Today the Supreme Court killed DOMA, the divisive "Defense of Marriage Act." For many of you out there, there is a great deal of celebration. While there are still many challenges, and indeed it is only specific parts of the act that have been ruled unconstitutional, many see this as an important symbolic victory, even if only because of its name.
But it is the symbolic nature of the bill's name that gives me pause. Politicians and interest groups select names for bills in an attempt to identify the legislation's goals for the people, to let them know what the bill stands for.
Now certainly, there are instances where these names are merely a cynical ploy to make it politically awkward to oppose the bill. I don't think many people feel that the PATRIOT act was driven solely by patriotism, and everyone knows that the infamous 2006 Mom & Apple Pie Act was little more than a thinly veiled tax cut for land mine manufacturers, but both used their names to help shield themselves from overt attack.
But I don't think that this is the case here. I honestly think that the people who put this act together, and especially those who rallied behind it, truly believed in its message, as stated right in the title. To such folk, this was NOT a civil rights issue, it was an issue of values, standards, morals and principles. To them, they were not excluding individuals from basic human rights, they were preserving perhaps the most sacred institution ever put into practice by mankind (every religion and culture has some form of it, and its biological basis cannot be overlooked.)
This act was their way of preserving what is good and just in our nation, and protecting it from attack and injury by those who simply did not accept the unshakable truth of it, and sought to erode the great institution, harming it irreparably for all time.
And they lost.
Wow. That's gotta sting a bit, huh? I mean, this was not some good old fashioned "Let's keep the coloreds out of proper eating establishments and stores" (the good old days, am I right?) Or even a grudging compromise like "Okay, okay, they can count as three fifths of a human, but we get to round down." No this was supposed to be a slam dunk of virtue and purity. The means by which something priceless and irreplaceable would be shielded from the moral decay and degradation that has corrupted so much of what was once great in this nation.
It was the DEFENSE OF GOSH-DARNED MARRIAGE, for cripes' sake! How the heck could someone not agree with defending marriage? It's just common sense, common decency.
But nonetheless, its been cast down, killed before it could truly do the good it was meant to do. And that is so sad for the people who believed in it. So while you may not agree with them, heck, you may be genuinely angry at them for having such opposing viewpoints, you must consider their feelings right now, and pity them.
Their marriages are no longer defended.
The ramparts are crumbled, the walls breached, the drawbridge down. At any moment, someone could just come in and take their marriage away. Without DOMA, how will people maintain the sanctity of their marriage? If people of the same gender can marry, then marriage as an institution has been weakened. What will become of those already married?
If marriage is no longer a sacred vow (how can it be now?) then people will begin to do the unthinkable; they may cheat on their spouses. Without the sanctity in marriage, it becomes a hollow thing based only on words and pieces of paper. What is to stop a man or a woman from sleeping with another person who is not their spouse?
My God, can you imagine what this would do to our society? If people start cheating, how long before our morally bankrupt culture begins to shamelessly depict these acts, glorifying infidelity? Already, some of our more unscrupulous film makers have begun doing just that, with tawdry films popping up in our theaters lately like "Indecent Proposal," "Same Time Next Year," and the innocuously titled "The Graduate." These films will make people believe that they have free license to cheat. And are they even wrong?
And don't get me started on the smut factory that is our music industry. They are just champing at the bit to start talking about the joys of cheating with new hit songs like "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," "Sail Away (the Pina Colada Song,)" "Say My Name," and that most blasphemously titled, "If Loving You is Wrong, I don't Want to be Right." These filthmongers won't just talk about cheating, they will portray it all in a positive light. What will happen when that trend catches on?
Even worse, it could become a part of our society. We could start to see businesses begin to capitalize on it, with hotels renting rooms by the day, cellphone companies offering privacy services to keep spouses from checking phone records, hell, some people may even create whole websites devoted to helping cheating spouses cover their tracks.
All of this may happen, simply because the Supreme Court chose NOT to defend marriage.
And what about the young people who are not yet married? What kind of institution are we leaving for them? Without sanctity in marriage, we could start to see young people getting married frivolously, simply running off before they are truly ready for a lifelong commitment. Others will be in such a rush to get married, that they don't take enough time to get to know their partner, and then when it all comes crashing down, descend into the evils of divorce, which we all agree is a terrible thing that has never improved anyone's life.
Worst of all, we might start to see people abandon marriage itself. Can you imagine what would happen to our society if people had the right to simply live together, maybe even have children, without the framework of a sacred vow? I honestly can't comprehend what that freedom would do. If people knew they had the legal right to just live with another person like that, would anyone ever bother to get married in the future? I highly doubt that.
So I hope that today, amidst all your crowing about 'civil rights,' and 'basic human dignity' and such nonsense, you will give a thought to those whose marriages have been torn asunder by this 'victory.'
As for myself, I used to enjoy being married. But now that it's no longer defended, I just don't know how much longer I can choose to remain in a stable, loving relationship built on love, mutual interests and understanding, and a desire to make a better life for our children.
I may have to start smoking crack now.
I hope you are happy.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
Let's Put The 'Super' Back In The Super Bowl
Science fiction is all about asking questions about how currently impossible things would change the human condition. Comic book superheroes are one form of science fiction (Siegel & Schuster thought so, nuff said,) so here's today's question: How would sports & the Olympics be changed in the Marvel universe?
