Inside Man

Among the “benefits” of being fifty-one years old and the owner of a hemorrhoid and family history of colon cancer is the necessity for occasional colonoscopies. (For those of you not well versed in the intricacies of invasive medical procedures, a colonoscopy involves sending a fiber optic tube approximately 75 feet up your ass to take pictures of your innards. Think I exaggerate? It wasn’t your asshole.)

The first impression I got of yesterday’s procedure was the warning that the laxative I had to drink should be ingested through a straw, “to get it past the taste buds.” Doesn’t that sound promising? I hadn’t tasted anything this nasty since Lady Voldemort and I went our separate ways.

There’s more to do than just drinking Liquid Plumber for Humans. My pre-procedure fast lasted forty-two hours. That’s a long time for a 240-pound man. Calling it a “fast” is a misnomer; time had not moved this slowly since I left Lady Voldemort. (I know, that’s two paragraphs in a row. Having things shoved up my ass must bring her to mind.)

Forty-two hours doesn’t seem like much compared to Gandhi’s hunger strikes, but look at the context. Gandhi didn’t weigh a buck-twenty-five, even if his diaper was wet. I need twice as much food just to maintain weight. Plus, food obviously takes a more elevated place in my pantheon of pleasures than his. (That’s why I weigh 240, right?)

Aside from that, what did Gandhi eat, and how much of a sacrifice was it to skip three, four, or fifty meals? To me, anything eaten that doesn’t have at least some meat in it is a snack, not a meal. My relatively brief fast allowed cattle to sleep easier than anything since the advent of Chick Fil-A.

So it’s the morning of the procedure. I’m starving, and my butt’s been wiped more times than Tom Cruise has been asked to come out of the closet. I talk to the doctor for a few minutes, and he steps out of sight and gets quiet. For all I know he left the room. Just about the time I start to wonder when the hell they’re going to get this show on the road, the nurse offers me something to drink.

It’s over. I missed it. The anesthesia was so quick and so good, I didn’t even have to count backward from one hundred. If I did, I don’t remember it. Nothing to complain about here, right? An invasive procedure rendered so painless I missed it. Couldn’t be better.

Maybe. Problem is, did I get scoped at all? Sure, they gave me color pictures. What difference does that make? Could you pick your colon out of a photo array? For all I know, they could have played tic-tac-toe on my bare ass with felt-tipped pens. It’s not like I can see back there.

It’s all about trust. (Let’s face it, if pulling down your pants and allowing strangers to knock you out without any supervision isn’t all about trust, I don’t know what is.) The good news is that recent advances in technology have allowed them to make the fiber optic tubes both longer, and more flexible. So now I not only know my colon is clean, I don’t have any cavities, either.

Be Careful What You Ask For

Barack Obama has spent the past several months becoming the unstoppable force du jour in the Democratic Party’s presidential field. Obama makes a good candidate: he’s young, he’s bright, his speeches don’t sound like we heard it all before (which is what I think Joe Biden meant when he called Obama “articulate”).

Obama’s a person of color, but not so much color he’ll offend too many in the powerful White Bread voting bloc. Some of his alleged peers don’t think he’s black enough; if they’d prefer four more years of the Republic Party’s “compassion,” less power to them.

There’s one thing to consider before the Obama train leaves the station. It’s a name not often associated with him, belonging to a person who can provide an important lesson on the pitfalls of voting for someone before you know enough about him: John McCain.

I’ll admit to having been in the tank for McCain. I voted for him twice in 2000: I crossed over to vote in the Republic primary, then wrote him in during the general election. I admired his straight talk, and his willingness to break with party orthodoxy. Six months ago, I couldn’t wait to vote for him again.

Boy, is my face red.

McCain has devoted 2007 to proving he is the basest kind of political whore, so overcome by ambition he’ll say anything, to anybody, if he thinks there’s a vote in it. Hillary Clinton is justly vilified for her constant triangulation; McCain has slipped into the realm of quadrangulation.

First he sucked up to those who stabbed him in the back in 2000. “Good politics,” was the justification. “He’ll tack toward the center for the general election.” Wrong answer. What made McCain special was his ability to portray himself as apart from politics as usual. That’s why so many Democrats crossed over for him. It’s a sad commentary on the American electorate that we only remember what a candidate said five minutes ago, and twenty years ago. What is said during the primaries to get the fringes to vote – from the left or right – apparently doesn’t count come November.

Then there was last week’s horrifying interview with the New York Times. When asked for his position on the Iraq war, McCain said, “I have no Plan B,” which meant, in that context, no alternative to victory.

McCain elaborates in the next paragraph. Quoting from the Times :

He said that if the Bush administration's plan had not produced visible signs of progress by the time a McCain presidency began, he might be forced—if only by the will of public opinion—to end American involvement in Iraq.
"I do believe that history shows us Americans will not continue to support an overseas engagement involving the loss of American lives for an unlimited period unless they see some success," he said. "And then, when they run out of patience, they will demand that we get out."

