after all. Leftover ratatouille was perfect for lunch, you know it's always better the second day, and that was an opportunity to listen to my new CDs. So far it's Benny Goodman by a mile.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
root and branch
Another day, another tree down in the back yard. Wednesday night's sudden storm produced not only the pyrotechnics of a February thunderstorm, wind advisory, and tornado watch, but the added drama of the Norway spruce next door crashing across our yard, taking half of our apple tree with it.
Gven Golly had just left for her yoga class in New Albany when the wind started to whip up, but otherwise everything was normal in Methodistville. The first salvo of the storm hit during her class, while I was still at my desk watching the lightning flash to the southeast, and she saw the aftermath when she got home. I was driving to my class at Whetstone when she called my cell to say, uh, don't be shocked when you come home and there's a big tree down. Ho-hum.
It was a mighty wind indeed, to uproot the whole darn tree and topple it straight north, across the fence and half of the yard. Amazing how shallow-rooted those big tall spruces are. It clipped a couple of major limbs of the apple tree on our side of the fence, and we'll have to see if the apple tree survives the shock.
No other damages that I can see, and this will give me something to do this weekend, trimming limbs off the fallen spruce and freeing up the apple tree. Time to sharpen the chainsaw, Ole. Then we'll see about repairing the fence, which was no gem in the first place, made entirely from scrap lumber like most of my recycling projects. And come spring there will be considerably more light coming into the yard, to the benefit of whatever we decide to plant.
If only spruce made good firewood, but I think it's too soft. Maybe I can cut the trunk into new fence posts!
Later that week...
Upon closer examination, the top-heavy spruce not only became suddenly horizontal, but it took the whole apple tree with it. It wasn't a direct hit, but the apple tree trunk was leaning about 45 degrees due north, about half-uprooted with two major limbs broken. The weather on Saturday gave me time to do triage.
So I cut off all the needle-bearing branches and cut the trunk into 10-foot sections that would make good totem poles if someone has any totemic faces they want to carve into them, you're welcome to them. The smallest branches might make good mulch. The apple tree will make nice, aromatic firewood next year. Even the sawdust smells sweet.
Gven Golly had just left for her yoga class in New Albany when the wind started to whip up, but otherwise everything was normal in Methodistville. The first salvo of the storm hit during her class, while I was still at my desk watching the lightning flash to the southeast, and she saw the aftermath when she got home. I was driving to my class at Whetstone when she called my cell to say, uh, don't be shocked when you come home and there's a big tree down. Ho-hum.
It was a mighty wind indeed, to uproot the whole darn tree and topple it straight north, across the fence and half of the yard. Amazing how shallow-rooted those big tall spruces are. It clipped a couple of major limbs of the apple tree on our side of the fence, and we'll have to see if the apple tree survives the shock.
No other damages that I can see, and this will give me something to do this weekend, trimming limbs off the fallen spruce and freeing up the apple tree. Time to sharpen the chainsaw, Ole. Then we'll see about repairing the fence, which was no gem in the first place, made entirely from scrap lumber like most of my recycling projects. And come spring there will be considerably more light coming into the yard, to the benefit of whatever we decide to plant.
If only spruce made good firewood, but I think it's too soft. Maybe I can cut the trunk into new fence posts!
Later that week...
Upon closer examination, the top-heavy spruce not only became suddenly horizontal, but it took the whole apple tree with it. It wasn't a direct hit, but the apple tree trunk was leaning about 45 degrees due north, about half-uprooted with two major limbs broken. The weather on Saturday gave me time to do triage.
So I cut off all the needle-bearing branches and cut the trunk into 10-foot sections that would make good totem poles if someone has any totemic faces they want to carve into them, you're welcome to them. The smallest branches might make good mulch. The apple tree will make nice, aromatic firewood next year. Even the sawdust smells sweet.