To start, the Olympics would have to ban mutants from competing. This was touched on as early as 1963 when Magneto disguised the Toad and had him compete in a hurdles event. Later, Northstar was forced to turn in his medals for skiing after his super speed powers were discovered (not for any...other revelations.) How would that be received as a civil rights issue?
How would you detect potential mutant competitors without violating human rights, and not cause an international incident when the Russians won't allow their competitor, a 98 pound girl who can lift 800kg in the weightlifting competition to test?
And what if you were a pyrokinetic mutant who had trained as a gymnast? If your power has no bearing on your event, would the ban still prohibit you from competing, and how would you prove it?
But what about professional sports? Could a mutant play major league baseball? Imagine the home run record of a super strong batter. Catchers would get the hell out of the way of a ball that punch through them like a leather-covered bullet, and stadia would have to be redesigned (and reinforced.) There wouldn't be many openings left for flatscans, and that sure as hell isn't gonna help the whole human/mutant relations issue. Magneto destroying a bridge full of people is nothing compared to what happens when a mutant speedster running back makes the Super Bowl a boring 150-0 shutout.
And even if you resolved the mutant issue, there are plenty of other ways to obtain superpowers. Anyone remember the Unlimited Class Wrestling? Those guys weren't exactly registered. Sure, if a seven-foot-tall armadillo tries to slip on a jersey, plenty will call foul. But how do you tell if a normal-looking guy has been to the Power Brokers for a dose of super strength and invulnerability?
What about magic? Does the government (and the various governing bodies of professional sports,) acknowledge the existence of magic? Could the Canadian Olympic teams wear talismans created by Talisman? Would martial arts competitions have to start patting down participants for tiger amulets? If Doctor Strange shows up to a Jets game in his jersey, could the opposing team challenge the final score if there are a suspicious amount of fumbles? Could he be forced to prove he DIDN'T use the powers of the Vishanti to affect the game?
And then there's the whole religion side of it. Teams love to thank Jesus for their victory, but all it takes is one Odin worshipper (probably a Minnesota fan,) to call on the great monocular one for help to cast suspicion on the outcome of the game. And what about actual gods on the gridiron?
Ban mutants and altered humans all you want, do the rules include avatars of Cyttorak? Because if Cain Marko gets a pardon and needs some quick cash, football season is over. You can just save time and hand the trophy to whichever team hired Juggernaut this season (gonna need to order a bigger ring, as well.)
Mister Fantastic in the NBA, Bobby Drake in the NHL, Mentallo at a Poker tournament, or the Hulk in ANYTHING; sports would be over.
Or...
What if the Marvel world embraced that? We already look the other way when baseball players swell up like Bruce Banner after watching Glenn Beck, so why not go the whole nine yards (which would have to be extended to eighteen yards,) and let the superheroes dominate the games?
You'd still have to ban mutants, because a Marvel universe without genotype racism would be unthinkable, but allow gamma rays, vita rays, Miraclo pills (I know, I know,) cybernetics, ancient totem relics and any other modifications.
You'd need bigger gridirons, heavier basketballs and adamantium bats, but think of the spectacle. Not to mention nearly eliminating super crime. If your choices are 1) build a mechanical stilt suit and rob high rise apartments till some guy in long johns kicks your ass or 2) build a mechanical stilt suit and become the Inimitable Dunkman, earning 3.2 million a year, what do you think Mr. Day will pick?
Shit, I might watch sports in that world.
Except golf. Still boring.
To start, the Olympics would have to ban mutants from competing. This was touched on as early as 1963 when Magneto disguised the Toad and had him compete in a hurdles event. Later, Northstar was forced to turn in his medals for skiing after his super speed powers were discovered (not for any...other revelations.) How would that be received as a civil rights issue?
How would you detect potential mutant competitors without violating human rights, and not cause an international incident when the Russians won't allow their competitor, a 98 pound girl who can lift 800kg in the weightlifting competition to test?
And what if you were a pyrokinetic mutant who had trained as a gymnast? If your power has no bearing on your event, would the ban still prohibit you from competing, and how would you prove it?
But what about professional sports? Could a mutant play major league baseball? Imagine the home run record of a super strong batter. Catchers would get the hell out of the way of a ball that punch through them like a leather-covered bullet, and stadia would have to be redesigned (and reinforced.) There wouldn't be many openings left for flatscans, and that sure as hell isn't gonna help the whole human/mutant relations issue. Magneto destroying a bridge full of people is nothing compared to what happens when a mutant speedster running back makes the Super Bowl a boring 150-0 shutout.
And even if you resolved the mutant issue, there are plenty of other ways to obtain superpowers. Anyone remember the Unlimited Class Wrestling? Those guys weren't exactly registered. Sure, if a seven-foot-tall armadillo tries to slip on a jersey, plenty will call foul. But how do you tell if a normal-looking guy has been to the Power Brokers for a dose of super strength and invulnerability?
