Boo!

Dear Diary,

Who else is looking forward to awkward exchanges with their child-making neighbors this holiday weekend?

Now, I recognize that for many youngsters, Halloween is their raison d'être — that and keeping their parents satiated with a belly full of regret. I had this phase. Euphoric candy binges shall not be denied.

What is often overlooked, I think, is the essential and thrilling act of approaching strange houses. That ability to roam free (while dressed as a gaucho, patrolling the pampas of your subdivision) is rather titillating, I propose:

 (Pound, bang, knock... Halloween pleasantries are exchanged, and all of the sudden you're looking past the house wench and checking out their IKEA stuff... exhilarating).

While walking around the hood, I can't not look into windows — from a respectable distance. (I have a rule, if I'm closer to their house than the sidewalk... over the line! And I don't allow myself to wear all black... too tempting) This passion, quite possibly, would not be all mine to enjoy, if not for Halloween.

Now, with my thartieff burffday looming, the fun is a little different... not quite as delectable. Like you, I'm not even on a pleasant nod regimen with many of my neighbors — no contact, no recognition. Yet, I recognize them. I see them. And they bring their kids to my door:

"Hello person I habitually avoid talking to, your child's trite costume is unimaginative and adorable. Kids, be careful not to upset your bowel movements — eating a pound and a half of processed sugar is an art form... take it seriously. Parent neighbor, we'll do this again next year? Great."

Big social weekend for the Tee Vee: Dr. Dog, Symphony, dress-up drinking... expect a partial report.

Cowbird v. Warbler v. God's Children

Warbler

When alone in the house, I do things which accompaniment prevent — or at least discourage. After that, I'll usually clean the dishes. The dishes lead to Radiolab. If you're not familiar, the program's formula-for-success goes like this: two likable patricians (both Oberlin queers), who are slight ideological opposites — man of science and man of faith — consider pop science findings and their moral implications... sounds pretty good, doesn't it. 

While scrubbing the remnants of a frittata, our hosts start talking about birds. Here's my report:


Part I: The Horror Defined

Cowbird

Warbler is a bird. Cowbird — the name, potentially confusing — is also a bird. The Cowbird, our villain, does not construct a nest. It has other plans.

Cowbird takes its eggs and sticks them in the Warbler's nest — sort of like prenatal daycare. Now, the clever Cowbird has a trick: mix its mature eggs with less mature Warbler eggs. The little Cowbirds are first to smash their shells, meaning they get fed first, get fed more, and are more likely to survive (for my imaginatively challenged readers, see the horror below). This behavior has earned the Cowbird a flattering title: brood parasite.

Giant Cowbird mouth, tiny Warbler mouths

 Now, if the Warbler decides to reject the recent arrival, booting the Cowbird egg from its nest, SCIENCE tells us Cowbird Momma will unleash its fury and beat the Warbler senseless. To avoid this, Warblers feed the Cowbirds... reasonable enough, eh?

The transaction is simple: care for my young, and I won't come back angry. The sleuths at Radiolab tracked down a group of people — bird lovers (relation to the chicken fucker?) — who are displeased with the Warbler/Cowbird relationship.

Part II: Grab Your Pitchfork

One day, a disaster was uncovered. SCIENCE discovered that not enough Warblers filled out their census form; they officially became endangered. The cause of this injustice: the fucking Cowbird. What to do? (obvious, isn't it) Kill the Cowbird. So that's what they did. They, so the legend goes, trapped Cowbirds and smashed their throats — they have a euphemism for throat smashing, it escapes me at the moment. Sadly, this brilliant and well-meaning plan didn't work. Despite the Cowbird massacre, and the beyond reproach "kill to save" logic, the Warbler population did not recover. It must be something else...

Part III: A New Hope

SCIENCE, never to be deterred, went back to the ole' drawing board. They found — those ingenious busybodies — that there were not enough young trees in the ecosystem. You see, Warblers only build nests in young trees... where are the young trees?

As you probably know, forest fires (responsible for the decimation of the round-assed deer, right)  are unnatural and destructive and horrible and must. be. prevented. But, it seems there is an exception. Without fires, forests become old.