Friday, February 13, 2009
R.I.P. TARP
From our friends the Wall Street Journal via our friends at Slate's "Today's Papers":
What a terrible idea. How are we going to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps if we can't come up with a better acronym than FSP? It sounds like a medical condition newly coined by a drug company in order to sell a newly invented medication in search of a disease, but that's a different rant for another day. Let's focus on the immediate, more pressing national problem of patching together a replacement for the ripped TARP.
If you upgrade your TARP, do you move up to a TENT (Traumatic Excesses Necessitating Taxes)? A larger upgrade would take us to HUT (Horrendous Uber-Taxation), YURT (Yesterday's Ugliness Rebounds Today), or even SHACK (Safe Haven After Capitalist Killings).
Then comes news that Timothy Geithner, our savior from Henry Paulson, is just a younger Henry Paulson clone. The new sheriff in town, hand-picked by the most forward-thinking president in two generations to change the way business is done in Washington, doesn't want to tie the hands of the geniuses in the banking industry with too much oversight or transparency:
It seems that so-called liberals and conservatives in the lofty reaches of policy making have much in common; either they are so beholden to the very people and institutions they are asked to regulate that they dare not actually regulate, or they have no idea what to do other than what they have always been told to do, which is what got us here. Don't tie the hands of the banks by requiring them to disclose what they are doing. Don't limit their compensation or they won't be able to attract other geniuses just like themselves.
The WSJ reports that the administration is retiring TP's favorite acronym of the day, TARP, since it will be renaming the Troubled Asset Relief Program as the Financial Stability Plan.
What a terrible idea. How are we going to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps if we can't come up with a better acronym than FSP? It sounds like a medical condition newly coined by a drug company in order to sell a newly invented medication in search of a disease, but that's a different rant for another day. Let's focus on the immediate, more pressing national problem of patching together a replacement for the ripped TARP.
If you upgrade your TARP, do you move up to a TENT (Traumatic Excesses Necessitating Taxes)? A larger upgrade would take us to HUT (Horrendous Uber-Taxation), YURT (Yesterday's Ugliness Rebounds Today), or even SHACK (Safe Haven After Capitalist Killings).
Then comes news that Timothy Geithner, our savior from Henry Paulson, is just a younger Henry Paulson clone. The new sheriff in town, hand-picked by the most forward-thinking president in two generations to change the way business is done in Washington, doesn't want to tie the hands of the geniuses in the banking industry with too much oversight or transparency:
In the end, "the plan largely repeats the Bush administration's approach of deferring to many of the same companies and executives who had peddled risky loans and investments at the heart of the crisis," declares the NYT.
It seems that so-called liberals and conservatives in the lofty reaches of policy making have much in common; either they are so beholden to the very people and institutions they are asked to regulate that they dare not actually regulate, or they have no idea what to do other than what they have always been told to do, which is what got us here. Don't tie the hands of the banks by requiring them to disclose what they are doing. Don't limit their compensation or they won't be able to attract other geniuses just like themselves.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
things/objects/stuff
The first question Eric during Sunday morning's talk was (I am paraphrasing): "Can happiness be found in external objects?" The obvious answer is no, and it's just a rhetorical question to spur a certain amount of thinking about what really brings happiness.
He had some definite ideas: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha can provide what external objects cannot. In other words, happiness can be found in the teacher, the teaching, and the community of practitioners. Paraphrasing further, if you look for refuge in your stuff, you are asking for trouble, but if you look for refuge in enlightenment, in the truth, and in others who are working on finding enlightenment and the truth, you might have something.
I had a couple of immediate reactions, which I kept to myself at the time but wanted to try to work out somehow. Why not here?
My first reaction is: why is it all about happiness? Are we to assume that the big questions all come down to how to be happy? Who decided that's the only thing of value, or that all other things of value can be boiled down to being happy? Did I miss the vote where everybody agreed that happiness is the end-all?
Yeah, yeah, Mr. Jefferson, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Whatever happened to life, liberty, and property (John Locke's favorites); sex, drugs, and rock and roll (who said it first?); or sun, surf, and smoke (my old friend Paul from Long Island)? Why not satisfaction (John Dewey, Mike Jagger, Keith Richards) or the greatest good for the greatest number (John Stuart Mill)? How about the Good, the True, or the Beautiful (Plato)?