What about magic? Does the government (and the various governing bodies of professional sports,) acknowledge the existence of magic? Could the Canadian Olympic teams wear talismans created by Talisman? Would martial arts competitions have to start patting down participants for tiger amulets? If Doctor Strange shows up to a Jets game in his jersey, could the opposing team challenge the final score if there are a suspicious amount of fumbles? Could he be forced to prove he DIDN'T use the powers of the Vishanti to affect the game?
And then there's the whole religion side of it. Teams love to thank Jesus for their victory, but all it takes is one Odin worshipper (probably a Minnesota fan,) to call on the great monocular one for help to cast suspicion on the outcome of the game. And what about actual gods on the gridiron?
Ban mutants and altered humans all you want, do the rules include avatars of Cyttorak? Because if Cain Marko gets a pardon and needs some quick cash, football season is over. You can just save time and hand the trophy to whichever team hired Juggernaut this season (gonna need to order a bigger ring, as well.)
Mister Fantastic in the NBA, Bobby Drake in the NHL, Mentallo at a Poker tournament, or the Hulk in ANYTHING; sports would be over.
Or...
What if the Marvel world embraced that? We already look the other way when baseball players swell up like Bruce Banner after watching Glenn Beck, so why not go the whole nine yards (which would have to be extended to eighteen yards,) and let the superheroes dominate the games?
You'd still have to ban mutants, because a Marvel universe without genotype racism would be unthinkable, but allow gamma rays, vita rays, Miraclo pills (I know, I know,) cybernetics, ancient totem relics and any other modifications.
You'd need bigger gridirons, heavier basketballs and adamantium bats, but think of the spectacle. Not to mention nearly eliminating super crime. If your choices are 1) build a mechanical stilt suit and rob high rise apartments till some guy in long johns kicks your ass or 2) build a mechanical stilt suit and become the Inimitable Dunkman, earning 3.2 million a year, what do you think Mr. Day will pick?
Shit, I might watch sports in that world.
Except golf. Still boring.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Heroes Walk Amongst Us
I believe superheroes walk among us.
I don't mean those brave men and women who serve as firefighters or paramedics or cable repairmen who actually show up when scheduled, I mean true superhumans, individuals with power beyond the grasp of mere mortals like you and me.
Although they look like us, they have a hidden quality; godlike strength and endurance that gives them the ability to hoist up with one mighty arm ponderous loads that would stagger a lesser mortal. To them, these massive weights are beneath their notice, like Superman casually lifting a Buick.
These rare few, these modern Hercules' must hide their incredible gifts. They walk amongst us, cloaked in the guise of the lowest menials in out society. They wait, biding their time until destiny calls them, and their strength is required to save our world, thrusting themselves into danger to protect those weaker humans who would crucify them for the very exceptionalities that we will surely one day rely upon to defend us.
And that very scorn, arrogantly heaped upon them by the very humanity they are destined to save must surely rankle. The temptation to use their immeasurable strength for personal gain, or to earn the fame unjustly denied to them, or indeed, to punish the weak, to rule us all with fists of diamond, must be great indeed.
But they contain those feelings of resentment. And while some may accuse them of occasionally using this great strength to strike back in small petty ways, I give no credence to such rude calumny from jealous humans, born of baser clay.
I believe that these avatars of might, these closet Sampsons instead are cursed by their own greatness. They do not understand their own strength, and sometimes they inconvenience we frail mundanes simply out of their inability to understand our weakness. They cannot conceive of out limitations, simply because they have none.
And so I forgive them. And I thank the powers of the universe that sent them to us, that one day their titanic strength may be the salvation of all mankind. These real life heroes wait until that day, when they can finally don the capes and masks of greatness that are their birthright. But until then, they must go about clad instead in their aprons of ignominy and anonymity.
So rest assured that true superhumans of unparalleled strength and power are here, and they walk amongst us. I know it to be true.
Because that is the only possible God-damned reason why the bagboys at my grocery store load my bags so fucking heavy, they must surely believe me to be superhuman as well.
I don't mean those brave men and women who serve as firefighters or paramedics or cable repairmen who actually show up when scheduled, I mean true superhumans, individuals with power beyond the grasp of mere mortals like you and me.
Although they look like us, they have a hidden quality; godlike strength and endurance that gives them the ability to hoist up with one mighty arm ponderous loads that would stagger a lesser mortal. To them, these massive weights are beneath their notice, like Superman casually lifting a Buick.
These rare few, these modern Hercules' must hide their incredible gifts. They walk amongst us, cloaked in the guise of the lowest menials in out society. They wait, biding their time until destiny calls them, and their strength is required to save our world, thrusting themselves into danger to protect those weaker humans who would crucify them for the very exceptionalities that we will surely one day rely upon to defend us.
And that very scorn, arrogantly heaped upon them by the very humanity they are destined to save must surely rankle. The temptation to use their immeasurable strength for personal gain, or to earn the fame unjustly denied to them, or indeed, to punish the weak, to rule us all with fists of diamond, must be great indeed.
But they contain those feelings of resentment. And while some may accuse them of occasionally using this great strength to strike back in small petty ways, I give no credence to such rude calumny from jealous humans, born of baser clay.
I believe that these avatars of might, these closet Sampsons instead are cursed by their own greatness. They do not understand their own strength, and sometimes they inconvenience we frail mundanes simply out of their inability to understand our weakness. They cannot conceive of out limitations, simply because they have none.
