Somewhere in America

The Griffin Family lives in Rhode Island.

South Park is a city in Colorado.

The Simpsons reside in the ubiquitous city of Springfield, in an unknown state (31 states have a city named Springfield).

The Hills live in Texas (for a few more months until their time-slot is taken over by The Griffin's Neighbors. But they could be back; Family Guy has been canceled twice).

Americana is what is depicted.

All of these series let us peek at American crazy-vulgarity, foolishness, idiocy, and teach us how to behave (sometimes by showing us how not to).

The television network FOX (the largest "news" network . . . solely responsible for the new requirement to use quotations around the word news) produces three of the animated series.

South Park is produced by the Cartoon Network.

ABC decided not to pick up King of the Hill after it was canceled.

I don't find it strange that these television programs have lasted for as long as they have. They have quality; script quality. The writing is topical and usually fresh.

I fault some of Family Guy's humor. But just because I don't laugh at one of the types of gags they use, which I refer to as kicking the dead and buried skeleton of a horse (and if you have ever watched an episode, you know what I mean) doesn't mean I don't think much of the (rest of the) writing is funny.

My favorite characters are everyone else's favorites.

There are episodes that stick with me.

I didn't know what the Mormon Church based it's doctrine on — until Stan Marsh told me.

I'm as lazy as Homer (and share his love of doughnuts and beer).

Stewie is guaranteed to make me chuckle and cringe simultaneously.

I'm a liberal-democrat Hank Hill.

How things really are — and always will be — is neither all-evil nor all-good but deficient, inconsistent, inferior. — Susan Sontag

extreme adjective noun

I intend to do everything ... to have one way of evaluating experience: does it cause me pleasure or pain — and I shall be very cautious about rejecting the painful — I shall anticipate pleasure everywhere (and find it, too) for it is everywhere! I shall involve myself wholly ... everything matters! — Susan Sontag

Word To Your Mother

My latest telephone call with ma mère resulted in a notable exchange. It began by me trying to clarify my half-sister Kim's most recent reunion desires:

Me: Well Kim's just trying to herd the family together at holiday-family-time. She's done it in the past and she'll do it in the future. This coming winter she'll have a teenage exchange student in her house and I think she's also interested in us all meeting her.

Her: But she doesn't seem to understand people's situations. My situation. I certainly can't afford it, and my brother is in no health to...

Me: Mom...It's just Kim—your daughter—being who she is. There's no reason to get all bent out of shape...

[Bent out of shape? When was the last time I used that phrase? 1987? How and why—when talking to my mother—do words that have been in long-term storage find their way to my tongue?]

...just because she wants to get her husband, and her husbands family, and you, and me, and your brother, and his family...all of us...all seated around a table for the first time in, er decades—that's no reason to get upset with her.

[when I said er I was thinking... we have never all been around a table. We have never been in a room together. We have never even occupied the same state of the union at one time. And I almost said: 'ever'. I suspect my 70-year-old Mom has never realized that fact. It caused me to add this ramble-rant...after she said:]

Her: I still don't think she gets it. She thinks that her jobs, and husband, and all the things that fill her days are so much more important than the things that I do. My days are full! The things and people in my life are just as important. She does not appreciate any of that. She thinks I can just drop what I'm doing and drive out there.

Me: But I think you are overlooking something. What I think she doesn't appreciate is that we—as a family—do not have what it takes, genetically, to get together. It's both genetic and environmental; but mostly it's genetic: Papa's (my grandfather) mother and father sent him to boarding school and he sent his son (my uncle) to boarding school. To send your child away—to be raised by others—requires an un-attach-ability that most parents don't have. Your grandmother passed it to your father. And, it's clear to me—that you passed it along to your children. Definitely to me. And, just look at Nanett. When was it? How long ago was it?

Her: Ahhmm mid 90's, maybe a dozen years ago?

[In 1995 my sister, Nanett, sued my mother and Kim (the executrix of the estate) because my deceased step-father (whom my mother divorced 6 months before he died) left my mother as sole beneficiary on a 401K...the money was given to my Mom, and Nanett wanted it. Three years of contentious court proceedings resulted in a 'win' for Nanett. Most of the money went to lawyers and court costs. As one would expect, it drove a wedge.]

Me: Mom, I have not exchanged a word with Nanett since then. Fourteen years, and I don't miss her. She and I never really got along, and I—clearly—remember how she was: When I visited, and we'd go out, it would always be: Oh hey, I forgot to cash a check like I intended to this week. Could you get this and I'll get you back next time? Only the next time it would be, I just spent all our money on the new carpeting, do you mind paying for this?
And then she would seem to always need 'a loan' or would ask if I could, 'spare a hundred bucks so she could fix something...like her car' always with the I-wouldn't-ask-but's attached. She divorced us, and I like being divorced from her. And I, obviously, have the genetic un-attach-ability gene because of Bram and Ian. I'm pretty sure I passed it along to them, too.

