Occasionally still—albeit less and less—strangers and friends of family members ask me to explain my hatred of religion. I've never been able to be verbally succinct (I'm prone to verbose rants and tangents). And especially so when the topic is morality, religious thuggery, and the discussion turns to: there is no creator, is nothingness upon death, and (most importantly) why those facts are more comforting than any of the superstitions others claim to believe in.
Rather than debate, I'd prefer everyone watch this 90 minutes as Christopher Hitchens explains.
My largest regret: the few people I love and care for who aren't aware or self-actualized enough to grasp this simple logic and who not-only prefer their fantasies, but who say they'd be more full of bliss if only I were as deluded as they.
[I don't think further explanation is necessary...but just in case my last paragraph confuses one or more of those who it's aimed at—I don't regret any of my loved ones, nor do I regret their hatred-and-miracle-based belief systems. I do regret sharing past, present, and future oxygen with ignoble hypocrites who only interrupt their vitriol with proselytizing and feigned empathy for my soul when I'm within hand-grenade range.]
*Too soon? Why? It's waaay more than a year since he successfully committed slow suicide with alcohol and nicotine.
How does an unimportant someone like me, like anyone, describe or attempt to criticize a work of art which won the highest award by one of—if not the—most famous critic?
The same way one evaluates anything: with honesty.
This parable is about the emotionless everyman who moves through his everydays without really pondering the brevity, meaning, reasons, or value of the existence he's found himself inhabiting.
The tale begins slow, choppy, and dry (the only thing keeping the reader turning pages is the knowledge that there aren't all that many to turn and the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature on the cover sparking a strong interest in learning how and why).
Halfway through the book, we understand the sad and simple motivations of the main character as we recognize that the supporting cast and bit-players are performing their roles in much the same way our neighbors and coworkers are performing theirs (albeit—or maybe because—there aren't any whom we empathize with...not even the mangy dog or abuse victim...everyone just deserves).
And, as the last pages approach, we learn what makes this story great.
You and I and everyone who has, is, or will ever breathe oxygen are The Stranger(s) and in this tale Camus has rather succinctly answered the most important question that has, is, or will ever be asked:
An amalgam of (as well as on) perfection—this philosophical compendium of prose, poetry, recipes for thinking, viewing, and living (as well as eating) captured my intellect and gorged it for about six-hundred pages (which would, obviously, be more-wonderful if it encompassed the entire 678 page book). The fact that the author lost me in a few places doesn't shine a shadow on the enormity of how De La Pava cleverly informs the reader through this fiction. Fiction? This is the truest creative non-fiction I've ever read!
If Jonathan Carroll and Gene Wolf decided to use The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (TAAoCaC) as a template to write a story about how wonderful, crazy, terrible, and perfect any and every individual's life can be...and is...it would maybe be half as good as A Naked Singularity.
In order to fully enjoy this book (just as an interest in comic books helps one's appreciation of TAAoCaC, which won 2008's Pulitzer) readers should enjoy: a good heist; should be intrigued by—and already more than a little knowledgeable of—philosophy, theology, and science; and should be cozy with how a procedural is written (legal as well as police) . . . think: Dashiell Hammett meets Descartes on their way down the rabbit hole.
I've only had this book on my 'read someday' list for about four years. It came out in 2008. I began to see it on must-read lists sometime in 09 or 10. And I didn't just postpone reading because of its size, but - mostly - because it was, initially, self-published.
I believed (and still believe) that editors and publishers perform a valuable gatekeeper-type service. They insure my money is exchanged for polished-to-perfection sentences, grammar, punctuation, and spelling, as well as a great story, deep character development, and thrilling plot exposition. The Chicago Press may not have edited A Naked Singularity as much as they could have (or at all) but once I got past the first dozen pages, I fell into the authors voice and didn't mind the run-on sentences or the occasional failed grammar.
This is a five-star book.
Even with all its miniscule flaws, it's a head and torso better than the book that won last year's (2012) Nebula and Hugo Award, and at least half-a-head better than 2008's Pulitzer (which I couldn't finish because it bored me beyond measure).
