July 28, 2011
Mr. Louderstill
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I am trying to be a better person/less judgmental asshole.
Mr. Louderstill has lived in the house next door since before I became his neighbor. He is younger and that makes me wonder if I am sometimes being a stick-in-the-mud old fart when I get severely annoyed by his penchant for activities of advanced decibellàge. I may be a curmudgeon, but you’ve got to know the man is a menace to peace and quiet.
Think of any noisy mechanical apparatus and chances are he owns one. Monster truck with glass-pack exhaust – check. Four-wheelers (several, none street legal, including a two-seater that he was letting his eight-year-old drive) – check. Chainsaw, pressure washer, power blower – triple check. He also has jet skis, which of course don’t affect my household, but I bet if it snowed here more often he’d have a snowmobile that he could race up and down our road. He owns an auto body shop and so occasionally has side projects going in his garage, complete with an air compressor and several vwip-vwip-vweeeeeearr tools that it runs. Then there are the fireworks. New Year’s Eve and July 4th without fail, and usually at annoying intervals into the post-midnight hours instead of just doing as the pros do and lighting them all off in quick succession (they’re illegal in our state but available in startling abundance in two adjacent ones, split between roadside kiosks and ballpark-lighted supermarkets of sparkly danger nicknamed with the premise of some certifiable proprietor).
There is some relief in our son having overcome most of his problematic sensory overload from the noise, and now that the dogs are gone we don’t have to worry about puddles of pee caused by abject fright.
But that’s not all we get. Mr. Louderstill recently installed a widescreen television and surround stereo speakers out on his deck to add to the fun of his redneck friends (a.k.a. the Smokersons) watching NASCAR races or some CMT tripe. They’re pointed in our direction and even that’s not usually too bad if we stay indoors, but when they get the subwoofers cranking, boy, I’ve felt my kitchen wall vibrating. He has a pool and his guests’ young children can often be heard screaming with aquatic delight until well past any halfway responsible bedtime. Adding to the fun two doors down are the Methicks, from whence Mr. & Mrs.’s drug and alcohol-fueled disagreements come. They’re hard enough to tune out, becoming intolerable when their yappy dogs get worked up with either them or any random breeze.
Essentially, Mr. Louderstill has little and often no regard for his neighbors. Not long after we moved in he told us that he didn’t plan on staying in his house forever. It was Mrs. Louderstill #1 that got to move out (said she couldn’t take the degradation anymore), and she was pretty nice and sometimes even sheepish about her boorish then-spouse.
We have some pity for him because we’ve suspected his work and party ethic are fueled by a hyper-recreational use of drugs. For several reasons we would prefer to simply (or even complexly) just not be his neighbor anymore. That’s the easiest way.
How do you reach out to people that make your skin crawl?
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Labels: anger, Assholery squared, don't mix, humour, madness, NASCAR, neighbors, rants, rednecks, words
July 06, 2009
Microfiction: three times fifty
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She smiled from the irony of how getting the old band back made her feel like a new woman. Her tenth anniversary of sobriety was surely significant in the refreshment, but there was something more, something bigger. Or perhaps louder, she thought, as she plugged in and the amps popped.
Mom often gave us a choice back then – turn the television off and get outside or get busy with a mop and broom inside. How different was the world, when sending the kids to play god-knows-where, out of sight and mind, was a natural part of their upbringing.
Often there seem to be “I know who you are” situations, where the various power players are at north and south poles, ready to charge and bash each other’s brains out. And who is in the middle? All of the regular folks who punch time cards and use paper maps.
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She smiled from the irony of how getting the old band back made her feel like a new woman. Her tenth anniversary of sobriety was surely significant in the refreshment, but there was something more, something bigger. Or perhaps louder, she thought, as she plugged in and the amps popped.
Mom often gave us a choice back then – turn the television off and get outside or get busy with a mop and broom inside. How different was the world, when sending the kids to play god-knows-where, out of sight and mind, was a natural part of their upbringing.