[Bram (born 1982) and Ian (born 1984) are my sons. I exchanged fluids with their mother for 16 months of the four year time-frame, that exists between the dates on the marriage and divorce certificates that bear our names. She remarried. He adopted. I signed an agreement to not interfere. When Bram and Ian each turned 18 I attempted contact and have made feeble attempts a few times since. Their messages are always clear: we don't want to know you.]

So, the way I see it, we prefer not to associate with our own family members because we genetically have the un-attach-ability gene, which has the lovely side-effect of causing a environment where we never witness our own extended family members relating to each other in any way, and that results in absolutely no extended-family memories to come into existence.

[It's not like I don't know what people without the un-attach-ability gene behave like: I have a friend who tells stories about his Italian-American family that always make me laugh. They fight and hurt each other (both physically and emotionally) every time they get together—and they get together all the time. They absolutely don't have the un-attach-ability gene...but I think one of them is going to eventually get killed because of it. Also, I recall accompanying a college friend to his home, in upstate Wisconsin, occasionally. He had an extended family that cared about each other, and—in his family—each member was honestly concerned about the well-being of each of the other members.]

Her: I don't know if it's genetic, Veach, it's just that Kim doesn't understand.

Me: She can't understand, Mom. She didn't get the un-attach-ability gene. Her Dad's family all liked to get together and reminisce...all the cousins and the brothers. They had family reunions! Don't you remember? If his family had been more cautious and healthier (they're almost all dead of accidents and diseases) Kim would be able to have get-together's with that half of her gene-pool.

I took a trip to see the beautiful things. Change of scenery. Change of heart. . .And they're still there. . .but they won't be there for long. . .that's why I went. To say goodbye. Whenever I travel, it's always to say goodbye. — Susan Sontag (I, etcetera, 1978)

A family's photograph album is generally about the extended family and, often, is all that remains of it. — Susan Sontag

The Hurt Locker

An exceptionally well told character-based story about a small unit of Explosive Ordinance Disposal (EOD) soldiers in Iraq. The characters are surprisingly solid, the dialogue is perfect, the setting is beyond better-than-believable. There are several emotional high points as well as suspense, tension, and truth.

For me, the best thing about it is: a film-maker has successfully handled this chilling war story, while the war is on-going. Where others have tried and failed (Stop-loss, Redacted, etc) this one succeeds.

Much of modern art is devoted to lowering the threshold of what is terrible. By getting us used to what, formerly, we could not bear to see or hear, because it was too shocking, painful, or embarrassing; art changes morals. — Susan Sontag

fip

Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship; in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. — Susan Sontag

Analogy, Metaphor, or Simile?

          Almost twenty years ago, the leader of Texas—who referred to himself as Chief President-General of the Lone Star Nation—ordered his troops to attack Oklahoma.  At the time, he said the, '...little finger of land just never looked right up there.'  And, he claimed, it had always been part of Texas.

          It took the combined forces of California, New York, and Canada to force the Texan Militia back inside its borders (Oklahoma helped with money, but it never had much of a military).  Six years ago, the Californian President decided to return to Texas and conquer it.  Although the stated reasons were mostly propaganda-lies, the real reasons were to depose the Texas President-General (who was still acting very dictatorially villainous in the eyes of the California media), to gain access to Texas natural resources (which Californians were in need of), and to impose a democratic Texas government (that would be more user-friendly to Californians).  The war lasted several years.  Although almost two hundred thousand Texan-Christian soldiers and civilians were killed by Californians, only about five thousand Californian-non-theists soldiers were killed by Texans.

          As soon as the Chief President General was executed, California's government and military began to take steps to build a veneer of democratic government around the existing Texan-Christian system.   It was a very formidable goal.   The next Texan problem the Californian military had to contend with were the violent battles between Texan Catholics, Baptists, and Presbyterians—each attempting to insure the “new democratic Texas” was governed by their beliefs.   Thousands of Catholics were killed by Baptists (the majority of Texans are Baptist) and many more thousands of Baptists were killed by Catholics (some Presbyterians were killed but, mostly—as the obvious minority—they kept out of the way).  The new Texas Constitution proclaims that Texas will make no laws that conflict with the New Testament Bible and proclaims Christianity as the sole source of Texan governance (without delineating between Baptists, Catholics, and Presbyterians).  It includes a paragraph that allows the people of Texas to practice any religion they desire (within a small list...non-theism made the list...probably at California's insistence).   Now, over 130,000 Californian-non-theist soldiers patrol and guard different Texas cities and California-Military-built-strongholds.  The President of California has stated their continued presence is (among other things) to, '...prevent Texas-Christians from killing each other...,' but most of the world knows it is to ensure Texans continue to sell oil to Californians at the price Californians want to pay.