There seems to be a growing and yet infinite amount of "Best Book" lists (one maybe might want to use the term innumerable). An aggregate collection of those best-of-the-bests now contains hundreds of books—thousands when they are spread-grouped by genre/decade/language. J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey is on almost all of them and near the top of many.
When I walk into my favorite bookstore on the planet I head straight for the Gold Room where I begin browsing the Fantasy/Science Fiction shelves and then the Action/Suspense/Thriller sections before I cross the isle to take a gander at the Mysteries; if I'ven't (is a double contraction too many?) found enough to sate my brain for the coming weeks, I try the coffee shop and scan the graphic novels before walking down a few steps to the Blue Room in order to peruse the Small Press/Literature areas. Still not carrying enough? Green Room for New Release/Non-Fiction and then Sale Books.
The first reason I've avoided reading F&Z for so long is because it was in the Red Room (World Religion) or the Blue Room (Classic Literature). Also, I have a clear economic aversion against small books because I want my entertainment money to stretch and F&Z is only a four-hour book at best.
I've avoided reading F&Z for so long because when I was but twenty-one years old Mark Chapman became, overnight and forevermore, Mark David Chapman (one maybe might want to use the term with a bullet...but should immediately suppress that urge). Chapman caused me to read my first J.D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye. At the time and in hindsight, I recognize my own scorn at my least common denominator pandering and (for more than the obvious reason) I wish I could, instead, say that I learned the metaphor of Holden Caulfield's dream after a smoky-eyed Yugoslavian college girlfriend recommended it. The truth is rarely so. But. I didn't identify with Caulfield, or his surroundings, or life, or outlook. Even a little bit. And I was a full-time art college student at the time.
Franny and Zooey is non-abstract, photo-realistic, character based, and the most tightly descriptive successful balancing...nay juggling act I have ever read. With the complete human condition rendered perfectly in the center, unchallengeable objective knowledge solidly detailed on one end of the fulcrum, and spiritual belief critically explained on the other. It gets my highest recommendation. I'm really happy today was someday.
I'm pleased with the 50th anniversary edition of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (2012, Nolton & Co) not only because it includes the original last chapter which has been omitted from earlier US editions, but—more importantly—because it contains the 17-page nonfiction article, The Clockwork Condition, written after the Kubrick film catapulted Burgess onto the international stage in 1973.
Burgess's nadsat 'teen-language' caused me to quit reading this book when I, myself, first attempted it as a teenager and, later, after I saw the film, I chose not to re-attempt reading it.
I'm glad I (finally) chose to read it. Reading nadsat seemed to speed my reading rather than slow it. It entered my brain in this manner:
My nouns and I were verbing at the adjective bar when an adjective noun, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd adjective nouns across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most adverbially adjective way imaginable. Her voice sounded like it came from the adjective noun. My friend Dim made a adjectively-noun noise with his noun, which displeased me in an extreme way.
Rather quickly I began to intuit (without a glossary) that what I was reading was:
My friends and I were getting stoned at the local bar when a beautiful woman, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd older men across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most amagingly wonderful way imaginable. Her voice sounded like it came from the topmost heavens. My friend Dim made a rude-raspberry noise with his lips, which displeased me in an extreme way.
While the book's story adheres to the film's plotline reasonably close, there are a few important points where the film failed and those failures affect the intent of the author and deserve comment:
1 - Burgess's teenage gangs are all between the ages of thirteen and fifteen. Burgess's main character is in High School and the two girls he picks up at the music store are 11-year old tweens. Kubrick's gangs are all young adults and so are the women he has sex with.
2 - Burgess's main character spends several years in prison, but is still only about 17-years old when he's released from prison. Kubrick's character seems to be incarcerated a very short time and when he is released we wonder why a 24-year old is bitching at his parents for renting out his room.
Sometimes it's more important to note the absences, what's missing, than to focus on what is visibly present.