Like you, I hate old things, so let's save the Warbler by breathing a little young blood into the forest... BURN IT DOWN!

So, the forest service burned down a forest. "Nobody could have guessed" this might go badly. In spite of nobody's guess, it went badly. The controlled blaze refused to follow the plan, a human being died trying to restore the plan.

Thankfully, the scheme worked! New trees! The warblers did it! The census forms are back to their God-given quota!

Part IV: Reflection

As we enjoy my blog, a Cowbird is having its throat smashed, a forest is ablaze — it is the only way to save the Warbler. And save the Warbler we must... because... uh... help me out here.

 Stewards of the earth? Who? Oh... right-right-right. 

1) Humans are the stewards of the earth. We are all Noah. No species or bank shall ever go quietly into the night... not on our watch.

 Anything else? That "stewards of the earth" thing was pretty convincing... Oh, right-right-right.

2) It's the law. Endangered species must be protected. THE LAW. 

When a lustrous hauteur propels "solutions" which in turn forge new — and usually improved — problems, which in turn... what do you call that?

While you're at work all day...

Who will care for the children?



Wheew! Close call... what's worse than a baby-in-a-well? If you answered, "smearing downmarket bleu cheese over a tawdry piece of chicken and calling it dinner", you win.

I hope you enjoyed the tune — it will, almost certainly, overstay its welcome...

It changed its mind... can't trust that!

Who are these ceaseless creatures, these trusty non-thinkers, these candidates. I'm surveying my prospective representatives and — while there is much to squirm about — I can't get past how utterly predictable their bios are.

A popular feature amongst these campaign "websites" is to tout the candidates unyielding rigidity:

"I am rock-like. I have never changed my mind. I will never change my mind. Look at my record. Just FUCKING LOOK AT IT! I'm enduring! unswerving! Nothing will change me — no matter what!"  they proudly seem to boast.  

As a short breather from consistency, I like the Delaware Senate candidate — a target of such obvious self-justifying derision. I saw a video clip (I think it's popular, you might have bumped into it) where she talks about dabbling in witchcraft (or something, it was mildly incoherent). I found my pants tightening, a joyous overload: "She was a witch?!" (or something) I exclaimed. That is change I will willingly believe in — just give me a chance. 

If you're like me, you enjoy changes of mind — you might even, on occasion, make use of the word "capricious" when describing yourself to telemarketers. Therefore, when deciding who you'd vote for (if you had the time to vote), you find yourself drawn to fluctuation. "Oh, she voted this way but later voted that way... yes, I see: this candidate is inconsistent  — a puller of U-ies... that is the behavior of a contemplative mind. That feels good. I like that. That's who I would vote for.

I feel like a less adorable version

This is really good. It comes from Mr. Boyd's ladypoverty:

If we look at the world long enough, we may find that everything is not the way we want it to be. As a result, many of us don't look.

If we look in a comprehensive way, what can be seen is deeply troubling. Many of us arrive at the point of seeing particular problems with clarity, only to be left with the task of communicating their relevance to others.

At this point most of us experience real frustration. This can play itself out as anger, at the world and at each other; but because anger is a difficult emotion to sustain, it often leads to apathy: it becomes too painful to try, and we withdraw from our attempts to do so.

Boyd — a man who sorts things out — closes with sound guidance (please read it). I, on the other hand, will visit with my despair:

Anger is difficult to sustain. Apathy hangs around, and never buys toilet paper. I work with the angered... they have a few squares left.

They steal impulsively to gain status symbols and tradeable goods ("I was trying to steal this Asian girl's ipod touch all morning" The unlucky thief was sitting next to me — I'm touched that they can be themselves in our classroom) "Cheat and steal your way to the top"... this is understood.

They fight for any and all reasons. I get it.

They are painfully cruel. Of course they are.

They have learned where they belong: right where they are. They have learned what they are: low class, low quality.

So — as anyone who doesn't like the view is apt to do — they dream. I watch as they gawk and gaze at celebrity images — what else would they privilege? Where else would they aspire?