          A small number of Californians continue to be killed every week.  It appears most of the deaths—now—are being committed by Alabamian, Missourian, and Arizonan Christians, (even a Michigan Christian or two has made the trip).  There is a fundamental Christian ground-swell—throughout many of the world's Christian members (but mainly from the formerly united nation-states) to, “go to Texas and kill some non-theists.”  In some instances, the militant terrorists have little-or-no religious motivation, but are merely taking advantage of an opportunity to “eradicate meddling Californians.”  Every day, the Texas borders between Mexico, New Mexico, Louisiana and Arkansas are crossed by citizens of the world who have been recruited by (what Dallas-based FOX News has termed) "staunch and staid Christian leaders" to blow up, snipe, or ambush Californian soldiers.  In the words of one West Virginian Catholic priest, “...removing the infidels and heathens from the blessed Christian land of Texas is a saintly calling...there's no sin in the act of killing non-theists because they have no soul...”.

          Although Californian soldiers in Texas have much less to worry about from the (now, mostly, un-armed) Texans, many Texans still provide food, shelter, and assistance to foreign-Christian mercenaries who are surging into Texas to (in their words) 'get some payback and legally hunt Californians.'  A Kentucky Methodist who blew up a convoy of Californians last month, said to reporters (after returning to Paducah): “You jus can’t get the same adrenaline rush playin Grand Theft Auto, now can ya?  This is my generation’s callin—know whut I mean?  An when I get the chance to do The Lord’s work, even though it don’t pay as well as workin ov-to the WalMart, I...well...guess my reward was sendin some-a dose damn non-believers straight to hell without passin go!  I'm on Jesus's team, that’s what!  Dan-il Boone went to Texas to protect the Alamo...an I’m just fallin-in his footsteps.”

The aim of all commentary on art now should be to make works of art—and, by analogy, our own experience—more, rather than less, real to us.  The function of criticism should be to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means. — Susan Sontag (author, philosopher and activist, 1933–2004)

Look, No Training Wheels!

Today, I Took Powell Pow took me on his first hike.

Because this was his first "training hike" my plan was to carry him in his pack until I was on a pedestrian trail, let him out, and then slowly stroll behind him as he explored for a half hour or so (ready to grab him when any hikers—especially hikers with dogs—appeared).

This was to be just a familiarization tour. "See, this is what the forest looks and smells and sounds like." "No, don't crawl into those brambles" "I'm walking on the path, come walk with me." (only with no dialogue; just clicks, come-here's, and good-boy's.)

Preparation: Beach towel in the bottom of the pack; zip-pockets with a bottle of water, 20cc syringe, small container of kibble, day-glo orange kitty collar, and training "clicker".

1/10th of the mile into the forest (still on the fire road) and Pow is pushing at the pack's zipper. I let him out and, immediately, we are hiking. Full walk. Striding out.

He never leaves the trail and consistently stays ahead. Five minutes into the hike, a couple approaches ahead of us. Pow stops, turns and comes back to me. I pick him up. The couple and I talk (Pow doesn't try to get down) when I continue to hike, he struggles to get down and...back to hiking.

First pedestrian trail on the right—he heads down it like it was the only destination. I follow. For the next .5 mile he keeps ahead of me most of the way. At the bottom, he stops and I can tell from his ears and posture that he hears something ahead. I pick him up; 20 seconds later a jogger comes around the bend and passes us.

For the next .25 mile, he's a bit underfoot and reluctant to dash ahead. He also meows some, so I pick him up and carry him (until he indicates he wants down).

On two occasions, he raises his hackles; I pick him up and listen. Nothing. (I assume these reactions are to sounds and/or smells unavailable to my miserable excuse for ears and nostrils.)

We take a break. Beach towel unfurled, drink water, and rest for ten minutes. He never leaves the towel.

At the 1.25 mile point, Pow is slowing (me too). The terrain, which up to now was downhill or flat, is now a gradual uphill climb along a ridge-line. He's no longer dashing ahead much, instead he sticks with me or follows 5-feet behind. We take another break at the 1.75 mile mark and Pow naps under my arm for about 15 minutes.

We explore the woods a little, then back to the trail. I can see he's tired—I zip him in the backpack for the last few 10ths of a mile.

I hiked 2.25 miles; Pow probably hiked 1.75 miles.

I am amazed by his stamina, ability, and natural stick-to-the-path-edness, which I can't say I've witnessed before. It took me 10+ hours to train my last cat to hike and there were still some days when we'd hike for 0.5 mile and he'd crawl under a shady log 'fuckit, nap-time' and others when he'd head into dense brush 'Path? Silly human. I prefer this direction, follow me."

Color me giddy-up glorious purple as pleased plum pudding (with tired feet).