Often there seem to be “I know who you are” situations, where the various power players are at north and south poles, ready to charge and bash each other’s brains out. And who is in the middle? All of the regular folks who punch time cards and use paper maps.
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Labels: Microfiction, words, writing
March 19, 2009
One Hundred Years From Now
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Y'all know I loves me some Gram. One of the things I like most about him is the solid legacy (as opposed to the romantic, at times embellished one) he's left for musicians that paralleled and came after him. GP's "Cosmic American Music" reverberates through the Stones and the Dead, the Lemonheads, the Jayhawks and Beck just to name a few. His brilliance was certainly not in his guitar chops and perhaps barely in his voice, but moreover in his turn of a lyric.
That said, I present the masterful Wilco (Chitown represent!) to interpret a little Parsons ditty apropos for any time but so much now, a cautionary tune of paradoxical optimism:
Y'all know I loves me some Gram. One of the things I like most about him is the solid legacy (as opposed to the romantic, at times embellished one) he's left for musicians that paralleled and came after him. GP's "Cosmic American Music" reverberates through the Stones and the Dead, the Lemonheads, the Jayhawks and Beck just to name a few. His brilliance was certainly not in his guitar chops and perhaps barely in his voice, but moreover in his turn of a lyric.
That said, I present the masterful Wilco (Chitown represent!) to interpret a little Parsons ditty apropos for any time but so much now, a cautionary tune of paradoxical optimism:
Everybody's so wrong
That I know it's gonna work out right
That I know it's gonna work out right
Labels: "I Likes", every blue light cheap hotel, heroes, music, soul, words
February 10, 2009
Elephant talk (donkeys, too)
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I presume most professional writers run a spell check on their work upon completion. At the end of its spell check routine Microsoft Word offers the option of presenting certain figures regarding readability, and to a journalist a few of these are important while the others are possibly interesting.
My experience with the MS Word Readability Statistics caused me to find interest in a recent item on HuffPo that compares Barack Obama’s first press conference on Monday night with that of George W. Bush on Feb. 22, 2001. The Obama effort was deemed superior in terms of intellect - no surprise there.
Obviously there are several factors outside of the readability paradigm that account for the difference in the two PCs, primarily the subject(s) at hand. For Bush it was the schwinging out of his saber on Iraq (ineffective sanctions, Sadaam bad, WMD, Chinese presence in Iraq).
Obama’s was well over twice as long, with long-winded answers primarily about the economy but with a few switches to foreign policy and bipartisanship.
Just for shits and giggles let’s look at it from a journalist’s point of view, as I have been told by editors numerous times to KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid), a concept that, for newspaper articles, is anchored in readability.
First, the Obama presser:
Here is Bush’s:
You can see that both run very close in sentences per paragraph (rather subjective, especially in a spoken press conference) and in characters per word, the latter being somewhat surprising with regard to my assessment of Bush’s vocabularial contentificationism. Of course the big news is the grade level and the related “reading ease,” both determined by brainy linguists under the auspice of the Flesch-Kincaid Readability Test.
Considering that the room is full of journalists, certainly all college graduates, one might presume that it’s a good thing to have your press conference rated at a 10th grade level. But oh no says Mr. Editor – KISS for our reading public, who average about an 8th grade reading level. The reading ease figures translate thusly:
90–100: easily understandable by an average 11-year old student
60–70: easily understandable by 13- to 15-year old students
0–30: best understood by college graduates
I continue this incredibly fun comparison by offering up the stats on a long-winded article of my own:
I have acknowledged that I am a not-so-successfully recovering wordaholic, addicted to sesquipedalian pursuits of the most grandiloquent order. Few of my articles have reached that holy grail of an 8th grade reading level.
The final criteria to cover here is the use of passive voice, to be avoided as much as possible in news writing for the purposes of, say it with me, "Readability" (I consider myself doing well to keep my articles under 12 percent). Obama’s press conference likely had more passive sentences than Bush’s because it was much longer, but credit must be given to Shrubster for his simplisticosity on this one. Those 7th grade Republicans would be proud.
I, on the other hand, appear to be a lost cause:
.
