Step right up. Buckle in. Pull that strap tight. This ride isn’t for the squeamish.
Sometimes I feel perfectly at peace with myself and the big, beautiful world that we live in. Sometimes the sun is shining and the birds are singing and I’m convinced that I can shoot brilliant, rainbow-colored rays of sunshine straight out of my ass.
Other times? Other times it seems like I’m lashed to the mast of a rickety, wooden sailing ship – like the hirsute Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall – while a category 5 shit-storm rages around me. Sometimes the world is all foreboding, grey skies and gale-force winds. Sometimes it just rains sideways. It’s all included in the price of admission.
Now? Right now? I feel like that soggy Brad Pitt, tied securely to that mast.
Lest anyone fret about my well-being or mental stability, this shit-storm I’m referring to is purely external. Inside my little bubble, where my personal life lives in a happy nest of purple Easter grass, everything is a-ok. This mind-numbing assault? This perfect storm of irritating, head-slapping bullshit? It’s all external and well beyond my control.
In short, the entire world is going batshit crazy.
We now seem to judge our entire worth as a nation - as a collective whole of diverse, teeming humanity – on our net-worth and financial well being. The barometer of our value is our GDP and the daily fluctuations of Wall Street. We are a commodity. Think you’re anything more? Guess again, my deluded friends. Take a good, hard look at how much money America’s corporations spend to ensure that they stay fat, rich and happy and our expense. You and me? We’re peons. Serfs. Expendable labor. Since the 1970’s, the divide between rich and poor has become a chasm. As of 2007, the top 1% of the U.S. population held 34.6% of privately held wealth. The next 19%? Try 50.5%. What does that mean? It means that 20% of the people in America own 85% of the wealth. (http://sociology.ucsc.edu/whorulesamerica/power/wealth.html) I’m reasonably certain those figures haven’t changed for the better over the past few years. So enjoy the crumbs we’re left to quibble over, my friends. Just be glad the landed gentry see fit to let us push their papers and empty their trash and haul away their garbage for them.
Which brings me to the tea parties. Oh, the tea parties!
I’m not going to expound on the sheer wingnuttery of the tea party movement. You’ve all heard it from me before. A bunch of conservatives that had no trouble with big government and deficits under a Republican are suddenly all kinds of butt-hurt over a Democrat’s big government and deficits. They’re trying to hijack the Libertarian movement and inject it with their culture-war craziness and rampant racism and homophobia. It has become a chorus of irrational, hysterical insanity that is damn near impossible to drown out. I guess that’s what happens when white folks with money see their spot at the helm of the bobsled in jeopardy as they gaze into a future that looks a bit too diverse for their tastes. Their anger smacks of hopped up fear with a splash of panic to push the madness to the next level.
Then there are the Democrats.
Listen, nobody loathed G.W. Bush more than me. I get it. I understand that you’re back in power and everybody is a bit punch-drunk and overflowing with piss and vinegar and you just want to get shit done. Believe me, I understand. The thing is that the arrogance some of you are displaying seems downright…Republican. Yeah, I said it. Oh, and while you’re at it, could you please stop referring to every Chad, Doug and Buford who disagrees with Obama’s direction for the country as “racist”? Let me tell you, that one is really getting tiresome. I know, I know – there are some racist jerks out there waving their misspelled signs and doing their part to work the word “nigger” back into the mainstream lexicon. All I’m asking is that you tone down the generalizations. Oh, and be gracious in victory. Dancing around, thumbing your nose and saying “I told you so” is so…Republican.
Which brings me to Obama.
Barack…Barry…Can I call you Barry? During the election, I set aside some of my patented cynicism and got behind you. I voted Democrat, even though I told myself I wasn’t voting for a member of the two-party system again. Quite frankly, Barry, I bought into your hype. I saw you speak on the Capitol steps in Harrisburg, and your passion and your energy just brought the atmosphere to life. That night, Barry – the warm, summer air just seemed to crackle with the electricity of the hope and potential that was trampled into the mud the prior eight years. Like someone in the throes of a new romance, I overlooked some of your flaws. Some major flaws, quite frankly. Namely your pro-business voting record. I should have listened to Ralph Nader, who pretty much had you pegged square from jump street. But who am I kidding? I would have voted for you anyway, so desperate was I to ensure that McCain and his happy band of war-crazy thugs didn’t slither their way into the White House. So essentially I became part of the problem. I voted the two-party safety net.