But nooooooo, got to be happy, happy, happy.
Aside from that quibble, I have another bone to pick with Eric's truism. I want to suggest that refuge can be found in a hot shower, a cup of coffee, shoes that fit, a car that runs, my favorite hat, fresh bread, the Sunday paper, a warm breeze after an unusually cold January, a familiar face in a crowded room, a song with that je ne se qua, the book you've been looking for, a strong and relaxed body, a certain photo of a certain someone, the full moon rising beyond the big pine tree, or just the right word for what you've been trying to say. External things are alright!
True, those external objects provide only momentary refuge, and just as quickly the comfort and joy are gone. Point taken. And I guess that was Eric's intention: to point out that the refuge to be found in things is fleeting, so it isn't the kind of refuge worth looking for. I could quibble about that too, but never mind. I'm not sure I want to make this a materialist argument. But I'm also not sure I'm ready to give up my attachment to the shower, the coffee, shoes, my hat, bread, and all those tangible pleasures that do it for me.
On the drive downtown that same morning, NPR did a feature on a musician who quoted Rumi in the title of his new CD, "Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street." The music itself didn't do much for me, but the interview on the radio was kind of interesting. Later in the day, I split some wood, stacked some wood, took a break, built a fire, lay down on the floor in front of the stove, and watched the full moon rise over Ohio. I wouldn't call it happiness, but I wouldn't trade it either.
He had some definite ideas: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha can provide what external objects cannot. In other words, happiness can be found in the teacher, the teaching, and the community of practitioners. Paraphrasing further, if you look for refuge in your stuff, you are asking for trouble, but if you look for refuge in enlightenment, in the truth, and in others who are working on finding enlightenment and the truth, you might have something.
I had a couple of immediate reactions, which I kept to myself at the time but wanted to try to work out somehow. Why not here?
My first reaction is: why is it all about happiness? Are we to assume that the big questions all come down to how to be happy? Who decided that's the only thing of value, or that all other things of value can be boiled down to being happy? Did I miss the vote where everybody agreed that happiness is the end-all?
Yeah, yeah, Mr. Jefferson, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Whatever happened to life, liberty, and property (John Locke's favorites); sex, drugs, and rock and roll (who said it first?); or sun, surf, and smoke (my old friend Paul from Long Island)? Why not satisfaction (John Dewey, Mike Jagger, Keith Richards) or the greatest good for the greatest number (John Stuart Mill)? How about the Good, the True, or the Beautiful (Plato)?
But nooooooo, got to be happy, happy, happy.
Aside from that quibble, I have another bone to pick with Eric's truism. I want to suggest that refuge can be found in a hot shower, a cup of coffee, shoes that fit, a car that runs, my favorite hat, fresh bread, the Sunday paper, a warm breeze after an unusually cold January, a familiar face in a crowded room, a song with that je ne se qua, the book you've been looking for, a strong and relaxed body, a certain photo of a certain someone, the full moon rising beyond the big pine tree, or just the right word for what you've been trying to say. External things are alright!
True, those external objects provide only momentary refuge, and just as quickly the comfort and joy are gone. Point taken. And I guess that was Eric's intention: to point out that the refuge to be found in things is fleeting, so it isn't the kind of refuge worth looking for. I could quibble about that too, but never mind. I'm not sure I want to make this a materialist argument. But I'm also not sure I'm ready to give up my attachment to the shower, the coffee, shoes, my hat, bread, and all those tangible pleasures that do it for me.