I presume most professional writers run a spell check on their work upon completion. At the end of its spell check routine Microsoft Word offers the option of presenting certain figures regarding readability, and to a journalist a few of these are important while the others are possibly interesting.
My experience with the MS Word Readability Statistics caused me to find interest in a recent item on HuffPo that compares Barack Obama’s first press conference on Monday night with that of George W. Bush on Feb. 22, 2001. The Obama effort was deemed superior in terms of intellect - no surprise there.
Obviously there are several factors outside of the readability paradigm that account for the difference in the two PCs, primarily the subject(s) at hand. For Bush it was the schwinging out of his saber on Iraq (ineffective sanctions, Sadaam bad, WMD, Chinese presence in Iraq).
Obama’s was well over twice as long, with long-winded answers primarily about the economy but with a few switches to foreign policy and bipartisanship.
Just for shits and giggles let’s look at it from a journalist’s point of view, as I have been told by editors numerous times to KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid), a concept that, for newspaper articles, is anchored in readability.
First, the Obama presser:
Here is Bush’s:
You can see that both run very close in sentences per paragraph (rather subjective, especially in a spoken press conference) and in characters per word, the latter being somewhat surprising with regard to my assessment of Bush’s vocabularial contentificationism. Of course the big news is the grade level and the related “reading ease,” both determined by brainy linguists under the auspice of the Flesch-Kincaid Readability Test.
Considering that the room is full of journalists, certainly all college graduates, one might presume that it’s a good thing to have your press conference rated at a 10th grade level. But oh no says Mr. Editor – KISS for our reading public, who average about an 8th grade reading level. The reading ease figures translate thusly:
90–100: easily understandable by an average 11-year old student
60–70: easily understandable by 13- to 15-year old students
0–30: best understood by college graduates
I continue this incredibly fun comparison by offering up the stats on a long-winded article of my own:
I have acknowledged that I am a not-so-successfully recovering wordaholic, addicted to sesquipedalian pursuits of the most grandiloquent order. Few of my articles have reached that holy grail of an 8th grade reading level.
The final criteria to cover here is the use of passive voice, to be avoided as much as possible in news writing for the purposes of, say it with me, "Readability" (I consider myself doing well to keep my articles under 12 percent). Obama’s press conference likely had more passive sentences than Bush’s because it was much longer, but credit must be given to Shrubster for his simplisticosity on this one. Those 7th grade Republicans would be proud.
I, on the other hand, appear to be a lost cause:
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Labels: Bush, journalism, Obama, words, writing
November 17, 2007
How about "Fatigue Outrage" instead?
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I am grateful to Aiko Annie for turning me on to SF Gate columnist Mark Morford, and like her I now can't help but link to his masterful progressive commentary.
There's been a lot of outrage fatigue going around in the progressive neighborhoods of Blogovia through which I commute, and in my own household the calmer, smarter half has expressed concern over my anger at all things Bush. To some degree she is justified, and so it was with great relief that I came across this paragraph about outrage that Morford wrote in the above-linked column:
Maybe I wasn't as wigged out as all that, but I was definitely considering the next exit toward despair. It's going to take so long to fix this shit, but Morford has inspired me to chill and thereby take stock of my reality to determine a reasoned course for contributing to the restoration with healthy outrage.
Here's how it's done (Keith Olbermann, October 18, 2006 and worth all 8 mins):
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I am grateful to Aiko Annie for turning me on to SF Gate columnist Mark Morford, and like her I now can't help but link to his masterful progressive commentary.
There's been a lot of outrage fatigue going around in the progressive neighborhoods of Blogovia through which I commute, and in my own household the calmer, smarter half has expressed concern over my anger at all things Bush. To some degree she is justified, and so it was with great relief that I came across this paragraph about outrage that Morford wrote in the above-linked column:
"It is, for me, all about modulation. It is about remembering that outrage does not necessarily equal misery. Outrage does not mean you must wallow in fear and fatalism and yank out your hair and wake up every morning hating the world and hating yourself and hating humanity for being so stupid/numb/blind and wondering how the hell you can escape it all."