Please don’t misunderstand me, Barry. I like you. I think you’re a step in the right direction. That being said, in the end you’re just another bought and sold member of Washington, D.C. Inc. No matter what you say in your passionate speeches, in the end you’ll concede to Wall Street…just like the rest of them.
I still hold fast that this mess we’re in, both financial and cultural, will in the end be a blessing. I think a lot of people are waking up to the reality that corporations, not politicians (and certainly not the people), are the ones really running the country. I think people are fed up. Unfortunately, I still think there are too many people that are too ignorant to see that exchanging one party for the other will do nothing but ensure cosmetic changes. The mentality of “vote ‘em out” only works if you replace the person currently in power with a completely different breed of animal. Sure, a change in party will produce a slight lean in regards to priorities, but in the end nothing will really change. Like David Byrne said, “Same as it ever was.”
I like to think that through this mess we’ll come to see the error of our ways as a culture. I like to think we’ll learn not to be so wasteful. I like to think we’ll learn to do more with less. I like to think we’ll fix what’s broken, rather than chucking it and buying a new one. I like to think we’ll realize we’re all in this together, and learn to be more open, tolerant and accepting.
I like to think we’ll learn our lesson. History, however, teaches me to have my doubts.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Havasu Canyon - August, 2002 Pt. II
I’m awake before the sun. In a haze, I lug bags and gear to the car in the pitch dark. The morning is cool, the sun not even a thought at this dark hour. I walk the room key to the motel office, which won’t open for hours. There’s a padlocked, wooden drop-box bolted next to the office door, and I drop the key inside. In the pre-dawn silence the plunk of the key in the box seems to reverberate through the empty streets. I ponder the countless, sleep-deprived people that have dropped their key into this box – the unwashed, bleary-eyed legions. Like me, they probably awoke in the dark, hoping to get to the hilltop and the trailhead as early as possible. The earlier you set out, the better your chances of being deep in the shadowy confines of the canyon when that blazing, desert sun is high overhead.
I pull onto Route 66, headed West under a black sky. Eventually, as the miles tick off, the horizon in my rearview mirror begins to lighten, the rising sun asserting itself. I keep the radio tuned to classic country; not only because it comes in clearly, but because at this point, in this place, I can’t imagine listening to anything else. At some point Waylon and Willie are singing and the sun is beginning to paint the high desert all around me, bathing it in the first, pure rays of the day’s light, and there’s not another car or human being to be seen. It’s just me, Waylon and Willie blazing across northern Arizona while the sun creeps slowly into the sky behind us.
My body craves coffee. The windows are down and the cool, morning air is the only thing keeping me alert. It’s at times like this that I realize I’m a junkie – a hopeless caffeine addict. Upon waking in the morning, my body shifts into this Pavlovian mode where it impatiently anticipates the strong, dark, caffeinated nectar that I inevitably feed it. Not this morning. I drive, passing little, and with even less actually open for business at this hour. I kick myself for not taking a few minutes to poke around Seligman – for not trying to find a diner or coffee shop to get my caffeine fix.