And so I forgive them. And I thank the powers of the universe that sent them to us, that one day their titanic strength may be the salvation of all mankind. These real life heroes wait until that day, when they can finally don the capes and masks of greatness that are their birthright. But until then, they must go about clad instead in their aprons of ignominy and anonymity.
So rest assured that true superhumans of unparalleled strength and power are here, and they walk amongst us. I know it to be true.
Because that is the only possible God-damned reason why the bagboys at my grocery store load my bags so fucking heavy, they must surely believe me to be superhuman as well.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
A Letter To Taylor Swift
Dear Miss Swift,
You and I have never had much reason to quarrel, and I have nothing against you as a person. But you have clearly recorded a song that was meant for someone else (one could argue that "You Belong With Me is not your song either, since the speaker of the lyrics is clearly fat, but that's a discussion for another day.)
I speak of your latest minimum opus, "22." Putting aside the style of the song, and the fact that it took my wife and I like two listens before we understood what the hell you were saying in the chorus ("I'm feeling Tentative? Twitty, too? Tinted blue? Titty you?) I want to point out instead that this would be a fine song if given to Faith Hill or one of the many pseudo-country/pop singers who helped wear in the groove into which you have slipped.
The song's lyrics speak of the joys of feeling (not necessarily being) 22 years old: the sense of freedom, liberation and promise that comes with that time of life. A time when you are now old enough to drink, but have learned a little about how to do so intelligently. When relationships come fast and easy and are all romance and arguments and breakups and sex with the delicious regret that comes with it. When the scars of high school are finally beginning to fade and you no longer view college as a scary adventure, but instead as an experience you can use to help shape your future.
It was written for a 40 year old.
This is a song for a mature woman. Certainly a man could easily adapt this with a few lyrical changes and getting rid of that yodeling shit that you do (unless he's country, where that nonsense is deemed acceptable,) but I am going to stick with the gender as written.
It is for a woman who has been 22, and remembers all the joys of that period (mentioned above,) while selectively forgetting all the trials and difficulties of the same (rent is due and my shiftless roommate drank away her half, how am I going to pay for college and what the hell future am I supposed to be shaping, and when the hell was my last period because it feels a lot like it should have been here two weeks ago.)
This is a woman who has been through all that and now lives in a different world, one of deadlines, bills, relationship problems that last for decades instead of a weekend, and worrying about how someone else is going to be able to afford college. This is a woman who is under more stress than her 22 year self was able to count after two semesters of 'business math.' A woman who must now live the future she was supposed to have shaped in college at age 22.
So the woman expresses this frustration (and her need to release it,) by singing about how tonight she is going to be 22. She is going to reset her clock for just one night to be 22 again, and live consequence free, even though she know oh so well that nothing is free of consequence.
It is sad and pathetic, and that pathos is why we can all relate to it. Because for those of us on the far side of 22, we understand that feeling, and we are rooting for her even as we know tomorrow will dawn to a grey and dismal reality, and we can empathize with her.
Faith Hill or Mary Chapin Carpenter or any of the others like that could have made this song an anthem of the mature, desperately longing for that sweet immaturity in which we once basked and that we remember so fondly not appreciating at the time.
But here's the thing; YOU WERE FUCKING TWENTY TWO WHEN YOU SANG THE DAMN SONG!
When you are forty and you sing how great it is to be 22 there is regret, pathos, desperation, self delusion, and a host of other deep emotions that can provide a real basis for a song that resonates with the human condition.
But when you actually are 22, and more than that, you are an extremely pretty blonde haired blue-eyed 22 year old with a great body, tons of money, a skyrocketing career and worldwide fame, singing about how great it is to be 22 is not empowering, it is merely bragging.
Cocky, self-agrandizing boasting that smacks of the vilest form of hubris any Greek tragedian could have ever designed. And you simply don't get to do that as a teeny bopper pseudo-county/pop star.
That's what they invented rap for.
Sincerely,
Shut Up
You and I have never had much reason to quarrel, and I have nothing against you as a person. But you have clearly recorded a song that was meant for someone else (one could argue that "You Belong With Me is not your song either, since the speaker of the lyrics is clearly fat, but that's a discussion for another day.)
I speak of your latest minimum opus, "22." Putting aside the style of the song, and the fact that it took my wife and I like two listens before we understood what the hell you were saying in the chorus ("I'm feeling Tentative? Twitty, too? Tinted blue? Titty you?) I want to point out instead that this would be a fine song if given to Faith Hill or one of the many pseudo-country/pop singers who helped wear in the groove into which you have slipped.
The song's lyrics speak of the joys of feeling (not necessarily being) 22 years old: the sense of freedom, liberation and promise that comes with that time of life. A time when you are now old enough to drink, but have learned a little about how to do so intelligently. When relationships come fast and easy and are all romance and arguments and breakups and sex with the delicious regret that comes with it. When the scars of high school are finally beginning to fade and you no longer view college as a scary adventure, but instead as an experience you can use to help shape your future.
It was written for a 40 year old.
This is a song for a mature woman. Certainly a man could easily adapt this with a few lyrical changes and getting rid of that yodeling shit that you do (unless he's country, where that nonsense is deemed acceptable,) but I am going to stick with the gender as written.