Maybe I wasn't as wigged out as all that, but I was definitely considering the next exit toward despair. It's going to take so long to fix this shit, but Morford has inspired me to chill and thereby take stock of my reality to determine a reasoned course for contributing to the restoration with healthy outrage.
Here's how it's done (Keith Olbermann, October 18, 2006 and worth all 8 mins):
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Labels: Bush, journalism, politix, rants, terms of enragement, words
October 18, 2007
When Will I Use These Thirteen? *
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It is time once again to delve into the archives of my Doctor Dictionary Word of the Day. In spite of my sesquipedalian proclivity, today's selections are of a "WTF?" nature as to the frequency of their usage and/or that they just seem made up. As always, I offer an example of my usage in italics:
matutinal \muh-TOOT-n-uhl\, adjective: Relating to or occurring in the morning.
Walk me out in the matutinal dew, my honey.
abstruse \ab-STROOS; uhb-\, adjective: Difficult to comprehend or understand.
Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose, or the Ronald McDonald of the nouveau-abstruse.
dolorous \DOH-luh-ruhs\, adjective: Marked by, causing, or expressing grief or sorrow.
Despite having lost all his cash, he felt dolorous.
disquisition \dis-kwuh-ZISH-uhn\, noun: A formal discourse on a subject.
¿Nadie cuenta con la disquisición española, sí o no?
lumpen \LUHM-puhn; LUM-puhn\, adjective; 1. Common; vulgar. 2. A member of the underclass, especially the lowest social stratum.
As the cop walked his beat by the river, he took notice of the hot and lumpen night.
celerity \suh-LAIR-uh-tee\, noun: Rapidity of motion or action; quickness; swiftness.
Mindful of his impending dinner with André, Cecil flitted through the produce section with celerity.
abecedarian \ay-bee-see-DAIR-ee-uhn\, noun: 1. One who is learning the alphabet; hence, a beginner. 2. One engaged in teaching the alphabet. 3. Pertaining to the letters of the alphabet. 4. Arranged alphabetically.
5. Rudimentary; elementary.
Okay, we get it. Abecedarian, yeesh.
excursus \ik-SKUR-sus\, noun: 1. A dissertation that is appended to a work and that contains a more extended exposition of some important point or topic. 2. A digression.
The censors were up all night working on their excursus of Professor Dipshit's disquisition.
animadversion \an-uh-mad-VUHR-zhuhn\, noun: 1. Harsh criticism or disapproval. 2. Remarks by way of criticism and usually of censure -- often used with 'on'.
Animadversion has got to be the stupidest word I've ever come across.
flibbertigibbet \FLIB-ur-tee-jib-it\, noun: A silly, flighty, or scatterbrained person, especially a pert young woman with such qualities.
With the possible exception of flibbertigibbet.
bloviate \BLOH-vee-ayt\, intransitive verb: To speak or write at length in a pompous or boastful manner.
And the LORD spake saying, "Thou darest bloviate in my presence? That be my turf, jack."
supposititious \suh-poz-uh-TISH-uhs\, adjective: 1. Fraudulently substituted for something else; not being what it purports to be; not genuine; spurious; counterfeit. 2. Hypothetical; supposed.
Reading the definition above, it makes me wonder why linguists of yore had to create a word as pretentious as supposititious. Hey, you forgot "fake."
gallimaufry \gal-uh-MAW-free\, noun: A medley; a hodgepodge.
Though somewhat abstruse and dolorous, I was delighted to see a gallimaufry of flibbertigibbets bloviating with celerity their animadversions of the excursus on the lumpen masses of the tenements.
* with O'pologies to Mathman
.
It is time once again to delve into the archives of my Doctor Dictionary Word of the Day. In spite of my sesquipedalian proclivity, today's selections are of a "WTF?" nature as to the frequency of their usage and/or that they just seem made up. As always, I offer an example of my usage in italics:
matutinal \muh-TOOT-n-uhl\, adjective: Relating to or occurring in the morning.
Walk me out in the matutinal dew, my honey.
abstruse \ab-STROOS; uhb-\, adjective: Difficult to comprehend or understand.