Eventually I see a sign for Indian Route 18, black numbers printed inside a white arrowhead. I swing the car onto the road and begin heading north, toward the Grand Canyon and the Hualapai Hilltop – the parking area and trailhead into Havasu Canyon. Ahead of me is a rolling expanse whose end is an isolated portion of the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
Indian Route 18 is a long and meandering two-lane road. I drive through high desert scrub, a scattering of pines appearing as the miles roll by and then thickening as I get nearer to the canyon. The morning is breathtakingly bright, and the air is fresh and cool. The low hanging sun makes the landscape seem to glow, the reds and greens of this arid land cast in harsh, stark relief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bluer sky. Somewhere during the drive I enter a dense stand of pines. After a while I begin to make out something huge in the road far ahead. As I get closer, I see that what stands in the middle of the blacktop is a massive Elk. She’s huge; at least seven feet tall, by my estimation. I slow to a stop about 30 yards away and hang my head out the window, watching her. She languidly raises her head and eyes me warily, then lowers her head again and walks slowly over to the shoulder of the road. She stops on the shoulder and turns her gaze back to me. I watch her for a bit longer, eventually driving slowly on. As I pass her, she walks a few steps closer to the shelter of the pines before turning one last time. I watch her in the rearview mirror until she disappears. She never takes her eyes off the car for a second.
It’s early when I reach Hualapai Hilltop. The parking lot is surprisingly full, mostly the vehicles of those currently down in the canyon. There are a few hikers in the lot, unloading backpacks and gear from their cars. In the eastern corner, a few Havasupai are tending to a row of horses and mules, all tied up to a long wooden fence. The Indian guides are prepping them for the daily trip to the reservation. For a fee you can have your gear lugged to the bottom of the canyon on the back of a pack mule, while you ride in relative comfort atop a mule or horse. I even read where you could, for a ridiculous price, have yourself and your gear whisked to the canyon floor in a helicopter. The thought of a loud, exhaust-belching helicopter descending noisily into the canyon gets my hackles up. That will never be me, I think. Especially not today – for today I descend into the canyon on foot. I scoff at both the horses and the helicopter as I tighten the laces on my hiking boots and prepare my gear.
For anyone unfamiliar with the geography of Supai/Havasu Canyon, here’s a brief, encapsulated look. Hualapai Hilltop sits literally on the edge of a bluff – the south rim of the Grand Canyon, to be exact. The views are spectacular, with red rock formations rising into the sky along the borders of the canyon floor below. From the hilltop to the Village of Supai is eight miles. The first mile and a half are switchbacks descending almost vertically from the top of the bluff to the canyon floor. From the village to the campground, where I will put up my tent and sleep for the night, it’s an additional two miles. All told, I was looking at a ten mile hike through the desert in the middle of August. What could go wrong, right?
I stand at the entrance to the trail, the pack strapped to my back loaded with the bare minimum amount of gear. Despite packing light, the load on my back is still fairly heavy. I imagine it’s going to fell a hell of a lot heavier as I go on. I start off down the dusty trail, the canyon sprawling before me under a huge, blue Arizona sky.
I pass some hikers on the way down the trail, and I’m passed myself by some others. I’m in pretty good shape, but I still want to conserve my energy for the long trek ahead. I pace myself, moving at a comfortable clip. I pass two women, probably in their early thirties, and as I pass I hear them speaking German. They’re both wearing clothes that seem completely unsuitable for the hike they’re embarking on. They look more like they’re dressed for a trip to the mall. I glance at their feet and see that they’re wearing stylish sneakers – shoes not at all designed for the terrain. They have small day packs slung over their shoulders, and they each clutch a small bottle of water. I make a mental note to look for their bodies on the return trip, if the coyotes haven’t already picked them clean.
For the first few miles of the hike the trail winds through wide, shallow canyons. The rocks are a deep, rich red and smoothed by millions of years of wind and water. It’s early yet, probably no later than 10 AM, but the sun overhead is already hot. I walk close to the walls, trying to stay in the sporadic shade that the canyon walls sparingly provide. Unfortunately the shade is sporadic, and a majority of the first few miles are mostly spent in the sun. It’s astounding how hot it can get in the Sonoran Desert so early in the day. It’s not even 10 A.M. yet and already the sun is merciless.
As the trail unfurls, the canyon passages narrow and, thank goodness for small favors, the shade becomes more and more plentiful. The fact that this coincides with more and more tiring miles under my belt is a welcome relief. Smooth slabs of red rock, riddled with shelves and fissures, tower above me on either side. Overhead a narrow strip of brilliant, blue sky winds onward in an endless ribbon.