It is for a woman who has been 22, and remembers all the joys of that period (mentioned above,) while selectively forgetting all the trials and difficulties of the same (rent is due and my shiftless roommate drank away her half, how am I going to pay for college and what the hell future am I supposed to be shaping, and when the hell was my last period because it feels a lot like it should have been here two weeks ago.)
This is a woman who has been through all that and now lives in a different world, one of deadlines, bills, relationship problems that last for decades instead of a weekend, and worrying about how someone else is going to be able to afford college. This is a woman who is under more stress than her 22 year self was able to count after two semesters of 'business math.' A woman who must now live the future she was supposed to have shaped in college at age 22.
So the woman expresses this frustration (and her need to release it,) by singing about how tonight she is going to be 22. She is going to reset her clock for just one night to be 22 again, and live consequence free, even though she know oh so well that nothing is free of consequence.
It is sad and pathetic, and that pathos is why we can all relate to it. Because for those of us on the far side of 22, we understand that feeling, and we are rooting for her even as we know tomorrow will dawn to a grey and dismal reality, and we can empathize with her.
Faith Hill or Mary Chapin Carpenter or any of the others like that could have made this song an anthem of the mature, desperately longing for that sweet immaturity in which we once basked and that we remember so fondly not appreciating at the time.
But here's the thing; YOU WERE FUCKING TWENTY TWO WHEN YOU SANG THE DAMN SONG!
When you are forty and you sing how great it is to be 22 there is regret, pathos, desperation, self delusion, and a host of other deep emotions that can provide a real basis for a song that resonates with the human condition.
But when you actually are 22, and more than that, you are an extremely pretty blonde haired blue-eyed 22 year old with a great body, tons of money, a skyrocketing career and worldwide fame, singing about how great it is to be 22 is not empowering, it is merely bragging.
Cocky, self-agrandizing boasting that smacks of the vilest form of hubris any Greek tragedian could have ever designed. And you simply don't get to do that as a teeny bopper pseudo-county/pop star.
That's what they invented rap for.
Sincerely,
Shut Up
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Thus The Circle Is Now Complete...
They say that we all become our parents, that it is fate, predestination, an inevitable fact of life. Many of us struggle (vainly) all our lives against this destiny, but we simply cannot fight the imperatives of our blood, our DNA, and most especially, our upbringing.
Sooner or later, you will hear yourself say all the annoying crap your parents used to say to you (usually once you have kids.) You will look in the mirror and see the same features you mocked them for having (when did my mom sneak in at night and tattoo the same dark circles under my eyes that she always wore?) And all the asinine rules that they enforced with you become logical brilliance now that you impose them upon your own offspring (try actually paying for a roof, and suddenly demanding fealty from those who dwell beneath it makes a hell of a lot more sense.)
I've never had too much of a problem with the idea, because my folks are okay people for the most part. Sure my mom has some issues I'd be happy to not carry on myself, but my dad at least has his head screwed on straight enough.
Well...
As I've mentioned in the past, my father is an engineer first and foremost. He likes to build, to modify, to tinker. But above all that he likes to dissect, both mentally and physically. He has never been satisfied with something that simply is, that merely works and, by its very functionality, becomes invisible.
My father looks at those things, wants to know how they work and why they work. This is not idle curiosity to him, this is his genetic mandate; his purpose on this planet. He demands the cosmos reveal its inner workings to him and reveal its deepest secrets. He will know how something ticks, why it ticks instead of beeps, what makes it not tick, and how it could be made to tick better. This is his raison d'être, and will not be deterred by things like the opinions of others, warranties, sealed exterior casings, local laws or severe shock hazard warning labels. He will open a device up, study its works, make it better if he can, and then shove it all back in, possibly with some popsicle sticks added in for good measure (that's a story for another post.)
As an example, there is a famous incident that we have mocked him about for years now. It happened probably 25 years ago or so when the family was eating together at a diner. While we were waiting for the food to arrive, my father had picked up a spoon off the table and was staring at it intently with that brow-furrowing scowl that he used when engaging his brain in theoretical dissection mode (which as anyone who knows him understands is his true smile.)
Finally my mother asked him what he was doing and he answered (as is so often his wont,) with a question of his own:
"Look at this spoon." It was one of those cheap, pressed metal spoons common to such eateries. "Do you see how the handle has a channel running along the bottom side? Why do you think that is?"
And the game was afoot. Now we knew that there would be no peace until we had done our best to try and guess the answer, and then sat there and endured a lecture on the real reason. Among the four of us there was much groaning and eye-rolling and snorts of derision at the old man, and we have continued to make fun of him over the years for this exercise in banal observations, but we played along and gave our guesses.
I don't remember what any of us said, or if any of us guessed it right, because none of that was important. But I do remember the explanation, because it was right. It was a simple, basic concept that formed an underpinning of the modern world around us and every structure extant within it. It was the good kind of physics, the sort that didn't lurk on paper, coiling into formulae afraid of the sunlight, it was out in the open, creating the hard edges of reality that delineate human existence.
It was a fucking spoon.