Maybe you thought I was the Packard Goose, or the Ronald McDonald of the nouveau-abstruse.
dolorous \DOH-luh-ruhs\, adjective: Marked by, causing, or expressing grief or sorrow.
Despite having lost all his cash, he felt dolorous.
disquisition \dis-kwuh-ZISH-uhn\, noun: A formal discourse on a subject.
¿Nadie cuenta con la disquisición española, sí o no?
lumpen \LUHM-puhn; LUM-puhn\, adjective; 1. Common; vulgar. 2. A member of the underclass, especially the lowest social stratum.
As the cop walked his beat by the river, he took notice of the hot and lumpen night.
celerity \suh-LAIR-uh-tee\, noun: Rapidity of motion or action; quickness; swiftness.
Mindful of his impending dinner with André, Cecil flitted through the produce section with celerity.
abecedarian \ay-bee-see-DAIR-ee-uhn\, noun: 1. One who is learning the alphabet; hence, a beginner. 2. One engaged in teaching the alphabet. 3. Pertaining to the letters of the alphabet. 4. Arranged alphabetically.
5. Rudimentary; elementary.
Okay, we get it. Abecedarian, yeesh.
excursus \ik-SKUR-sus\, noun: 1. A dissertation that is appended to a work and that contains a more extended exposition of some important point or topic. 2. A digression.
The censors were up all night working on their excursus of Professor Dipshit's disquisition.
animadversion \an-uh-mad-VUHR-zhuhn\, noun: 1. Harsh criticism or disapproval. 2. Remarks by way of criticism and usually of censure -- often used with 'on'.
Animadversion has got to be the stupidest word I've ever come across.
flibbertigibbet \FLIB-ur-tee-jib-it\, noun: A silly, flighty, or scatterbrained person, especially a pert young woman with such qualities.
With the possible exception of flibbertigibbet.
bloviate \BLOH-vee-ayt\, intransitive verb: To speak or write at length in a pompous or boastful manner.
And the LORD spake saying, "Thou darest bloviate in my presence? That be my turf, jack."
supposititious \suh-poz-uh-TISH-uhs\, adjective: 1. Fraudulently substituted for something else; not being what it purports to be; not genuine; spurious; counterfeit. 2. Hypothetical; supposed.
Reading the definition above, it makes me wonder why linguists of yore had to create a word as pretentious as supposititious. Hey, you forgot "fake."
gallimaufry \gal-uh-MAW-free\, noun: A medley; a hodgepodge.
Though somewhat abstruse and dolorous, I was delighted to see a gallimaufry of flibbertigibbets bloviating with celerity their animadversions of the excursus on the lumpen masses of the tenements.
* with O'pologies to Mathman
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October 03, 2007
Happy Birthday, Howl!
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Allen Ginsburg's controversial (aka watershed) poem turns 50 today.
Hat tip to Aiko Annie
Allen Ginsburg's controversial (aka watershed) poem turns 50 today.
Hat tip to Aiko Annie
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and
unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways!
Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!
Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison!
Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows!
Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money!
Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs!
Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog!
Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!
Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks!
Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius!
Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels!
Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch!
Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early!
Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body!
Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations!
invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven!
Pavements, trees, radios, tons!
lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!
Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open
their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and
unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways!
Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless!
Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison!
Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows!
Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money!
Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs!
Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog!
Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone!
Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks!
Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius!
Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen!
Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels!
Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch!
Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early!
Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body!
Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations!
invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven!
Pavements, trees, radios, tons!
lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!
gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole
boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions!
gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!
Ten years' animal screams and suicides!
Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the
wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell!
They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving!
carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
.
.
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Labels: madness, poems everyone poems, words, writing
September 30, 2007
The Sentence of the Month Award...
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...goes to Vanity Fair's James Wolcott, from The Simple Life: White House Edition:
Hell, I'll give Wolcott runner-up this month as well, from the same article:
Nice work, James.