A few hours in I stop, shrug off my pack and recline on a large rock for a little rest and water. I lay there, drenched in sweat that will dry quickly in the dry, desert heat. I look up at the sky, framed beautifully by the rust-colored rock walls. Something feels off to me. Not wrong, mind you, but just…off. Different. After a few minutes it hits me. It’s the silence. I’ve been to many places that I thought were quiet. In the middle of the woods somewhere. Nights on the Outer Banks of North Carolina many years ago, before the development hit a frenzy. Those places were quiet. But this canyon? This canyon is silent. I can try to describe the difference from now until the end of time, but unless you’ve really experienced deep and total silence, any words I spit out won’t begin to convey it. You know the old saying about “deafening silence”? After that canyon, this saying will always make perfect sense to me. Coming from the Northeast, where it’s hard to go anywhere and escape the sound of auto or air traffic, the ability to sit and hear absolutely nothing was jarring, to say the least. There wasn’t even the sound of a bird to break the spell. After a space of sitting and basking in the canyon’s unrelenting silence, I quickly stood up and threw on my pack. I did this as noisily as possible. See, a thought had occurred to me while I was perched on that rock. I thought about what it would be like to get used to that silence, only to have it ripped away. I imagined how hard it would be to go back to a hectic, everyday life of noise and confusion after surrendering to the canyon’s hypnotic, siren-song of tranquility. I decided it was best to move on.
It’s remarkable how fast the desert air can suck the moisture right out of you. You can take a nice, long drink to slake your thirst only to be parched again within a matter of a half an hour. Read any guide to desert hiking and you’ll be bombarded by admonishments to equip yourself with as much water as possible. The reality you’re confronted with when completing a hike like the one into Havasu Canyon is maintaining that tenuous balance between carrying enough water and keeping your pack light enough to manage. So far so good. I was surprising myself with my ability to manage my thirst. Normally I’m a bit of a sissy when it comes to being thirsty. On any given day I consume copious amounts of water, and I feared I’d turn into a quivering, water-deprived mess after I chugged my supply an hour into the hike. Turns out I underestimated myself. I rationed my water like a champ on the way in. (Things got a little dicey on the water front on the hike out – but that’s for later.)
The miles unfurled; a slow procession of sheer, red rock walls and thin snapshot of a sky that was achingly blue. I was captivated, my mind miles away, and thus needed the occasional reminder from my body that it was time to have a drink. Sit a spell. Don’t kill yourself, my body would occasionally say with a nudge. That’s how it went for miles. Rocky, narrow pathways to be navigated while at the same time trying to take in the surroundings. It was difficult to peel my eyes from the beauty that surrounded me, yet if I didn’t watch where I was walking there were more than a few rocks, embankments and switchbacks willing to put an inattentive hiker on his or her ass. I learned to keep my eyes constantly in motion; scanning up, down and everywhere in an attempt to absorb my surroundings without taking a tumble or snapping an ankle on a rock. The silence persisted, and I walked in rhythm with my own footfalls. Red dust rose in little clouds with each step, the accumulation on my boots and legs marking my progress.
I started to see more and more green the deeper I got into the canyon. It was sparse at first, but soon I saw clusters of it ahead as the trail widened and the canyon began to open up. I rationalized that where the clusters of green were located, that was where I would find the cool, turquoise waters of Havasu Creek.
I pull onto Route 66, headed West under a black sky. Eventually, as the miles tick off, the horizon in my rearview mirror begins to lighten, the rising sun asserting itself. I keep the radio tuned to classic country; not only because it comes in clearly, but because at this point, in this place, I can’t imagine listening to anything else. At some point Waylon and Willie are singing and the sun is beginning to paint the high desert all around me, bathing it in the first, pure rays of the day’s light, and there’s not another car or human being to be seen. It’s just me, Waylon and Willie blazing across northern Arizona while the sun creeps slowly into the sky behind us.