On the drive downtown that same morning, NPR did a feature on a musician who quoted Rumi in the title of his new CD, "Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street." The music itself didn't do much for me, but the interview on the radio was kind of interesting. Later in the day, I split some wood, stacked some wood, took a break, built a fire, lay down on the floor in front of the stove, and watched the full moon rise over Ohio. I wouldn't call it happiness, but I wouldn't trade it either.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Just like Proust
As I removed a slice of whole wheat cranberry-walnut bread from its zip-lock plastic bag and laid it on a paper napkin next to my mouse pad, I felt the stirring of a vague memory somewhere. When I broke off a corner of a slice of bread and put it in my mouth, the long-dormant memory sprang to life like the opening scene of a movie, or a long-lost friend who suddenly shows up at your door. And in the slightly dried-out, faintly sweet, chewy texture of the cranberry-walnut bread came swimming back an entire wave of long-buried multi-sensory experience, hidden but not lost in the weeks past, of looking up the biographies of famous people in a couple of reliable sources and writing the shortest possible blurb with all the journalistic craft at my disposal.
It's pretty cool how the mind works, oh ya.
It's pretty cool how the mind works, oh ya.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Remembering Updike
I first met the literary John Updike, as if there was another one, in freshman English, introduced by Dr. Jack Null, nemesis-mentor and professor of mythic erotica in modern American fiction. My friend Jack Janosik, from across the hall in Apple Hall, our dorm, was in my English class, so there is at least one witness to the madness. We read Updike, Walker Percy, and the Brothers Grimm, seen through the lens of Joseph Campbell's Hero with a Thousand Faces, darkly. What did we know, a bunch of kids sitting around a seminar table trying to get the right answer and meet girls, to the existential angst of Dr. Null. Kind of like Rabbit and many of Updike's protagonists.
Come to think of it, Rabbit Run was a perfect choice for our coming of age transition to college life, which we called freshman English. What archetypal images do we encounter in Harry Angstrom's desperately self-centered and lazy life? Write a precis. (What's a precis?) What Freudian symbols, puns and wordplay shed light on his characters: Harry's wife Janice Springer, their son and Harry's tormentor Nelson, his old coach Tothero, the old harsh-god minister, the young group-therapy minister, Rabbit's shadowy parents and sister? Play ball. Write a research paper. Jump through hoops, win approval. Make it with girls.
The record will show that fall quarter went okay but winter quarter was a disaster, live and learn; if you sleep through enough morning classes, you won't do very well, and a pathetic attempt to critically analyze The Stranger didn't help much. However, I did make some kind of connection with Updike through the sheer adolescent obtuseness of Rabbit Run, and years later devoured Rabbit Redux and the other sequels, Rabbit is Rich and the final sadly triumphant conclusion Rabbit at Rest, whose final scene stays with me to this day.
All the literary types catalog Updike as the chronicler of middle-class blah blah blah. And it's true, his novels are not so very highbrow, and they do reveal a certain earthy, mundane, unpretentious side of bourgeois American existence in the middle to late twentieth century. And the point of view is consistently male, consistently white, consistently nonrevolutionary, consistently of the flesh and of this world. Sorry, no Nobel for you, Jack. Sucks to be born in eastern Pennsylvania.
Updike made fun of all those suburban couples in Couples whose erotic attractions and repulsions and misunderstandings were more comedic than tragic, and at the same time he took them seriously. It made a young reader wonder about whether and how to be a couple. Other books, such as Bech: A Book, seemed more ironic and distanced, like he was writing with tongue firmly in cheek, and maybe that reflected both the aging novelist and the era.
Minor books like The Centaur, Memories of the Ford Administration, and The Poorhouse Fair didn't lodge in my mind as clearly, for whatever reason, and struck me more as experiments in writing in a certain genre. I bet Dr. Null would be able to shed some light on that, in between drags on his cigarette held precariously between long, thin fingers at the table in Satterfield Hall.
Come to think of it, Rabbit Run was a perfect choice for our coming of age transition to college life, which we called freshman English. What archetypal images do we encounter in Harry Angstrom's desperately self-centered and lazy life? Write a precis. (What's a precis?) What Freudian symbols, puns and wordplay shed light on his characters: Harry's wife Janice Springer, their son and Harry's tormentor Nelson, his old coach Tothero, the old harsh-god minister, the young group-therapy minister, Rabbit's shadowy parents and sister? Play ball. Write a research paper. Jump through hoops, win approval. Make it with girls.