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...goes to Vanity Fair's James Wolcott, from The Simple Life: White House Edition:
"Following Abu Ghraib, Katrina, the Valerie Plame scandal, his flyboy showboating on the aircraft carrier with the MISSION ACCOMPLISHED banner as backdrop, the ongoing evisceration of Iraq, and the shaming embarrassment of Alberto Gonzales as attorney general, the majority of us can't wait for Bush to drag himself back to Dodge bearing the invisible stigmata of permanent disgrace to wind down his days in the infernal glow of wildfires heralding the wrath of the global warming he did nothing as president to forestall."
Hell, I'll give Wolcott runner-up this month as well, from the same article:
"The chrome peeled off of Bush's halo as national healer in the post-Katrina tragedy of errors, the commendation 'Heckuva job, Brownie' tied like a tin can to his legacy no matter how they try to paper things over at the future Bush presidential library and car wash."
Nice work, James.
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Labels: Bush, vitriol, words, work, writing
September 11, 2007
Chutzpah on stilts
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Lots of good remembrances on the blogs today. The theme I am relating to best is not so much remembering what we've lost but rather what we've given away. Former U.S. Senator Gary Hart wrote one of the best essays, copied here from HuffPo:
And here is my annual perspective check from that watershed time (cut me some slack on my over-the-top newscaster tone).
.
.
Lots of good remembrances on the blogs today. The theme I am relating to best is not so much remembering what we've lost but rather what we've given away. Former U.S. Senator Gary Hart wrote one of the best essays, copied here from HuffPo:
Six years ago three thousand Americans lost their lives. They need not have. Their deaths could have been prevented. Their lives could have been saved.
The Bush administration was warned months before 9/11 that terrorists were going to attack America. They did nothing. They have yet to be held accountable for the preventable loss of American lives. Yet the administration blames its critics for not understanding the terrorist threat.
The perpetrator of those American deaths is still at large and the war to eliminate those who harbored him threatens to drag on inconclusively for many years. Instead, administration operatives, with the approval of their masters, find it convenient to use him to create fear, and therefore justify their positions of power.
The United States has suffered more than 30,000 casualties in another war that had nothing to do with those attacks. This folly is producing more haters of America than it can ever possibly eliminate.
The backbone of domestic security, the National Guard, is deployed in that war and is thus not at home being trained, equipped, and deployed to protect America.
The consolidation of federal border protection and attack response in a single agency did not begin until at least 18 months after it was proposed and, six years later, it has proved to be woefully inadequate, in large part because those responsible for its administration possess a political philosophy that does not believe government can or should be effective. And they use every occasion to prove it.
The U.S. is currently pursuing a foreign policy in the Middle East and throughout the Arab world that is dementedly designed to promote a clash of civilizations. When this policy produces further attacks, our current policy makers will respond that this is what to expect from those who hate America and only tough-minded conservatives know how to deal with them.
Those who claim to understand terrorism and the use of force, meanwhile, have so exhausted our combat forces that our true national security is greatly at risk and our nation is weakened.
This administration stands indicted for incompetence and mendacity. That it still commands the loyalty of even a quarter of our fellow citizens is testament to the persistence of willful ignorance. Against all the facts assembled in this indictment, that the administration's operatives can still make claims on strength, security, and determination is chutzpah on stilts.
That the media still treat these operatives and spokespersons, and indeed the president himself, seriously is witness to their desire for "access" and "sources" rather than their commitment to the truth.
America is today under the steady gaze of billions of the world's citizens and even more under the examining lens of history. Nothing is more difficult than to admit that we made a tragic mistake in selecting our leaders. But that is the first step toward redemption. Absolute rejection of those who lay claim to ownership of security is the next.
We are too old to behave as adolescents any longer. That includes particularly our president. America must grow up. We must redeem ourselves in the name of those who lost their lives unnecessarily six years ago. We must reclaim our dignity and our honor from those who have neither.
And here is my annual perspective check from that watershed time (cut me some slack on my over-the-top newscaster tone).