McCain will cut and run if politics demands. How is this different from the Democrat’s "reckless"… game of "small politics" that "gives them an advantage in the next election" while denying "our soldiers the means to prevent an American defeat." (Excerpt taken from Slate magazine, quoting McCain’s recent speech at VMI.) It’s not. So much for character.

I’m not comparing Obama to McCain; that would be worse than racism. I’m just saying I’d like to see him around for a bit to gauge the level of his ambition before going all in on him.

Politics at Its Worst

Is there anything lower than Hillary Clinton’s contortionist triangulations? Or John McCain’s outright duplicity on the war? Pikers, both of them. Rank amateurs.

Are you already growing tired of the 2008 presidential campaign, even though it’s only mid-April of 2007? Sick of the self-serving and disingenuous statements each candidate feels obligated to trot out on a regular basis? That’s nothing compared to what you’re about to be subjected to until January of 2013, when the Baseball Hall of Fame votes on whether Barry Bonds should be included.

A seminal event occurred last January that transformed Barry’s personality. (An external event is the only thing seminal left to Barry, given the years of steroid abuse.) What could it be? The birth of a child? The death of someone close to him? A near-tragic experience of his own? We’re getting warmer. Hall of Fame voters passed over Mark McGwire for admission.

On paper, McGwire was more than qualified. 583 home runs, 12 All-Star games, 3 Silver Slugger Awards. He led his league in home runs 4 times and is the all-time leader in fewest at bats per home run. (Bonds is third, behind Babe Ruth.) That’s an HOF resume, but McGwire didn’t get close. Why not?

The S-word.

McGwire looked like an idiot testifying before Congress, parsing his words like a Bush press secretary. He was caught with the androstenedione, and hemmed and hawed his way around admitting to more extensive steroid use. The media types who vote for the Hall had a moment of righteous indignation and voted him out. What will happen next time is anyone’s guess.

Imagine Barry’s plight. Poster child for the symptoms of steroid abuse. Under investigation of perjury charges. Quite possibly the biggest asshole in the known world. (Face it, it’s either him or Dick Cheney.) Treated sportswriters like something to be wiped off the bottom of his shoe for years. Didn’t need them. His numbers spoke for him.

Now McGwire’s example shows numbers alone might not be enough. Oops.

Meet soft and fuzzy Barry. Kissing up to writers, though he probably knows which ones have votes, and which don’t. Talking about all the great memories he has of Pittsburgh, and how he would have stayed had the Pirates’ ownership had a clue.

That should cinch his perjury charge right there. Barry Bonds couldn’t get out of The Burgh fast enough. Shot off his mouth every chance he got. The Burgh didn’t exactly rip Barry’s clothes trying to get him to stay. After Barry’s concentrated bridge burning effort, capped off by the infamous Children’s Hospital ball-signing fiasco, the city was happy to settle for booing him on his returns as a visiting Giant.

The Barry Bonds Image Resurrection Tour will be at a ballpark near you throughout the summer. You may also look forward to repeated media sightings after he finally pulls the plug and starts the five-year countdown toward HOF eligibility.

Remember when Deion Sanders said the NFL should change the name of the cornerback position to Deion? That’s the relationship Barry has to “asshole.” Don’t let the new stump speech fool you.

Not Much to Add

Here's a frightening look into what's being done in our name by our government. I challenge anyone to debate the validity of this practice with me in comments.

Just so long as it's not done anonymously. This guy was willing to use his name; the Post held it back. Anyone willing to stand behind what he says here can at least leave a handle.

The Second Greatest Insult

You know what hurts? When your Spousal Equivalent adds someone to The List who’s standing right in front of you.

Last week the Crazy Like Me Correspondent and I went to a book signing by mystery author Robert Crais. His books are favorites of ours, and I’d heard good things about his personal appearances.

Crais started writing for television shows like Hill Street Blues, Cagney and Lacey, and Miami Vice thirty years ago. He’s been exclusively a novelist since 1987.

That’s the resume of a man in his middle fifties, right? I always figured the youngish-looking stud on his book jackets was the product of an old or airbrushed photograph, recycled to protect the author’s delicate vanity.

Imagine my surprise when a trim, compact guy who could have passed for forty walked into the room. He had smile lines around his eyes, probably because he smiles so much. He was witty, funny (not always the same thing), and self-effacing without the affectation of false modesty. I, of course, am none of the above, and immediately hated him with a zest and vigor only a mature and dedicated misanthrope can attain.

We weren’t ten minutes into his appearance when Craze nudged me and whispered, “He’s on The List.”