In 2002, within a few short months of each other, I stopped investigating and stopped husbanding after twenty years and ten years of service, respectfully. That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life (literally as well as figuratively).
Before I retired, my latter years as a military investigator was spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files). One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what the first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.
Example criminal case: accident or suicide - after ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) the victim apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the window and stepped out (or fell, or was pushed). The scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched and photographed in detail. Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly. Autopsy, check. Toxicology, check.
The only important thing I discovered missing: the height fallen. Nowhere in the file was there a distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk. Added confusion: the European second floor is the third floor in the US (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0). The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell. [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared almost three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating. I directed the investigators to go back and measure/document the exact distance.]
"Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief, seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental fatality case."
I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window'. My son was a good boy and I do not think that he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but even if he did, how is it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window? I could jump out of my bedroom window - on the second story of our house - and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain my ankle."
Non-sequitur:
Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house. I didn't. With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then. So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature. During which, I experimented with—among other things; some foolish, others less-so—automatic writing.
With my eyes closed, in a light meditative state, I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper. After a large much of nothing memorable the following happened:
Me: How old will I be when I die?
My right hand (eyes still closed): Fifty three.
Me: What day of the year will I die?
My right hand (eyes still closed): 31 December.
Even at the time I never paid much heed to it. Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."
Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness. One which was, then, supposed to be 31 Dec 2012.
That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.
I'm fine.
How you doin?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I am attempting to point out that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-on-our-mind, which is (may be) not thought about very often.
We would-maybe-kinda like to know when we are going to die.
We always consider it will happen sometime in the future. And not just the future. Distant future. Ten years from now. At least. We assume that it will happen when we are old. And we never think we are old. Not old enough to die of old age.
We all always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.
We rarely consider that tomorrow could be the last day. And we don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives, just like yesterday arrived—that it will almost always be unknown that it is the last day. Period. The end of the world, from our perspective, is the end. Full stop.
Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, hope I don't sprain my ankle from this second floor window is our minds last.
My suggestion is for a new national law which would immediately employ over a million people in 48 states. Because this suggested new law wouldn't effect our state or the state of New Jersey, I think this bill should be co-sponored by someone like Senator Menendez (D, NJ).
Using the Emergency Highway Energy Conservation Act of 1974 as a template, and incorporating sunset provisions (for no shorter than five years) I suggest a bill which would duplicate ORS480.315making self-service gas stations illegal nation-wide.
Additional suggested requirements which should be included in the bill (which would affect Oregon and NJ):
- Require a dispensing license (which will have a fee which is similar to an alcohol certification or a food preparation license). This training can be made available online, but could only be issued in person (by a licensed gasoline retailer) to US citizens who are at least 18 years old. (The purpose of the law is to employ out-of-work adults, not high school students and illegal immigrants.)
- Require each State Fire Marshal to employ additional Inspectors, funded by the additional fees and fines.
There are many safety and equality justifications cited as to why full-service may be better than self, but I suggest this new national law only be proposed in order to quickly employ a large quantity of Americans. I estimate this law would employ between 1.2 and 1.8 million people.
Obviously, all—or almost all—of these employees would be minimum-wage, less-than-full-time, non-benefit, employees. And, also obviously, the fuel distribution companies would raise the cost of gas and pass the added cost to the end-consumer (I estimate that the cost of gas would increase between 10 and 15 cents a gallon). None the less, the added jobs would definitely spur spending and grow our economy at a time when it is most needed.
My quick calculations indicate there would be about 240,000 gas stations affected.
I've been wondering, for some years now, about the incessant "job creation speechifying." I think if this new law were proposed by an Oregon Senator, he would be seen as proposing a fix which (because it would have no direct benefit in his state and was only an attempt to improve the national economy) would quickly employ millions of Americans.
Although this banner is riddled with wrong on many levels, it is that very fact which explains why people are drawn to it.