My body craves coffee. The windows are down and the cool, morning air is the only thing keeping me alert. It’s at times like this that I realize I’m a junkie – a hopeless caffeine addict. Upon waking in the morning, my body shifts into this Pavlovian mode where it impatiently anticipates the strong, dark, caffeinated nectar that I inevitably feed it. Not this morning. I drive, passing little, and with even less actually open for business at this hour. I kick myself for not taking a few minutes to poke around Seligman – for not trying to find a diner or coffee shop to get my caffeine fix.
Eventually I see a sign for Indian Route 18, black numbers printed inside a white arrowhead. I swing the car onto the road and begin heading north, toward the Grand Canyon and the Hualapai Hilltop – the parking area and trailhead into Havasu Canyon. Ahead of me is a rolling expanse whose end is an isolated portion of the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
Indian Route 18 is a long and meandering two-lane road. I drive through high desert scrub, a scattering of pines appearing as the miles roll by and then thickening as I get nearer to the canyon. The morning is breathtakingly bright, and the air is fresh and cool. The low hanging sun makes the landscape seem to glow, the reds and greens of this arid land cast in harsh, stark relief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bluer sky. Somewhere during the drive I enter a dense stand of pines. After a while I begin to make out something huge in the road far ahead. As I get closer, I see that what stands in the middle of the blacktop is a massive Elk. She’s huge; at least seven feet tall, by my estimation. I slow to a stop about 30 yards away and hang my head out the window, watching her. She languidly raises her head and eyes me warily, then lowers her head again and walks slowly over to the shoulder of the road. She stops on the shoulder and turns her gaze back to me. I watch her for a bit longer, eventually driving slowly on. As I pass her, she walks a few steps closer to the shelter of the pines before turning one last time. I watch her in the rearview mirror until she disappears. She never takes her eyes off the car for a second.
It’s early when I reach Hualapai Hilltop. The parking lot is surprisingly full, mostly the vehicles of those currently down in the canyon. There are a few hikers in the lot, unloading backpacks and gear from their cars. In the eastern corner, a few Havasupai are tending to a row of horses and mules, all tied up to a long wooden fence. The Indian guides are prepping them for the daily trip to the reservation. For a fee you can have your gear lugged to the bottom of the canyon on the back of a pack mule, while you ride in relative comfort atop a mule or horse. I even read where you could, for a ridiculous price, have yourself and your gear whisked to the canyon floor in a helicopter. The thought of a loud, exhaust-belching helicopter descending noisily into the canyon gets my hackles up. That will never be me, I think. Especially not today – for today I descend into the canyon on foot. I scoff at both the horses and the helicopter as I tighten the laces on my hiking boots and prepare my gear.
For anyone unfamiliar with the geography of Supai/Havasu Canyon, here’s a brief, encapsulated look. Hualapai Hilltop sits literally on the edge of a bluff – the south rim of the Grand Canyon, to be exact. The views are spectacular, with red rock formations rising into the sky along the borders of the canyon floor below. From the hilltop to the Village of Supai is eight miles. The first mile and a half are switchbacks descending almost vertically from the top of the bluff to the canyon floor. From the village to the campground, where I will put up my tent and sleep for the night, it’s an additional two miles. All told, I was looking at a ten mile hike through the desert in the middle of August. What could go wrong, right?
I stand at the entrance to the trail, the pack strapped to my back loaded with the bare minimum amount of gear. Despite packing light, the load on my back is still fairly heavy. I imagine it’s going to fell a hell of a lot heavier as I go on. I start off down the dusty trail, the canyon sprawling before me under a huge, blue Arizona sky.
I pass some hikers on the way down the trail, and I’m passed myself by some others. I’m in pretty good shape, but I still want to conserve my energy for the long trek ahead. I pace myself, moving at a comfortable clip. I pass two women, probably in their early thirties, and as I pass I hear them speaking German. They’re both wearing clothes that seem completely unsuitable for the hike they’re embarking on. They look more like they’re dressed for a trip to the mall. I glance at their feet and see that they’re wearing stylish sneakers – shoes not at all designed for the terrain. They have small day packs slung over their shoulders, and they each clutch a small bottle of water. I make a mental note to look for their bodies on the return trip, if the coyotes haven’t already picked them clean.