But it was all science and reason and rational thought rolled up into a simple groove, a fuller in the blade of logic, slicing through the chaos of primitive existence. And he made us touch the monolith and figure out how it worked for ourselves, rather than just giving us a word to explain it all, so we could memorize it for the test. I never took physics in high school (not enough math to take it,) but I know how to look at things and see how they work.
You bet your ass I remember the spoon explanation.
Because it taught me how to look, how to notice. My father may have had a short attention span and poor situational awareness in other areas of life (don't ask him to babysit is all I'm saying,) but when he focused on how to solve a problem, his mind was like a laser.
And I have done my best to emulate that quality in my own life. I look around me to try and understand why things work, and how it could be made better. And that is one aspect of my dad that I am happy to carry on, and to pass down to my own children.
But there are other aspects...
Not everything about my dad is a virtue I extol as part of a template for good living. His fashion sense for example, is not above reproach. Now I know what you're thinking; "but Chris, everyone thinks their parents' fashion sense is out of date and laughable, that's just part of the generation gap!"
I don't mean that the short sleeve button-up white shirt with ugly brown striped clip-on tie combo that he wore when working at IBM were ugly (that speaks for itself and needs no help from my exquisite wording.) No I mean that sometimes he leaves the house 'dressed' in 'clothes' that stretch both definitions.
As I've noted, my father spent a lot of time working on machinery, from cars to water pumps, to different cars. And that means getting dirty and covered in grease. My mother dilligently made sure he would not wear his (ahem) 'nice work clothes' when working with rust, grease and dirt, and ensured that he always had on some junky clothes instead, usually ripped and faded blue jeans and stained T-shirts with holes in them.
This was fine, except that inevitably he would need to go out to purchase something like a necessary tool that he did not yet own, a replacement part for whatever he was working on, or a replacement tool he had just broken (perhaps the one he had just purchased.)
And it simply did not occur to him to change clothes before going out (hell, she was lucky if he bothered to slather Gojo on his hands to remove the grease, dirt and blood from them before going out.) So he would visit the hardware store, auto parts store, or any other place of business while wearing the aforementioned junky ensemble. He looked (and I am putting this as kindly and respectfully as I can out of my deep respect for my father,) like a homeless person who had been hit by a car, and then gone after the offending vehicle to fistfight it for revenge.
My mother took issue with this expedient, and did her best to convince him to curtail such grime-encrusted visits to local businesses (this was before we had Wal-Marts to come along and make this sort of thing socially acceptable,) but to no avail. He continued to make sorties into proper civilization clad in the crusted uniform of the black collar worker elite. She eventually gave up, and now just insists he not wear his regalia to weddings and funerals, but she loses ground each year.
I of course have avoided this fate. I was raised better than that, and would never dream of being seen in public sporting such uncivilized garb. Not me.
Flash forward to three or four weeks ago when my car's battery died. Now, thanks to my father, I am perfectly prepared to change a battery on my car without much difficulty. So I ran out to the store (in real people clothes, thank you very much,) and purchased the necessary battery and brought it home. I installed it, bolted it back down with the ridiculous array of struts and cages that they encase batteries in these days on compact cars and was done.
If you are not familiar with batteries, I have to advise you, as a public service announcement, that the acid contained within is a marvel of destruction. You won't see an impressive sizzle or a puff of smoke, but if you get any of that shit on you or your belongings, you will be regretting it for years to come, as its effects can be quite far reaching and initially quite subtle.
My wife and I had quite a tragic experience with a battery a few years ago, and lost many things to the event (I don't want to talk about it.) So now I am very cautious when dealing with such caustic substances. Thus, I was not going to risk any of my fine wearables while working on the battery. Instead, I was wearing my own junky ensemble, never to be worn in public. By an odd coincidence, it too consists of an old pair of blue jeans with frayed holes in them, and a white T-shirt I normally sleep in. Ironically enough, since I NEVER purchase white shirts (I do not wear white clothes, other than socks. You can call me goth or emo, or a rabid Johnny Cash fan, but I have my own reasons,) this particular shirt was one of a bunch my mom and sister had made for my dad's 65th birthday years ago, and I got the leftovers to wear as junk shirts.
The battery change went smoothly and was a (very dirty) success. But I needed to test the battery (and run the car long enough to fully charge the new battery. My wife had mentioned that we had library books that were about to be overdue, and needed to be returned. Logic.
So I grabbed the beat up canvas shopping bag with the books in it, and drove down the street to the library, no big deal. When I got there, I went up to the book return and started feeding in the books. That's when I noticed the security guard giving me dirty looks. Also, people crossed the sidewalk to go around me as I approached. The people inside the library, visible through the glass doors, were clearly concerned that I might be planning to actually enter the building itself. What was going on here?
Then I looked down.
Oh. I looked like a homeless person who had perhaps recently been involved in a hit and run and subsequent vengeful fisticuffs.
You can't fight your fate folks, Happy Father's Day.
(I know some of you are wondering about the groove in the underside of the spoon. Tough, I want you to figure it out for yourselves.)
Sooner or later, you will hear yourself say all the annoying crap your parents used to say to you (usually once you have kids.) You will look in the mirror and see the same features you mocked them for having (when did my mom sneak in at night and tattoo the same dark circles under my eyes that she always wore?) And all the asinine rules that they enforced with you become logical brilliance now that you impose them upon your own offspring (try actually paying for a roof, and suddenly demanding fealty from those who dwell beneath it makes a hell of a lot more sense.)