(Editor’s Note: For those of you not hip to The List, each partner is allowed up to ten celebrities with whom a casual sexual encounter would not be considered cheating. It can’t be someone either of you already knows, and must be a person of whose celebrity others would be aware. The List is a living document. My current incarnation includes Nicole Kidman, Elle McPherson, Cate Blanchett (Australia is my dream vacation), Emma Thompson, Uma Thurman, and couple of others whose names escape me but I’d know them if I saw them.)

Adding someone to the list while he’s standing less than thirty feet away, separated by only fours rows of people so bereft of social life that a book signing is high Friday night entertainment, is gauche. Telling me about it in real time only adds insult to injury. I’m going to have to watch her every second now.

The greatest insult? When your hand falls asleep while masturbating. Don’t ask.

A Date Which Will Live in Infamy

The first day at a new gig is always stressful. (No, I haven’t changed jobs. I’m at two years and counting, nearing my longest tenure for any position that didn’t have “unemployed,” or “musician,” or both associated with it.) Monday was my first day at [Government Agency Name Redacted]. Clearing security, getting a badge, trying to accurately put names to at least ten percent of the new faces – all took priority over remembering my hat and gloves. It wasn’t that cold when I left the house.

It was when I got back to the car. The first day at [Government Agency Name Redacted] went well, thanks to being properly prepared, and not becoming distracted by little things like my hat and gloves. Or turning off my lights when I parked my car. You know how most people, when the car doesn’t start, try it three, four, nine times, in case it wasn’t really dead, just sleeping? Not this time. One try was enough. Not a sound. It was like trying to start a brick.

Fortunately for me, the Crazy Like Me Correspondent was parked close by. (She may be Crazy Like Me, but she is definitely Smarter Than Me.) We took two cars because I started work before she did. We came back together because the Beltway Correspondent and the Music Education Correspondent were waiting at the latter’s home with a hot meal. AAA would be available later. The car could wait.

The Music Education Correspondent has eclectic taste in food. Last time she made what appeared to be Mongolian Yakdick in a sterno sauce. Tasty, if a little chewy. Knowing I was about to spend at least an hour freezing my hindquarters off waiting for the tow truck, I was looking forward to consuming the hindquarters of some unfortunate quadruped to make it a break-even proposition.

The joke was on me. The MEC decided Monday was a good night for a bacchanal of vegetarianism. Spinach lasagna. A salad with vegetables I couldn’t even identify. I found out later some of them were beets. Russian peasants ate beets to keep from starving at Stalingrad. I doubt George W. Bush has our troops fighting and dying in Iraq to preserve our right to eat beets. (I have no idea why he still has our troops fighting and dying in Iraq, but I’m willing to bet eating beets isn’t it.)

A chocolate dessert might hold me over. It would have, too, had there been any. Plum pudding. Flaming plum pudding. The MEC got a little carried way with the igniter fluid (or the “accelerant,” as the arson investigator put it) and we almost had to call Red Adair to put the thing out.

(It’s our turn to host next time. Here’s the menu: Pork cops stuffed with ground beef, covered with thick gravy. A side of bratwurst, boiled in a light beer sauce, then seared over a hot grill. A salad of thinly-sliced salami, pepperoni, cappicola; provolone and mortadella cheese, with finely crumbled feta, topped by a single slice of onion as a garnish. Dessert will be frozen meatsicles.)

I called AAA; a truck would be there within ninety minutes. Craze drops me off, and I sit. I can’t read, because there’s no light. I have a flashlight, but I’m saving the battery in case I need it to signal the tow truck in this big ass parking lot. (Only smart decision I made all day.) At least I’m out of the wind, which is gusting hard enough to shake the car.

And it’s cold. Not Chicago freeze-the-hair-in-your-nose-together cold, but cold for this area. Twenty, with luck. Just as I wondered if I should have accepted the Crazy Like – I mean Smarter Than Me Correspondent’s offer to borrow the blanket from her car, the tow truck arrives.

Two nice guys, made even nicer by how happy I was to see them. I palmed a twenty for a tip while they got their little jump box out of the truck. I’d never seen one before. About the size of a small briefcase, with one end of a set of jumper cables sticking out of it. Hook it up, turn the key, and the car starts.

And it did, too. They advised me to let it run, charge things up a little. I’m game, even though standing in the wind is giving my ears the supple quality of carved gargoyles. (Forgot my hat, too, remember?) Just as I’m ready to call it fixed, one of them decides to shut the car off and re-start it, just to be on the safe side.

Good idea, with one hitch. The car wouldn’t start. It clicked like it was thinking about it, but no dice. Whether it was because of an improper charge, or because they left it hooked up too long to my parasite of a car, the jump box is now an inert lump. Even worse, their confidence in the jump box was such that they don’t carry cables anymore. There I sat, not five feet from a tow truck battery that could jump start the Eisenhower, and Sling Blade and his partner don’t have any cables. My erstwhile saviors spent twenty minutes flagging down passing motorists. They even stopped another tow truck. I could hear him laughing all the way over at my car.