This is not an actual poster from the McCarthy-era (a claim made by the type of individuals who also choose to think that contrails are chemtrails and be-damned with hot exhaust/cold atmosphere physics).
Artists don't mix. They certainly are a part of all of human society no matter how one decides to pigeonhole or categorize, but—mostly—creative types don't mix very well. We try, dammit, but we don't often succeed.
Creative people want to be perceived as out-beyond-the-edge and as non-conformists. And those who are driven to create would absolutely love to wear the label: most dangerous. However, every artist I've ever known is no more threatening than a drifting cloud of condensed water vapor.
This is the first book in my Today is Someday series. I'd hoped
to like this more than I did and I hope the next should-already-have-read-classic is better. A few more like this one and my list will quickly relapse back into I'm Fine With Tomorrow Being Someday.
I
first failed to read Watership Down in High School (at that time it had been
around for only a few years and was assigned reading). I could only get through
a few chapters back then and wrote a paper from the cliff notes...as
I occasionally did when I was fifteen.
Now, I can truthfully say I've read it. I've lied to myself and others for almost forty years.
The
plot was interesting. The suspense was deftly handled. The
characters are wonderfully solid. But...the author was not able to
always keep me in the story (as I believe is the job of good authors).
Violations
of proper grammar abound. Odd, clunky, and irritating changes in
tone and point of view continually throw the reader off the page. First person becomes third person singular switches to
third person dual which slides into omniscient and then quickly shifts to detached.
It feels like two dozen short stories instead of a 24-chapter book (which made more sense to me after I read the introduction, which I did after reading the book because whenever a forty year old book contains a 'new introduction' it most-probably contains spoilers).
Then there is this type of constant foolishness:
"I need to clearly explain my dissatisfaction," Veach thought. "But I wonder what would be a good way to do that?"
"There
are some problems which could easily have been fixed with a good
editor," Veach said. "Because. Of all the many ways to smoothly mix a character's thoughts and
dialogue this, dear reader, is definitely not one of them."
Although Wes Anderson had no part in the production of this film, the director—Dennis Lee—is to Wes Anderson as Blind Melon is to Led Zeppelin.
Jesus Henry Christ is one of those 'hidden gem' feel-good films that (unfortunate for those who enjoy intelligently scripted, well-acted, films on the big screen) slipped in-to and out-of theaters almost a year ago without notice...mine, yours, or anyone else's. It's now available on all home-viewing formats. To miss it now is nobody's downloadable fault but your own.
It's not as whack-a-doodle as a Wes Anderson, but in many places it looks, feels, and sounds so much like a Royal...Aquatic... duck... (named Rush) that one may desire to pause the film and check IMDB to determine if, maybe, Mr Anderson was some kind of Producer (He was not, Julia Roberts was).
The first time I heard 'Are you trying to blow smoke up my ass?' was in this context:
Drill Sergeant: What's wrong with you private? You failed to accomplish a simple task! Why?!
Private: I thought you said, "place all open liquids in the trash can," Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (holding a green plastic bottle at eye level) What is this, Private?
Private: Shampoo, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: Is it a half-empty bottle of shampoo, Private?
Private: Yes sir.
Drill Sergeant: WHAT?
Private: Yes... Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: Why is it not in the can, Private?
Private: Because it's... I didn't think it was... liquid.
Drill Sergeant: Is it a gas?
Private: (starts to shake his head) N...
Drill Sergeant: Is it SOLID?
Private: (still shaking his head) no...
Drill Sergeant: Then what?!
Private: A.. a.. gel. Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: Are you trying to blow smoke up my ass?
Private: n... No, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (twisting the top off of the bottle) cup your hands in front of you, Private.
(At this point the Private placed his cupped palms together in front of his belt.)
Drill Sergeant: (peering closely at the side and front of the Private's face as if he were looking for the smallest flaw, or eye movement, or shift from the position of attention) PALMS UP! Are you an idiot, Private?
Private: No, Drill Sergeant!
Drill Sergeant: (tipping the bottle over the Private's hands) We. Will. See. Private. We will see.