I feel that I have it in my soul to become one of the great artists of the age and that future historians will remember me not for what I have done for Germany, but for my art. — Adolf Hitler (unimaginative and dull painter; gifted with the ability to be horribly wrong about almost every thought that entered his head).

Dew Drops Too

The earth’s atmosphere is a (relatively) closed system, which has trapped water on the planet since the earth formed about 4.5 billion years ago or after comets crash-brought it here billions of years ago (or both...there are theories).

Nonetheless...

There are about 326 million trillion gallons of water on earth. The same 326 with eighteen zeros gallons that has been here (relatively) forever.

The water cycle which began billions of years ago and has been going on (relatively) forever is: evaporation/transpiration → condensation → precipitation → collection → evaporation (ad infinitum).

Animal life began over ½ billion (500 million+) years ago.

Dinosaurs roamed the earth for over 160 million years.

Humans have been here for (maybe, about) a few hundred thousand years.

The average human consumes over 12,000 gallons of water in his or her lifetime.

The human body is 65% water.

Every living being that ever lived—fish, animal, insect, dinosaur, human, neanderthal (you get the picture)—drank its full lifetimes worth of water.

Many tens of thousands of those species were very much larger than your average human.
There have been an uncountable trillion of zillions of living beings drinking from that 326 with 18 zeros gallons, for the past hundreds of millions of years.

Therefore...

Every drop of liquid we drink has already been drunk many times over.

So...

The cleanest drop of distilled arctic glacier water on the planet today...was slurped out of a bog by a hypsilophodont → who pissed it into a stream → where it evaporated and eventually rained out of a cloud → and was cycled through a few dozen other crawling and swimming and flying things → before eventually getting trapped in an arctic snowstorm a few thousand years ago.

I’m sure you've heard the phrase: "we're all be made of stardust"; but more to the point, we are definitely all made of piss.

Drink up.

I have never used the word 'Blitzkrieg', because it is a very silly word. — Adolf Hitler

Healthy Hike

Today we hiked in Forest Park along the Leif Erickson Trail, which is an eleven mile, one-lane, dirt & gravel road (off-limits to motorized vehicles) located within Portland's city limits.

As we were walking through the forest (being passed by the occasional jogger and bicyclist) I recalled a recent conversation with a friend. Our conversation touched on health issues and she commented that she thought I was real healthy. My response was more about the semantics of the word 'healthy' than anything. In a way, I must have sounded like I was claiming poor health.

She is my age (50) and her husband is no more than seven years older. He just had both hips replaced. She told me about the procedure and about his quick recovery as well as the total cost (US$180,000.00). This surgery is the latest in a long list of diseases, disorders, and down-right bizarre conditions that my friend and her husband have been diagnosed with over the past dozen years. They each take an amazing regimen of pharmaceuticals (12-20+ pills a day), and although I don't know all the diagnosed diseases—Lupus, MS, and hemochromatosis (too much iron in the blood) are three I do recall.

When I think about the odds of a single person having five to seven serious, debilitating, medical ailments...all which require drug treatment and/or surgery, I think someone is being less than honest with someone else. Either I am being lied to by my friend, or doctors are duping her and her husband.

In regards to my ''good health", I explained my hatred of the medical system and, specifically, my distrust of doctors—and that her impression was based on a non-existent 'clean bill of health'. I told her that I could be extremely unhealthy, but because I never go to doctors (nor do I comment about my health) it was not something anyone would know about until I was dead.

As explanation, I told her about my self-treatments for a broken foot (2004) and rib (2007); I didn't tell her about my other "symptoms of aging". I will—undoubtedly—die of something, someday (and it may be sooner rather than later...that is, if any of us live beyond 2012). My future heart attack or stroke or tumor may even have been postpone-able or patch-able or even curable...but (alas) won't have been, because I won't have seen a doctor about its symptoms.

Each year I hear about the complaints, and treatments, for more and more serious medical problems from my friend (I suspect they have paid for many a yacht and Maserati for many an MD). I rarely talk about my health, but, I may not be healthier.

Man has a gift for seizing hold of what is beautiful. And what inexhaustible riches the world contains for the man who knows how to enjoy his senses! Moreover, nature has given man the desire to make others share in the joys he feels. The beautiful always claims its right to primacy. — Adolf Hitler

June Solstice

Today is the June Solstice (1st Day of Summer in the Northern Hemisphere and 1st Day of Winter in the Southern Hemisphere) and the longest/shortest day of the year. In Portland, today, the sunrise was just about 5am and the sunset was about 9:30pm. The temperatures, for our 1st day of Summer were wonderful (high of 77F low of 54F) with partly cloudy skies, intermittent showers, and a slight breeze. A good day to be a Portlander, no matter how liberal that means you are.

...burn out all the recent immoral developments...burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of past liberal excesses. — Adolf Hitler (in a speech proclaiming his staunch conservative christian beliefs)