They called AAA and asked for another truck. AAA called me back to apologize, and tell me one would be there in half an hour. He’d better, because all this calling back and forth, plus extended usage at work while my phone got set up, has drained my cell’s battery. If Plan B doesn’t work, I can’t even call home for a ride.

Plan B arrived, the car started, and I arrived at home a mere fifteen hours after I left. I take great pride for showing enough restraint that Craze didn’t feel compelled to move out. This restraint is a relatively new addition to my repertoire. (Ask the Sole Heir’s mother, or Lady Voldemort.) I have to go now. I’m having my gloves surgically attached to my wrists.

For Want of a Tooth

The following appeared on MSNBC.com today:

Twelve-year-old Deamonte Driver died of a toothache Sunday.

A routine, $80 tooth extraction might have saved him.

If his mother had been insured.

If his family had not lost its Medicaid.

If Medicaid dentists weren't so hard to find.

If his mother hadn't been focused on getting a dentist for his brother, who had six rotted teeth.

By the time Deamonte's own aching tooth got any attention, the bacteria from the abscess had spread to his brain, doctors said. After two operations and more than six weeks of hospital care, the Prince George's County boy died.

To paraphrase John Scalzi’s excellent blog, I’m not going to complain about Medicaid, or the lack of dentists who accept it. I’m not going to rip the government (federal, state, or federal), nor criticize his family for letting things slide so far.

In a nation of such obvious wealth, blame need not be assessed for such an event. It’s a sin. Period.

Another Adherent to the Hypocritic Oath

The following lede appeared in Yahoo News last Thursday:

The lawyer for a former Baptist church leader who had spoken out against homosexuality said Thursday the minister has a constitutional right to solicit sex from an undercover policeman.

I think “former” may be the key word there. The Constitution may be mute on this point, but I hope his congregation – excuse me, former congregation – has something to say about it.

Toensing Up for a Fight

Every so often some allegedly responsible and respected authority goes so far off the rails that common sense demands a public flogging. Today’s subject is Victoria Toensing, described by the Washington Post “a deputy assistant attorney general in the Reagan administration, [currently] a Washington lawyer.” In other words, a member of the Republic Party.

Ms. Toensing fancies herself not just a brilliant legal scholar, but clever. Her op-ed piece, “Trial in Error,” is written in the form of a legal brief, defending Scooter Libby from as nefarious a conspiracy of ne’er-do-wells as have trod the earth since The New Deal.

According to her screed, if Libby is on trial, then so should the following: Special Prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald, the CIA, Joe Wilson, the media, Ari Fleischer, Richard Armitage, and the Justice Department.

On what grounds? Fleischer, for doing just as Libby is alleged to have done, lie under oath about who he told what about Valerie Plame. DOJ, for abdicating their responsibility by appointing Fitzgerald in the first place. Everyone else? For ignoring what she considers to be a time-honored tradition of ignoring perjury if the lies don’t cover up a crime.

Her logic: Plame was not undercover, so no one was legally prohibited from talking about her. Since talking about her was not a crime, lying under oath about talking about her is also not a crime. Therefore, Libby stands unjustly accused.

Toensing’s premise that Plame was not undercover is refuted in tedious detail here. It’s the lesser of her offenses, a mere misstatement of facts. Republicans have made a science of that for several years now. It’s the entire premise of her piece that offends common sense. If Libby is unjustly accused because there’s no perjury without a precedent crime, then what the fuck was the rationale for impeaching Bill Clinton?

I occasionally back away from political comment because even I think I sound like a broken record. (For those of you too young to remember broken records, ask someone.) Still, the disingenuousness of Republican comment over the past six years continues unabated, and must be contested. We all know what happens when the same lies are told often enough and shrilly enough. And we all know what happens after that.

What's in a Name?

I taught a class for an internet computer application several months ago, and a discussion emerged about Apache Web Servers. For those less familiar with the inner workings of the web, Apache is a common, and well-respected, software that actually hosts and serves up the web sites you see when you’re surfing.

One class member asked repeatedly and pointedly why it was named Apache. I didn’t know, but inferred from his tone and insistence that he was somewhat put out, if not offended.

My curiosity being what it is, I found out where the name came from, and emailed him the following, from Apache’s entry in Wikipedia:

The author claims the name was initially chosen as a catchy name in order to be original, but the most widespread interpretation (which almost immediately surfaced) is that the name comes from the fact that when it was developed in early 1995, it consisted of changes in the code to the most popular HTTP server of the time, NCSA HTTPd 1.3 and was therefore "a patchy" server. However, in the FAQ on the server's official site, it is stated: "The name 'Apache' was chosen from respect for the Native American Indian tribe of Apache (Indé), well-known for their superior skills in warfare strategy and their inexhaustible endurance.