The record will show that fall quarter went okay but winter quarter was a disaster, live and learn; if you sleep through enough morning classes, you won't do very well, and a pathetic attempt to critically analyze The Stranger didn't help much. However, I did make some kind of connection with Updike through the sheer adolescent obtuseness of Rabbit Run, and years later devoured Rabbit Redux and the other sequels, Rabbit is Rich and the final sadly triumphant conclusion Rabbit at Rest, whose final scene stays with me to this day.
All the literary types catalog Updike as the chronicler of middle-class blah blah blah. And it's true, his novels are not so very highbrow, and they do reveal a certain earthy, mundane, unpretentious side of bourgeois American existence in the middle to late twentieth century. And the point of view is consistently male, consistently white, consistently nonrevolutionary, consistently of the flesh and of this world. Sorry, no Nobel for you, Jack. Sucks to be born in eastern Pennsylvania.
Updike made fun of all those suburban couples in Couples whose erotic attractions and repulsions and misunderstandings were more comedic than tragic, and at the same time he took them seriously. It made a young reader wonder about whether and how to be a couple. Other books, such as Bech: A Book, seemed more ironic and distanced, like he was writing with tongue firmly in cheek, and maybe that reflected both the aging novelist and the era.
Minor books like The Centaur, Memories of the Ford Administration, and The Poorhouse Fair didn't lodge in my mind as clearly, for whatever reason, and struck me more as experiments in writing in a certain genre. I bet Dr. Null would be able to shed some light on that, in between drags on his cigarette held precariously between long, thin fingers at the table in Satterfield Hall.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Imperialists and Immigrants
There I was, minding my own business, reading the travel section on a Saturday morning, when it struck me, in an article about rebuilding London's East End for the 2012 Olympics, how the fiercest nativist movements seem to spring up and thrive in countries that have the longest record of invading, extracting, enslaving, encroaching, appropriating, and exploiting other countries that have something they want - labor, tea, gold, spices, labor - which the rich (and getting richer) nations simply viewed as animal, vegetable, or mineral resources to be taken and used.
But look out, when some of the human resources settle down, perhaps put down roots, build a community, and inhabit significant portions of the privileged "first-world" nations, many first-world natives view their fellow immigrant neighbors as some sort of uninvited problem that doesn't really belong there. Since they were there first, they know better, drawing the commonsense conclusion that the Others should just go away.
But first give us your labor, tea, gold, spices, (got any oil?), then go away.
A few very advanced and sophisticated nations take the direct approach and build a fence to keep the alien life-forms out of the better neighborhoods north of the Rio Grande or west of the West Bank. Others use more subtle means such as literacy tests, poll taxes, gerrymandered districts, violent intimidation, an official national language, or an national religion to keep the Others in their place.
I guess some people are just entitled to have it both ways. Does the colonialist entitlement come from that old romantic notion of natural rights to life, liberty, and property? Maybe all those enlightened Europeans, flush with enthusiasm over all that Reason, all that power moving the big watch put in motion by the big watchmaker, amen.
And just as suddenly I lost interest, although the inherent unfairness still irks me.
But look out, when some of the human resources settle down, perhaps put down roots, build a community, and inhabit significant portions of the privileged "first-world" nations, many first-world natives view their fellow immigrant neighbors as some sort of uninvited problem that doesn't really belong there. Since they were there first, they know better, drawing the commonsense conclusion that the Others should just go away.
But first give us your labor, tea, gold, spices, (got any oil?), then go away.
A few very advanced and sophisticated nations take the direct approach and build a fence to keep the alien life-forms out of the better neighborhoods north of the Rio Grande or west of the West Bank. Others use more subtle means such as literacy tests, poll taxes, gerrymandered districts, violent intimidation, an official national language, or an national religion to keep the Others in their place.
I guess some people are just entitled to have it both ways. Does the colonialist entitlement come from that old romantic notion of natural rights to life, liberty, and property? Maybe all those enlightened Europeans, flush with enthusiasm over all that Reason, all that power moving the big watch put in motion by the big watchmaker, amen.