I've never had too much of a problem with the idea, because my folks are okay people for the most part. Sure my mom has some issues I'd be happy to not carry on myself, but my dad at least has his head screwed on straight enough.
Well...
As I've mentioned in the past, my father is an engineer first and foremost. He likes to build, to modify, to tinker. But above all that he likes to dissect, both mentally and physically. He has never been satisfied with something that simply is, that merely works and, by its very functionality, becomes invisible.
My father looks at those things, wants to know how they work and why they work. This is not idle curiosity to him, this is his genetic mandate; his purpose on this planet. He demands the cosmos reveal its inner workings to him and reveal its deepest secrets. He will know how something ticks, why it ticks instead of beeps, what makes it not tick, and how it could be made to tick better. This is his raison d'être, and will not be deterred by things like the opinions of others, warranties, sealed exterior casings, local laws or severe shock hazard warning labels. He will open a device up, study its works, make it better if he can, and then shove it all back in, possibly with some popsicle sticks added in for good measure (that's a story for another post.)
As an example, there is a famous incident that we have mocked him about for years now. It happened probably 25 years ago or so when the family was eating together at a diner. While we were waiting for the food to arrive, my father had picked up a spoon off the table and was staring at it intently with that brow-furrowing scowl that he used when engaging his brain in theoretical dissection mode (which as anyone who knows him understands is his true smile.)
Finally my mother asked him what he was doing and he answered (as is so often his wont,) with a question of his own:
"Look at this spoon." It was one of those cheap, pressed metal spoons common to such eateries. "Do you see how the handle has a channel running along the bottom side? Why do you think that is?"
And the game was afoot. Now we knew that there would be no peace until we had done our best to try and guess the answer, and then sat there and endured a lecture on the real reason. Among the four of us there was much groaning and eye-rolling and snorts of derision at the old man, and we have continued to make fun of him over the years for this exercise in banal observations, but we played along and gave our guesses.
I don't remember what any of us said, or if any of us guessed it right, because none of that was important. But I do remember the explanation, because it was right. It was a simple, basic concept that formed an underpinning of the modern world around us and every structure extant within it. It was the good kind of physics, the sort that didn't lurk on paper, coiling into formulae afraid of the sunlight, it was out in the open, creating the hard edges of reality that delineate human existence.
It was a fucking spoon.
But it was all science and reason and rational thought rolled up into a simple groove, a fuller in the blade of logic, slicing through the chaos of primitive existence. And he made us touch the monolith and figure out how it worked for ourselves, rather than just giving us a word to explain it all, so we could memorize it for the test. I never took physics in high school (not enough math to take it,) but I know how to look at things and see how they work.
You bet your ass I remember the spoon explanation.
Because it taught me how to look, how to notice. My father may have had a short attention span and poor situational awareness in other areas of life (don't ask him to babysit is all I'm saying,) but when he focused on how to solve a problem, his mind was like a laser.
And I have done my best to emulate that quality in my own life. I look around me to try and understand why things work, and how it could be made better. And that is one aspect of my dad that I am happy to carry on, and to pass down to my own children.
But there are other aspects...
Not everything about my dad is a virtue I extol as part of a template for good living. His fashion sense for example, is not above reproach. Now I know what you're thinking; "but Chris, everyone thinks their parents' fashion sense is out of date and laughable, that's just part of the generation gap!"
I don't mean that the short sleeve button-up white shirt with ugly brown striped clip-on tie combo that he wore when working at IBM were ugly (that speaks for itself and needs no help from my exquisite wording.) No I mean that sometimes he leaves the house 'dressed' in 'clothes' that stretch both definitions.
As I've noted, my father spent a lot of time working on machinery, from cars to water pumps, to different cars. And that means getting dirty and covered in grease. My mother dilligently made sure he would not wear his (ahem) 'nice work clothes' when working with rust, grease and dirt, and ensured that he always had on some junky clothes instead, usually ripped and faded blue jeans and stained T-shirts with holes in them.
This was fine, except that inevitably he would need to go out to purchase something like a necessary tool that he did not yet own, a replacement part for whatever he was working on, or a replacement tool he had just broken (perhaps the one he had just purchased.)
And it simply did not occur to him to change clothes before going out (hell, she was lucky if he bothered to slather Gojo on his hands to remove the grease, dirt and blood from them before going out.) So he would visit the hardware store, auto parts store, or any other place of business while wearing the aforementioned junky ensemble. He looked (and I am putting this as kindly and respectfully as I can out of my deep respect for my father,) like a homeless person who had been hit by a car, and then gone after the offending vehicle to fistfight it for revenge.
My mother took issue with this expedient, and did her best to convince him to curtail such grime-encrusted visits to local businesses (this was before we had Wal-Marts to come along and make this sort of thing socially acceptable,) but to no avail. He continued to make sorties into proper civilization clad in the crusted uniform of the black collar worker elite. She eventually gave up, and now just insists he not wear his regalia to weddings and funerals, but she loses ground each year.