He graciously thanked me for my reply, including this phrase in his email:

In one aspect it seems like it could be honorable to the Apache nation that the company chose the name and in another it seems kind of insensitive.

I’m tempted to write back to tell him further research has shown the name was originally supposed to be Godless Dirt Worshipper, but that didn’t test market well, especially in Oklahoma and the Great Plains.

This is why I don’t have any friends.

A Glutton For Punishment

Yesterday I took Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid to task because he lacked the huevos and chutzpah to do anything like what Republicans just did unto him back when we were losing civil liberties faster than Ford loses money. Imagine my surprise this morning when I received the following email, from none other than Senator Reid himself:

Dear Friend, (Bad start. A man only calls another man “friend” in two circumstances: he’s a Quaker, or he’s thinking of kicking the other guy’s ass. Picture Richard Boone in Hombre.)

Senator Reid continues:

There are very few men and women in America who believe the Iraq war is not worthy of debate. They are the Republican Members of the United States Senate. Yesterday, they did our country a grave disservice…

By voting against a real debate on Iraq, Republicans voted in favor of the President's plan to escalate the war. Numerous Republican Senators are on the record opposing this escalation. Do these Republicans stand with the President or do they stand with the American people?

Help me send a message to Republicans in the Senate.

Help you? How about send it for you, since you have already failed. If one message came out of the recent election, it’s that the American people want a debate on the Iraq war. The Elephant Men saw a chance to snooker Reid, and took it. I’d be madder if it indicated anything beyond their superiority in playing the Senate rules game.

I didn’t email any Republican senators. I’m not a contributor, and many of them are already ignoring their constituents. The guy I wrote to was Harry Reid, in a reply to the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee email I received:

Dear Senator Reid,

I have a question. Can someone please explain to me how the Republican minority can hold up a non-binding resolution through the exercise of Parliamentary procedure, and, I presume, the threat of a filibuster, while you were unable to take similar action during your tenure in the minority to halt (or even slow down) the Military Commissions Act, the suspension of habeas corpus, and various other offenses to our Constitutional rights, and to common sense?

I am regularly accosted for contributions by enthusiastic, eager, young Democrats here on the streets of Washington. A life-long Democrat, I'm telling you what I tell them: I'll not give a dime to see the party be run in the same feckless manner as we have been forced to become accustomed.

I liked using feckless. It almost sounds dirty. Not nearly as offensive as seeing “Majority Leader” and “Harry Reid” strung together, though.

The Peter Principle - A Case Study

The Democratic Party today announced a plea for someone, anyone, to please forward a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order to Harry Reid, c/o The U.S. Senate Majority Leader’s Office. It seems the Republican minority has already stifled what Senator Reid considered his primary order of business: passing a non-binding resolution.

It may be recalled that Senator Reid, until recently Senate Minority Leader, was unable to muster such a parliamentary challenge to the Military Commissions Act, the more onerous provisions of the Patriot Act, of the suspension of habeas corpus. Looks like the Majority Leader job may be too much for him, and he’d like his old job back.

Sheer Genius

Among the many things I learned as a musician is an appreciation of talent. Hard work is indispensable for success, but it’s not enough. People who are inordinately successful have talent.

Pete Rose probably worked harder than any baseball player ever. He still didn’t hit .303 without eye-hand coordination most of us can only imagine. Doc Severinsen will be 80 in July. The amount of time he’s had a mouthpiece actually touching his lips can probably be measured in decades. He was also the trumpet champion of Oregon when he was nine years old.

I envy those who have a talent I’d like, but lack. (Pete Rose and Doc Severinsen come to mind.) I try to make the most of the talents I have, and have little regard for those who waste their own gifts. This is why I stand in awe of Virginia Delegate Frank Hargrove.

Insulting people isn’t as easy as it looks. I’ve written and said quite a few things that pissed people off, but rarely has anyone felt truly insulted, even when I make an effort. That takes true insensitivity. Delegate Hargrove managed to offend and insult two diverse groups of people in virtually consecutive sentences last week. (Three groups, if you count people with a brain in their heads.)

Virginia’s history of sensitivity toward those unlike themselves (read: not white Protestants) is distinctive. Shamed into making the third Monday in January a holiday to coincide with the Federal Martin Luther King Day, Virginia created the Lee-Jackson-King holiday so two Confederate icons wouldn’t feel left out while those boys celebrated that Nigruh’s birthday. (The holidays were finally split in 2000.)

Before the Virginia Legislature is a bill that, if passed, would officially apologize to blacks for Virginia’s two hundred plus years of slavery. Common sense dictates any comments be kept innocuous, especially for Republicans fresh off of George Allen’s “macaca” gaffe. Delegate Hargrove apparently has his own definition of innocuous.

“I personally think that our black citizens should get over it,” Hargrove said of slavery. “Are we going to force the Jews to apologize for killing Christ?”