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Labels: death, facts, histoire, justice, life, madness, martyrdom, milestones, politix, religion, remembrance, terms of enragement, tragedy, turrists, war, weaponry, words
July 13, 2007
Watch yer back today
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Word of the Day :
triskaidekaphobia \tris-ky-dek-uh-FOH-bee-uh\, noun:
A morbid fear of the number 13 or the date Friday the 13th.
Thirteen people, pledged to eliminate triskaidekaphobia, today tried to reassure American sufferers by renting a 13 ft. plot of land in Brooklyn for 13 cents . . . a month.
-- Daily Telegraph, January 14, 1967
Past disasters linked to the number 13 hardly help triskaidekaphobics overcome their affliction. The most famous is the Apollo 13 mission, launched on April 11, 1970 (the sum of 4, 11 and 70 equals 85 - which when added together comes to 13), from Pad 39 (three times 13) at 13:13 local time, and struck by an explosion on April 13.
-- "It's just bad luck that the 13th is so often a Friday", Electronic Telegraph, September 8, 1996
Triskaidekaphobia is from Greek treiskaideka, triskaideka, thirteen (treis, three + kai, and + deka, ten) + phobos, fear.
In Christian countries the number 13 was considered unlucky because there were 13 persons at the Last Supper of Christ. Fridays are also unlucky, because the Crucifixion was on a Friday. Hence a Friday falling on the thirteenth day is regarded as especially unlucky.
Some famous triskaidekaphobes:
* Napoleon
* Herbert Hoover
* Mark Twain
* Richard Wagner
* Franklin Roosevelt
.
Word of the Day :
triskaidekaphobia \tris-ky-dek-uh-FOH-bee-uh\, noun:
A morbid fear of the number 13 or the date Friday the 13th.
Thirteen people, pledged to eliminate triskaidekaphobia, today tried to reassure American sufferers by renting a 13 ft. plot of land in Brooklyn for 13 cents . . . a month.
-- Daily Telegraph, January 14, 1967
Past disasters linked to the number 13 hardly help triskaidekaphobics overcome their affliction. The most famous is the Apollo 13 mission, launched on April 11, 1970 (the sum of 4, 11 and 70 equals 85 - which when added together comes to 13), from Pad 39 (three times 13) at 13:13 local time, and struck by an explosion on April 13.
-- "It's just bad luck that the 13th is so often a Friday", Electronic Telegraph, September 8, 1996
Triskaidekaphobia is from Greek treiskaideka, triskaideka, thirteen (treis, three + kai, and + deka, ten) + phobos, fear.
In Christian countries the number 13 was considered unlucky because there were 13 persons at the Last Supper of Christ. Fridays are also unlucky, because the Crucifixion was on a Friday. Hence a Friday falling on the thirteenth day is regarded as especially unlucky.
Some famous triskaidekaphobes:
* Napoleon
* Herbert Hoover
* Mark Twain
* Richard Wagner
* Franklin Roosevelt
.
Labels: fun facts, superstition, words
February 01, 2007
What book am I ?
.
Amazingly accurate for a six-question quiz (No. 8 on my Top 10):
Obtained via Fair Trade from D-cup
(who recently leased space amongst the Possible Po-jama People - go look at her Politits)
Amazingly accurate for a six-question quiz (No. 8 on my Top 10):
You're A People's History of the United States!
by Howard Zinn
After years of listening to other peoples' lies, you decided you've had enough. Now you're out to tell it like it is, with all the gory details and nothing left out. Instead of respecting leaders, you want to know what the common people have to offer. But this revolution still has a long way to go, and you're not against making a little profit while you wait. Honesty is your best policy.
Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.
Obtained via Fair Trade from D-cup
(who recently leased space amongst the Possible Po-jama People - go look at her Politits)
Labels: authors, books, me, words
August 27, 2006
An important message from the president
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Recently I came across a blog post that stated how easy it is for misunderstandings to occur in Blogovia, and that sometimes private negotiations clear things up better than public discourse, where tangents can distract from finding a solution.