And just as suddenly I lost interest, although the inherent unfairness still irks me.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
"And it's organic!"
Sally Jenkins of the Washington Post provides a sane response to the tempest in a 'teapot' over Michael Phelps's recently publicized indiscretion. He may be a great Olympic hero, but he is not a god.
In short, the man is an athlete. Work hard, play hard, rest, repeat.
Let's say, just for fun, that there are four kinds of people in the world: (1) those who work out and indulge; (2) those who work out and abstain; (3) those who veg out and indulge; (4) those who veg out and abstain. Should we only admire and respect group (2) since they fit the profile that Nancy Reagan would approve?
I think I like Michael Phelps better now that I know he's got a weakness.
In short, the man is an athlete. Work hard, play hard, rest, repeat.
Phelps's public apology won't satisfy those people who insist their champions be superhuman ideals. But it's absurd to expect Phelps to maintain his brand of physical and mental discipline 24-7, while the rest of us privately anesthetize to our hearts' content. (Sally Jenkins, WP)
Let's say, just for fun, that there are four kinds of people in the world: (1) those who work out and indulge; (2) those who work out and abstain; (3) those who veg out and indulge; (4) those who veg out and abstain. Should we only admire and respect group (2) since they fit the profile that Nancy Reagan would approve?
I think I like Michael Phelps better now that I know he's got a weakness.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
to-do list
1. Walk the walk
a. Clean house. Not the whole house, maybe just the two back rooms, kitchen and den, which I actually inhabit. That's good for now.
b. Shovel sidewalks, front and back. Salt lightly. Wait 24 hours. Repeat. Observe the infinitely fascinating behavior of water. Take photos of ice.
c. Watch the weather - not on TV or online - the real thing.
d. Meditate.
e. Buy honey and flour. Realize that a six-pound (quart) jug of honey is $20!
f. Bake bread with said honey. Taste the difference. It's worth it.
f. Watch the Steelers pound the Cardinals, along with every other brainwashed pop-cultural consumer in hegemonic middle-Amerika, trying to enjoy the big show without getting sucked into enthsiastically supporting (sounds like sporting) my own exploitation; oops too late.
g. This is scary: John Madden almost makes sense.
2. Talk the talk
a. Send thank-you notes.
b. Update FacadeBook page. Question other people's creative choices.
c. Write on someone's wall.
d. Use the following vocabulary words in a sentence: war crimes, Dick Cheney, torture, Guantanamo, perjury, Halliburton, due process, Exxon-Mobil, profiteering.
e. Remember that people suffering from some affliction often do things to harm themselves and others.
f. Pontificate on some subject that other people really ought to know more about. Failing that, listen to their troubles over tea and banana bread.
a. Clean house. Not the whole house, maybe just the two back rooms, kitchen and den, which I actually inhabit. That's good for now.
b. Shovel sidewalks, front and back. Salt lightly. Wait 24 hours. Repeat. Observe the infinitely fascinating behavior of water. Take photos of ice.
c. Watch the weather - not on TV or online - the real thing.
d. Meditate.
e. Buy honey and flour. Realize that a six-pound (quart) jug of honey is $20!
f. Bake bread with said honey. Taste the difference. It's worth it.
f. Watch the Steelers pound the Cardinals, along with every other brainwashed pop-cultural consumer in hegemonic middle-Amerika, trying to enjoy the big show without getting sucked into enthsiastically supporting (sounds like sporting) my own exploitation; oops too late.
g. This is scary: John Madden almost makes sense.
2. Talk the talk
a. Send thank-you notes.
b. Update FacadeBook page. Question other people's creative choices.
c. Write on someone's wall.
d. Use the following vocabulary words in a sentence: war crimes, Dick Cheney, torture, Guantanamo, perjury, Halliburton, due process, Exxon-Mobil, profiteering.
e. Remember that people suffering from some affliction often do things to harm themselves and others.
f. Pontificate on some subject that other people really ought to know more about. Failing that, listen to their troubles over tea and banana bread.
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