Oh, baby. A two-bagger. Regardless of your sentiments on either comment, I think we can all agree that for an elected official to say that, on the record, is bad taste at a Bushian level. As an outright display of public stupidity, it’s absolutely Sharpton-esque.

I bow to a master. This grasshopper has so much to learn, and so little time.

The Eyes of the Beholder

The Outfit – A Collective of Chicago Crime Writers is an informative and entertaining blog co-written by seven crime fiction writers. Each has a unique perspective and writing style. The posts come in an essentially random progression as each writer latches onto a topic of interest. The end result is an potpourri of everything from fiction to writing analysis to home improvement tips.

Earlier this week, Kevin Guilfoile wrote this thought-provoking piece on how all writing is subject to interpretation. The post itself invites interpretation, and the odds are excellent what I took away from it is not what Guilfoile intended. Still, he touched on a couple of pet peeves that limbered up my fingers for the keyboard.

During Guilfoile’s recent publicity tour, an interviewer started riffing on the intricate and detailed Biblical references in his book. Guilfoile was impressed with her perspicacity and insight, not to mention her knowledge of arcane Biblical references. (Arcane to me; they might be common knowledge to someone of less heretical bent.) He admitted that she was absolutely right, with one caveat: he hadn’t been thinking of any of that when he wrote it.

This episode points out an old gripe of mine that kept me from reading fiction for twenty years. I still bear scars from a seventh-grade English class, where I was tasked with finding the “theme” of a Sherlock Holmes story. “Why did Doyle write this story?” the teacher asked. “What is he trying to say?” I gave her the standard twelve-year-old’s tripe along the lines of “crime doesn’t pay.” Subsequent (and shallow) scholarship taught me what I should have written: Doyle wrote the story for money. At some deep, possibly subconscious level, he was saying he needed – or wanted – more money than he had. Sherlock was a purely commercial enterprise to Doyle; he didn’t like his greatest creation much. While all good commercial fiction has depth to it, implying too much profundity does a disservice to both writer and audience. Sometimes a cigar is just a smoke.

Guilfoile later discusses a review of a book by an unnamed author. The critic (thankfully, also unnamed) unleashes this burst of literary opulence as part of his praise:

To read this book with anything like comprehension, a person has to be, like its polymath author, both intellectual and hip, a person mature and profoundly well read and yet something of a true marginal, a word-nerd with the patience of Job. In my charitable estimate that would describe about five out of 500 people that I know.

Guilfoile himself likes the book, and its author, so don’t be too put off by the critic’s snobbery. The example does bring us to the second of my vexations: the idea that great literature can only be appreciated by at best one percent of the reading population. (I’m no Stephen Hawking, but five divided by 500 is one percent.) Since I’m sure the critic only knows people already in the upper strata of intellectual accomplishment, we’re talking maybe the top one percent of that one percent.

How does that make it great? It can be argued for literature to be great, its message should resonate with more than a handful of people out of a full Airbus, or it becomes somewhat of a masturbatory exercise for intellectuals to trade snarky comments to each other about how dumb everyone else is. Writing to be understood by a small, self-defining group is more likely to make a good textbook than great literature.

This phenomenon is not confined to writing. I have a Masters degree in music, and it used to put me off when people unaware of my education would comment on a piece of music I didn’t care for in such a manner as to imply I just wasn’t elevated enough to get it. Now I think it’s funny, their way of self-perpetuating a sense of being better than someone else, or being smarter, or hipper. It ignores a simple fact: anyone can write a book that no one understands. Writing doesn’t become art because you have to think to read it, but because you’ll think about it.

Thanks to Mr. Guilfoile for writing something that passed that test. I don’t know if these are the thoughts he had in mind, and I hope he doesn’t think I missed the boat altogether. But, as his post so eloquently states, that’s the chance he takes when he lets others read his stuff.

Clueless Near Seattle

It is often said that small business is the bulwark of the American economy. If that is true, this post falls under the category Good News/Bad News.

The following quote was attributed to Idaho restaurant owner Rob Elder in the current issue of Newsweek:

"At $5.15 an hour, I get zero applicants-or maybe a guy with one leg who wouldn't pass a drug test."

Rob is lamenting the fact that neighboring Washington state’s minimum wage is $7.98/hour, the highest in the nation. It is implied that he welcomes the prospect of Congress increasing the minimum wage nationally, allowing him to better compete with Washington business for qualified employees.

The good news is that Rob proves not all small business owners have a knee-jerk reaction against raising the minimum wage.

The bad news is that it has obviously never occurred to him that the minimum wage is just that: a minimum. There’s nothing to prevent him from paying more. It looks like Rob considers his employees to minimum wage earners – whatever the minimum wage might be – and unfit to be paid any more than he absolutely has to.

Maybe that’s another part of the reason people aren’t lined up around the block to work for him.