I can relate, having been involved in several such dust-ups since I started blogging, and I am inspired by several comments as well as my desire for understanding and peace to post the official MTIH blog policy/mission statement:
Welcome. This being a big old blogosphere, I'm grateful that from among millions you have happened by. I welcome all grown-ups who have the desire for intelligent discussion and humorous chat.
I am not easily offended. Realize now that unless you're my family, my friends or possibly my boss then I don't care much what you think about me, or more accurately, about what I write. You should know this is generally not a place for the thin-skinned.
That said, as blogging is part of an effort to communicate and improve ourselves through the dialectic, friends will blossom and adversaries will make themselves apparent (this is way cool). But as a recovering Kool-Aid® drinker who has been burned too many times to ever again worry what one person/clique or another thinks about what options may be facing ME, I have learned that people who respect themselves and one another are the ones from which the most can be learned.
This blog is just a tiny speck in a big old universe, so if you’re inclined to bring in ill feelings, negatively bait people or otherwise annoyingly troll someone you don’t even know, then I would prefer you move along. Blue language is liberally tolerated save in the context of ad hominem affronts toward fellow commentators, whereby it is frowned upon.
For those not inclined to comment publicly there is always my email.
Thanks,
O’ Tim
President, MTIH editorial board
P.S. - Thanks to David Rochester for offering up some basic rules that I think should be spread far and wide across the blogiverse:
And the disclaimer David came up with is pretty handy (and is just fine in all CAPS, D.R.):
THE COMMENTS ABOVE WERE NOT DIRECTED AT ANYONE PERSONALLY. THEY WERE GENERATED BY SEVERAL MONTHS' WORTH OF OBSERVATION AND REFLECTION. ANY PERCEIVED RESEMBLANCE TO BLOGGERS LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
.
Recently I came across a blog post that stated how easy it is for misunderstandings to occur in Blogovia, and that sometimes private negotiations clear things up better than public discourse, where tangents can distract from finding a solution.
I can relate, having been involved in several such dust-ups since I started blogging, and I am inspired by several comments as well as my desire for understanding and peace to post the official MTIH blog policy/mission statement:
Welcome. This being a big old blogosphere, I'm grateful that from among millions you have happened by. I welcome all grown-ups who have the desire for intelligent discussion and humorous chat.
I am not easily offended. Realize now that unless you're my family, my friends or possibly my boss then I don't care much what you think about me, or more accurately, about what I write. You should know this is generally not a place for the thin-skinned.
That said, as blogging is part of an effort to communicate and improve ourselves through the dialectic, friends will blossom and adversaries will make themselves apparent (this is way cool). But as a recovering Kool-Aid® drinker who has been burned too many times to ever again worry what one person/clique or another thinks about what options may be facing ME, I have learned that people who respect themselves and one another are the ones from which the most can be learned.
This blog is just a tiny speck in a big old universe, so if you’re inclined to bring in ill feelings, negatively bait people or otherwise annoyingly troll someone you don’t even know, then I would prefer you move along. Blue language is liberally tolerated save in the context of ad hominem affronts toward fellow commentators, whereby it is frowned upon.
For those not inclined to comment publicly there is always my email.
Thanks,
O’ Tim
President, MTIH editorial board
P.S. - Thanks to David Rochester for offering up some basic rules that I think should be spread far and wide across the blogiverse:
1) Everyone is in fact entitled to his own opinion.
2) Personal insults don't facilitate a rational exchange of ideas, and should
probably be avoided.
3) There's not much to be gained by engaging someone in an argument who will never see your point and who chooses to be insulting, unless you get something out of descending to the two-year-old level.
4) Before taking something personally, perhaps one should take a moment to reflect upon the probable intent of the person who wrote it.
5) Freedom of speech . . . it's a wonderful thing. Let's enjoy it while we can, folks.
And the disclaimer David came up with is pretty handy (and is just fine in all CAPS, D.R.):
THE COMMENTS ABOVE WERE NOT DIRECTED AT ANYONE PERSONALLY. THEY WERE GENERATED BY SEVERAL MONTHS' WORTH OF OBSERVATION AND REFLECTION. ANY PERCEIVED RESEMBLANCE TO BLOGGERS LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
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