One of my classes is reading A Raisin in the Sun — they think it's stupid... my "I understand and don't blame you" mentality strains.

This all makes me weep.

Rome, if you'll pardon the expression, wasn't made gay in a day

Obama was very clear, on several occasions, about having a plan — here we go from about 10 months ago:

"This year, I will work with Congress and our military to finally repeal the law that denies gay Americans the right to serve the country they love because of who they are."

Quick Question. Where does Obama say: "Somebody other than me (a group of gay Republicans and a woman, in fact) will swoop in, waving around their stupid constitution, crying foul, telling me how to run my team. At that point, I'll get super pissed — that's NOT THE WAY WE PLANNED IT! — and we'll then change sides — sorta, did we ever really choose a side? — and fight the ruling that ends DADT."

If you answered: Uh, Obama never said that, then you are correct.

Gotta follow the plan people. Don't fuck with the plan.

Think of it this way, we'll use history as an example. Imagine if: Instead of segregating America's public schools based on skin tone, we simply forced all the darker skinned kids to wear white makeup to school — everyone looks WHITE (or, for our current situation, NOT GAY). Once the policy proved "problematic", would it make sense to have everyone take off their white-person-makeup the next day? Hell no, it would not. This kind of thing takes time, so keep your white makeup on a while longer, we have some paper work to process — we'll be with you shortly.

I feel "eased" already

How many times will  I ram my head into the genteelism "quantitative easing" between now and when the Fed has their post-Halloween Wingding?

As the What-Will-Ben-Do tittle-tattle pushes into high-gear, my dearest joy will come from the lack of Change. Make no mistake, any steps that the US Fed takes will be derived from a singular and unadjustable goal: Get shit back to the way it should be.

What that should is, of course, is too obvious to even discuss, so why bother. Here, in the coming weeks, are my topics to avoid:

a) Explanations as to how necessary currency devaluation will bring wonderful plastic-trinket-making jobs back to the Yanks — we need to make our own stuff again, like the old days (see picture of happiness on your right. The windows aren't even blacked out! Quite the perquisite).

b) Solemn appeals for international cooperation. "We must work together. The heist requires a group effort — have you seen Ocean's 11?"

c) Hilarious musings regarding America's obligation to "level the playing field" (the suggestion will be that "we" are on the less desirable side of the bend — or slope, if like a xenophobic pun as much as I do).

Remember, this is all about keeping the ship's hull above water for just a little longer — the rats haven't finished packing, and the Captain swears he saw land.

On a Personal Note

What say you?...Too much? Maybe redesign the chariot?

A few minutes ago, if you had asked me, "would you like to be buried in a cemetery when your body calls-it-quits," my answer would have been some variation of: No. Throw my bones in the Puget Sound — it's already glum, nobody will notice.

A few minutes have changed me. Now, without any equivocation, let it be known:

When I die, I need (I'm choosing my words carefully: need) these words — from the always hilarious "Slatest" — to be inscribed prominently on my mausoleum:

Apple submitted with their patent request expressed concern that there is currently "no way to monitor and control text communications to make them user appropriate. For example, users such as children may send or receive messages (intentionally or not) with parentally objectionable language."

Intentionally OR not.

I want the people who visit my dead body to laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh for eternity...

Work forever, or get used to getting the grandkid's names wrong.

This man doesn't know his S.S. #. He's also retired. Nuff said.

If you stop working... your brain dies. Thanks Scientists. Courtesy of the NYT:

“It’s incredibly interesting and exciting,” said Laura L. Carstensen, director of the Center on Longevity at Stanford University. “It suggests that work actually provides an important component of the environment that keeps people functioning optimally.” 

On career day, my high school guidance counselor didn't say shit about this Center on Longevity. He can expect an angry phone call.

If "use it or lose it" are our options, and using "it" is appropriating roughly 60% of our waking lives towards the end of.... what is the end game here? I thought it was retirement (that's all I ever hear the older members of my work force talk about)... is it not retirement? 

Normally, I'd never encourage you to actually read the NYT articles I mock, but this one is pretty damn enjoyable. Every. Single. Quote. is funny.