(At this point the shampoo began to ooze out of the bottle and coat the Private's hands.)
Drill Sergeant: Does this feel like a glob of gel has fallen into your hands? Or. Does this feel like a liquid is pouring into your hands?
Private: A.. a liquid. Drill Sergeant. Sorry, Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: So you were trying to blow smoke up my ass, weren't you?
Private: No Drill Sergeant.
Drill Sergeant: (pointing) Go in that latrine. Wash the liquid soap off your hands. And get back in my formation. You have thirty seconds. GO!
(At this point the Drill Sergeant handed the bottle and cap to another Private in our formation and directed him to dispose of the bottle and return to the formation.)
Drill Sergeant: It appears that my instructions were unclear. ALL liquids are prohibited in my barracks. All medications OF ANY KIND are prohibited in my barracks. I asked if there were questions, got none, and - yet - I still found a liquid. On the command of move, you all will have another FULL MINUTE to search your belongings for liquids and medicines, dispose of them in the center trash bin, and return to the position of attention in formation. MOVE!!
(At this point some soldiers began to scramble again and more bottles of various types were thrown away. The Private returned from the latrine and the Drill Sergeant began to holler at him about the mess he made by dripping shampoo on the floor and the latrine door. The private then wiped up the drips with paper towels.)
Drill Sergeant: (over the sound of the Private counting off his push-ups) You ALL better be back in my formation by NOW! If I find ONE more liquid, or ANY medicine of ANY kind, that means you're ALL blowing smoke up my ASS!
(Three duffle bags later he found a small bottle of saline solution for soft contacts. We all began to do push ups, until it was time to do squat-thrusts, until it was time to do wish-bones, until it was time to do more push-ups.)
It is nice to know the (supposedly true) origin of the phrase. I must admit I find it difficult to take this explanation 100% seriously; even after seeing the actual device and seeing the old drawings. It's too easy to fabricate an item and fake the explanation for me to swallow anything this far fetched hook-line-and-sinker (as it were).
I have used the phrase in it's bastardized form of either "I-think-you-are-being-less-than-truthful" as well as "Stop-using-foolishly-overt-flattery-because-it-isn't-working".
Until today, if someone were to tell me about an old British custom of reviving drowned people by blowing smoke up their ass...I would have replied: "Do you believe it was a real custom? If so, I think you are blowing smoke up my ass."
But—ever willing to play devil's advocate—why be so positive it doesn't work? Just because it sounds like a bag of leeches?
I've heard about butt-chugging. I've read how Marlyn Monroe insured her last suicide attempt was successful. Is it possible that a gust of nicotine absorbed through the rectum will cause someone who just inhaled a few cups of water to violently cough?
This is a first for me: a 540 page, self-published SF book that's
can't-put-it-down good. I plan to immediately hunt for more Hugh Howey
books.
To accurately review this book I need to explain why it was not 5-star 'amazing' and only 4-star 'really liked it'. Simply
put: for a novel to get my highest rating it needs to stir emotions and
my intelligence. The first current-day author who comes to mind (who
always does both) is Patrick Rothfuss.
PROS: The milieu in WOOL is
expertly described and imaginatively revealed. Every character is
rendered with finesse; we quickly care about these characters. The
story unfolds at the right speed...the reader figures out what will come
next just a bit before the characters do. The grammar is flawless.
The plot exposition is perfect with a great beginning, an informative
middle, and an explosive third act.
CONS: Even with a large variety of death
on display, WOOL isn't gory, gritty, or dark and it is barbie-and-ken
asexual. The target audience is pre-teens and teens; adults will like
this book as much as they liked Harry Potter, but they'll quickly
recognize that—other than the thrill of suspense—it doesn't make you
laugh or cry or shudder or...you get the gist. Also, at no point did I
learn a new way of thinking about an old idea, let alone anything novel.
In fact, there's a massive flaw in the physics around page
400. If the author did any research on scuba diving he could have
fixed it with a few added sentences (and, thus, proof that editors and first-draft readers are
valuable).