Older Than Dirt. Dumber, Too.

Lost in the current Iraq turmoil is the Bush Administration’s perverse lack of honesty, intellectual or otherwise, in every facet of government. Take the National Park Service. “What possible pervasive disingenuousness could hinder the Park Service?” might be among the questions that spring to mind. Just don’t ask who old the Grand Canyon is, or how it was created.

Those not asking can currently buy Grand Canyon: A Different View, by Tom Vail, at any of the park’s book stores. The book explains how the canyon was created by the great flood. You remember, the one where Noah saved two of each living creature, including, apparently, all 900,000 species of insects. Poor Noah must have got them all, since nothing has evolved and God quit Creating after the first Saturday.

Aside from foisting a book of such dubious scholarship (read: none) on the public, park rangers current labor under a gag order much stronger than anything Scooter Libby’s grand jury heard of. The official response of all National Park Service employees to questions about the Grand Canyon’s age is, “No comment.”

An e-mail recently circulated, allegedly written by well-known social commentator Ben Stein. (Stein was the boring science teacher in The Wonder Years, and had a highly entertaining game show on Comedy Central for several years.) In the e-mail, Stein laments how those who believe in God in America are under daily assault from the forces of Evil.

Which America is he living in? Certainly not the one where right-wing religious zealots control government policy on matters ranging from the age of the Grand Canyon to Shrub’s Messianic insistence on his right to wage war against any Muslims, wherever he finds them.

The relative triviality of the Grand Canyon controversy is more than valid. Here’s the equation it represents: science has a pile of evidence as high as the Grand Canyon is deep, and fundamentalist Christians have the Bible.

The Bible failure to mention the creation of the Grand Canyon is damning in itself. You’d think God would be all over getting credit for that one. It’s a keeper, much better work than His work on leeches, or New Jersey.

Here’s something to ponder for those who assert the Bible’s infallibility: God didn’t write it. Each book was passed down for hundreds of years by word of mouth and translated God knows how many times. Even if we concede it was originally passed from God’s lips to Moses’ (Abraham’s, Noah’s, take your pick’s) ears, can anyone look you in the eye and say nothing got changed? Books that used to be in the Bible are no longer there. Were they no less the Word of God in their time?

Translation is a whole other issue, as so much of translation is in the mind of the translator. Translating anything word-by-word rarely, if ever, gives the true meaning of what was intended. Interpretations have to be made, and anything subject to interpretation is open to argument. Witness figure skating judges. Or Hall of Fame voters.

Even punctuation comes into play. Punctuation is a relatively recent invention; early Bibles had none. Observe the difference the placement of a simple comma can have, from Lynne Truss’ excellent book on punctuation, Eats, Shoots and Leaves:

“Verily, I say unto thee, This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”
And:
“Verily I say unto thee this day, Thou shalt be with me in Paradise.”
Now, huge doctrinal differences hang on the placing of this comma. The first version, which is how Protestants interpret the passage (Luke, xxiii, 43), lightly skips over the whole unpleasant business of Purgatory and takes the crucified thief straight to Heaven with Our Lord. The second promises Paradise at some later date (to be confirmed, as it were) and leaves Purgatory nicely in the picture for Catholics, who believe in it.

So enough about the absolute infallibility of the Bible. Christians themselves can’t even agree on what’s in it.

Don’t confuse a belief in the Higher Power of your choice with religion. Religion is a set of arbitrary rules, created by humans, primarily to keep other humans in line. Do you really think it’s a coincidence that Christianity is fraught with rules laid down by a relatively few educated, powerful, and wealthy men, most of which involve telling people living in shit up to their necks that when they die everything gets better, and those living the lives of luxury (and keeping the losers in shit up to their neck) will get their come-uppance in the end? Considering the general state of ignorance and poverty in what the heyday of religion (now known as The Dark Ages), how hard a sell do you think that was?

“But it’s faith,” they argue. “You have to believe.” Faith, as practiced by contemporary religious types (Christian, Muslim, take your pick), consists of being confronted with the pile of evidence mentioned above and saying, “Are you going to believe me, or your lying eyes?” True Believers argue for the fallibility of science by pointing out how scientific ideas change (evolve) over time, asking how anyone can be sure they’re right this time. Asking is the whole point of science.
Knowledge is an elusive quarry; every incremental step just brings us closer. To accept things on faith alone would have us still believing the Universe rotates around the Earth.

Faith is the final refuge of those who don’t want to think anymore. Life is often a confounding series of seemingly random events where the good guys don’t always win. Good people get sick and die; bad guys prosper. It can be difficult to accept all of this without wanting to think there’s a greater plan that we can’t begin to grasp from our remote perspective. Believe what you want; it’s still a (relatively) free country. Just don’t make it public policy that yours is the only “right” way. Don’t even think about compelling me to think, act, or believe like you.