I of course have avoided this fate. I was raised better than that, and would never dream of being seen in public sporting such uncivilized garb. Not me.
Flash forward to three or four weeks ago when my car's battery died. Now, thanks to my father, I am perfectly prepared to change a battery on my car without much difficulty. So I ran out to the store (in real people clothes, thank you very much,) and purchased the necessary battery and brought it home. I installed it, bolted it back down with the ridiculous array of struts and cages that they encase batteries in these days on compact cars and was done.
If you are not familiar with batteries, I have to advise you, as a public service announcement, that the acid contained within is a marvel of destruction. You won't see an impressive sizzle or a puff of smoke, but if you get any of that shit on you or your belongings, you will be regretting it for years to come, as its effects can be quite far reaching and initially quite subtle.
My wife and I had quite a tragic experience with a battery a few years ago, and lost many things to the event (I don't want to talk about it.) So now I am very cautious when dealing with such caustic substances. Thus, I was not going to risk any of my fine wearables while working on the battery. Instead, I was wearing my own junky ensemble, never to be worn in public. By an odd coincidence, it too consists of an old pair of blue jeans with frayed holes in them, and a white T-shirt I normally sleep in. Ironically enough, since I NEVER purchase white shirts (I do not wear white clothes, other than socks. You can call me goth or emo, or a rabid Johnny Cash fan, but I have my own reasons,) this particular shirt was one of a bunch my mom and sister had made for my dad's 65th birthday years ago, and I got the leftovers to wear as junk shirts.
The battery change went smoothly and was a (very dirty) success. But I needed to test the battery (and run the car long enough to fully charge the new battery. My wife had mentioned that we had library books that were about to be overdue, and needed to be returned. Logic.
So I grabbed the beat up canvas shopping bag with the books in it, and drove down the street to the library, no big deal. When I got there, I went up to the book return and started feeding in the books. That's when I noticed the security guard giving me dirty looks. Also, people crossed the sidewalk to go around me as I approached. The people inside the library, visible through the glass doors, were clearly concerned that I might be planning to actually enter the building itself. What was going on here?
Then I looked down.
Oh. I looked like a homeless person who had perhaps recently been involved in a hit and run and subsequent vengeful fisticuffs.
You can't fight your fate folks, Happy Father's Day.
(I know some of you are wondering about the groove in the underside of the spoon. Tough, I want you to figure it out for yourselves.)
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Spock to Spock Communications
Okay, I know it's been a while since I posted, but I have been rather busy with the end of the school year. My wife and I do not get to go out to movies often, and can usually only do so when our kids are staying at their grandmother's house, often because we are attending seminar or some other such reason, which is the situation currently.
So the other night we finally got to go see Star Trek: Into Darkness. Some other time, I will ramble on about the ridiculous plot, but for now I will just say that it is a movie with great visuals, and I will probably watch it agains some day on TV just for the fun and action. But you really need to not use your brain while watching it (that's what going out afterward with nerdy friends is for!)
I thought I might repost here something I wrote after watching the first reboot film a couple of years ago. I realize that the new film may have rendered some of this redundant, but I still think it's worth a read. Share and enjoy!
So the other night we finally got to go see Star Trek: Into Darkness. Some other time, I will ramble on about the ridiculous plot, but for now I will just say that it is a movie with great visuals, and I will probably watch it agains some day on TV just for the fun and action. But you really need to not use your brain while watching it (that's what going out afterward with nerdy friends is for!)
I thought I might repost here something I wrote after watching the first reboot film a couple of years ago. I realize that the new film may have rendered some of this redundant, but I still think it's worth a read. Share and enjoy!
To: Captain James T. Kirk
From: Spock (the one from the original timeline)
Well, I guess I'm trapped in this idiotic, lens-flared alternate continuity, while all the noble adventures I had with my friends have been rendered null and void. C'est la vie right?
But I thought I'd save you some great adventures of your own by throwing a few spoilers your way about what's going to happen to you on the Enterprise.
1. Fuck tribbles. Like seriously, burn on sight, I'm not even even kidding.
2. Gary Mitchell will get god-like powers and electrocute the shit out of you. Transfer him off the ship.
3. Romulans look like Vulcans. Just leave them alone.
4. Same for the Tholians.
5. Study chemistry, like how to make gunpowder from common rocks. Trust me on this one.
6. EVERY SINGLE Federation anthropologist will make the galaxy a worse place, ensuring that you will have to fight space Nazis and gangsters all over the place.
7. In a couple of years, you will encounter a ship dead in space. It will be called the Botany Bay. Photon torpedo that piece of shit to oblivion immediately, then phaser the particulate remains. Really trust me on this, it could save MY life.
8. V'ger is the Voyager probe. I just saved you a stupid amount of boring, wasted time.
9. Every woman you hook up with is doomed. Sorry pal.
10. Lastly, one day I might get sprayed by some flowers, and go all space hippy and fall in love. LEAVE ME THE FUCK THERE! I WILL NEVER BE HAPPIER.
So yeah, gotta go lament that my entire universe has been rewritten so some whiny frat boy with dead father issues can sully the name of the talented, hard-working officer that I knew, the one who earned captaincy of the Enterprise through years of hard work, instead of being the last one alive.
Live long and suck it,
Spock (the original.)
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