KIND OF A SPOILER: Note to Mr Howey - Air, trapped
in a flexible container under water, is compressed by the weight of the
water. As that container rises to the surface the air expands. Under
hundreds of feet of water the air will expand exponentially when
surfacing. (Juliette's suit would have exploded as she surfaced quickly
and if she weren't continually exhaling her lungs would have exploded
too).
For me, the Pros massively outweigh the Cons. This would make a great holiday gift
for any young fan of Speculative Fiction (and especially those who like post-apocalyptic SF).
For the current new-game price, DISHONORED fails to live up to the hype.
I completed all of this game's nine-levels in 25 hours. My style of gameplay was stealthy and I enjoy searching for—and finding—hidden treasures. I suspect an aggressive gamer might complete the game in less than 15 hours.
This game is only worth about $15. For a new sixty dollar game to be considered good-to-great (four or five stars) it should take someone like me no less than one hundred hours to complete and an aggressive gamer no less than sixty hours start-to-finish.
Also, unfortunately, there are no mini-games or puzzles in DISHONORED. It isn't a bad game. I enjoyed playing it. It's just not worth the price.
Fifteen years ago, I owned the pants which are pictured top-left. They were rad, commando-comfy, and lasted about 60 washings before they fell apart. I especially loved the large splashes of blue and purple.
A few weeks ago I saw them on Amazon. $46 (with shipping). Feeling nostalgic, I ordered. A few days ago the package arrived containing a different pair of pants.
They fit. They were comfortable. I didn't hate the pattern. And I'm the type of guy who would only deal with the hassle of returning them if they didn't, weren't, or if I did.
I wrote this ☆☆☆ review on Amazon:
I received different pants. It's now obvious the photo isn't a model
wearing pants but a close-up swatch of photo-shopped material. Although
they're of a similar palette, the picture shows a large print with splashes
of color every five inches; the actual pants have tiny color specks
every inch.
Size, delivery, and material OK.
I'll use them, not return them, but they aren't what I ordered.
Today, I got a call from the seller. He acknowledged the pants I received (bottom left) weren't those pictured and asked if I wanted to return them for a full refund. I explained my quantity of dissatisfaction (and how it wasn't enough to merit returning the pants). He offered me a 50% rebate if I removed my review.
The first presidential debate is over. Every sheep in the herd has now had plenty of time to listen to their favorite pundit, comedian, and/or talking head to learn what their opinion is. Most of ewe decided Romney won.
It seems many measured the debate performances of Mister Romney and President Obama using the criteria of High School Debate Team judges...and if this had been a High School debate, I might agree.
Why has nobody pointed out the obvious? We all saw President Obama not debate, not engage, and not argue. Instead, he speechified. He stuck to the talking points, re-hashed, and never raised his voice.
In a game of American Football, if the clock shows several minutes remain in the final quarter, your score is 300 and your opponent's is 238 (and one only needs 270 to win) a quarterback may choose to "take a knee" and run down the clock.
President Obama did just that. He didn't fumble, didn't try for a hail mary pass, and—most important—didn't give any ground. He seemed to be aware that debate performance has rarely, if ever, been important in a US Presidential election (although some point to the first Nixon-Kennedy debate as a game changer). He chose not to participate and, today, he still has the same amount of (more than enough) electoral college votes to be re-elected (if the election were today).
I understand the desire to watch both teams bang into each other and scramble for the ball until the last second. When your team is winning and your own quarterback takes a knee, one feels a twinge of regret, because (having been there before) we empathize with the other team. Wanting to watch a more thrilling game, we may even wish our own team's quarterback wouldn't make the tactfully-justified and technically-intelligent choice to run down 40-seconds on the clock...and we may voice our derision.
Give President Obama some credit. He knows what he is doing. If you have forgotten, just U-Tube a few of his 2008 dust-ups with Hillary or McCain.
He took a knee. Stop bleating about it with all the other sheepish Monday-moaning armchair quarterbacks.