There’s no need to step away from the lightning bolt I have earned by my blasphemy. There’s no blasphemy here. Heresy, sure. I can live with heresy. A little heresy is a good thing. No man is infallible. Every authority could use some constructive questioning from time to time.

The Grand Canyon is as old as dirt. Those who would argue it’s not are as dumb.

January Faces Both Ways

The news has picked up after the holidays, and the primary question for any blogger is, “Where to start?”

The now-minority Republicans are whining about the trampling of their rights by the big, mean Democrats. A few Republican pipsqueaks even re-submitted the Minority Bill of Rights, first circulated by then-Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi in 2004, when she was trying to get then-Majority Leader Tom DeLay's cowboy boot off her throat. That request was laughed aside. Now the Prada pump is on the other foot, and the GOP (which now stands for Grumpy Old Pussies) want the same treatment they denied Democrats.

What's fair? Pelosi and her peers promised bipartisanship, so some accommodation is in order. Worse things could happen than for the rule changes to be delayed a few weeks, if only to show Doughboy Denny Hastert and his merry band of midgets how the other half lives, and that the status quo ante could be revived by a 233-202 vote any time the Republicans become too obstructionist.

Shrub took his turn at disingenuous behavior by calling for Congress to cut spending and balance the budget by 2012. This tasks the new majority party (not his) with the Herculean task of cleaning up his party’s mess, while ensuring not much can happen until his successor is stuck with the heavy lifting. Conveniently overlooked is the fact that the budget is whacked in the first place because the Republicans simultaneously cut taxes, increased spending, and started a war. This trifecta had never been attempted in American history. Now we know why.

Speaking of American history, Keith Ellison was sworn in as the nation’s first Muslim lawmaker. His decision to take his oath on the Koran sparked an outburst of conservative indignity unseen since the advent of Freedom Fries in the congressional cafeteria.

Those who so staunchly (and irrationally) protest any perceived affront to either the Declaration of Independence or our “Christian Values” consistently forget one thing: the man who wrote the Declaration wasn’t a Christian. Thomas Jefferson was a Deist, which shouldn’t surprise anyone who sees the wide divergence between the wish for religious freedom expressed in the Declaration and its current state of practice. In a rare example of justice, Ellison was sworn in with his left hand resting on Jefferson’s personal copy of the Koran.

Shrub also continued his unconstitutional practice of nullifying duly-passed statutes with signing statements. This time he “amended” a law prohibiting the government from opening private mail to read, “Unless I want to.” (Silly me, I thought this kind of thing was already covered by the Fourth Amendment.) Almost as bad, no one in the “watchdog” media noticed this for over two weeks, as the journalist who usually reads them is off writing a book. Hopefully it’s on the constitutionality of signing statements.

After a week like that, George F. Will advocating a minimum wage of $0.00 barely rates any space at all. Will is one of those columnists with whom I rarely agree, but often makes me think, and sometimes even changes my mind. Occasionally he writes something so dumb, it’s not worthy of comment. This is one of those times.

2007 is off and running. Let’s hope it’s not just a matter of “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

Stormy Weather

President Bush was escorted to a storm shelter when a tornado warning was issued for Crawford, TX earlier today. Mr. Bush was allowed to go about his business when someone tightened the valve in his ear and the high winds stopped.

Shared Destinies?

Ray Charles – died June, 2004
Ronald Reagan – died June 2004

James Brown – died December 2006
Gerald Ford – died December 2006

My advice is for George H.W. Bush and Little Richard to start looking out for each other.

Stocking Stuffers

The Crazy Like Me Correspondent has decided I should take care of stocking stuffing this year. Something about losing the mystery of her stocking’s contents if she does it herself.

She’s taking a risk. My idea of a perfect stocking stuffer is Nicole Kidman. I doubt that Craze and the Sole Heir share my tastes, so I had to get creative.

My first idea was to get her a deeper stocking, then watch her try unsuccessfully to reach all the way to the bottom for the small, but valuable gift I told her was there. That had the benefit of being extremely economical, since it will still be there next year.

Since the element of surprise is so important to her, I also thought of wrapping up things we already own but don’t use everyday, so they wouldn’t be missed in the days leading up to Christmas. Imagine this little Christmas surprise:

Her: Thanks, but I think I have two of these now.

Me: No, you don’t. Trust me.

I like that idea. It combines the element of surprise with a guarantee the person will like the gift. How many Christmases have you racked your brain for the perfect surprise, only to find out the recipient didn’t like it? Or found out exactly what the person wanted, but missed the joy of seeing her surprise upon opening it? Not any more. Take a favorite CD, book, video. Wrap it up, put it in her stocking. Not only will I guarantee she’ll like it, she’ll definitely be surprised.

I’ll bet in fifty years, when this is an accepted piece of Christmas tradition, I won’t even get credit for it.