For the first few miles of the hike the trail winds through wide, shallow canyons. The rocks are a deep, rich red and smoothed by millions of years of wind and water. It’s early yet, probably no later than 10 AM, but the sun overhead is already hot. I walk close to the walls, trying to stay in the sporadic shade that the canyon walls sparingly provide. Unfortunately the shade is sporadic, and a majority of the first few miles are mostly spent in the sun. It’s astounding how hot it can get in the Sonoran Desert so early in the day. It’s not even 10 A.M. yet and already the sun is merciless.
As the trail unfurls, the canyon passages narrow and, thank goodness for small favors, the shade becomes more and more plentiful. The fact that this coincides with more and more tiring miles under my belt is a welcome relief. Smooth slabs of red rock, riddled with shelves and fissures, tower above me on either side. Overhead a narrow strip of brilliant, blue sky winds onward in an endless ribbon.
A few hours in I stop, shrug off my pack and recline on a large rock for a little rest and water. I lay there, drenched in sweat that will dry quickly in the dry, desert heat. I look up at the sky, framed beautifully by the rust-colored rock walls. Something feels off to me. Not wrong, mind you, but just…off. Different. After a few minutes it hits me. It’s the silence. I’ve been to many places that I thought were quiet. In the middle of the woods somewhere. Nights on the Outer Banks of North Carolina many years ago, before the development hit a frenzy. Those places were quiet. But this canyon? This canyon is silent. I can try to describe the difference from now until the end of time, but unless you’ve really experienced deep and total silence, any words I spit out won’t begin to convey it. You know the old saying about “deafening silence”? After that canyon, this saying will always make perfect sense to me. Coming from the Northeast, where it’s hard to go anywhere and escape the sound of auto or air traffic, the ability to sit and hear absolutely nothing was jarring, to say the least. There wasn’t even the sound of a bird to break the spell. After a space of sitting and basking in the canyon’s unrelenting silence, I quickly stood up and threw on my pack. I did this as noisily as possible. See, a thought had occurred to me while I was perched on that rock. I thought about what it would be like to get used to that silence, only to have it ripped away. I imagined how hard it would be to go back to a hectic, everyday life of noise and confusion after surrendering to the canyon’s hypnotic, siren-song of tranquility. I decided it was best to move on.
It’s remarkable how fast the desert air can suck the moisture right out of you. You can take a nice, long drink to slake your thirst only to be parched again within a matter of a half an hour. Read any guide to desert hiking and you’ll be bombarded by admonishments to equip yourself with as much water as possible. The reality you’re confronted with when completing a hike like the one into Havasu Canyon is maintaining that tenuous balance between carrying enough water and keeping your pack light enough to manage. So far so good. I was surprising myself with my ability to manage my thirst. Normally I’m a bit of a sissy when it comes to being thirsty. On any given day I consume copious amounts of water, and I feared I’d turn into a quivering, water-deprived mess after I chugged my supply an hour into the hike. Turns out I underestimated myself. I rationed my water like a champ on the way in. (Things got a little dicey on the water front on the hike out – but that’s for later.)
The miles unfurled; a slow procession of sheer, red rock walls and thin snapshot of a sky that was achingly blue. I was captivated, my mind miles away, and thus needed the occasional reminder from my body that it was time to have a drink. Sit a spell. Don’t kill yourself, my body would occasionally say with a nudge. That’s how it went for miles. Rocky, narrow pathways to be navigated while at the same time trying to take in the surroundings. It was difficult to peel my eyes from the beauty that surrounded me, yet if I didn’t watch where I was walking there were more than a few rocks, embankments and switchbacks willing to put an inattentive hiker on his or her ass. I learned to keep my eyes constantly in motion; scanning up, down and everywhere in an attempt to absorb my surroundings without taking a tumble or snapping an ankle on a rock. The silence persisted, and I walked in rhythm with my own footfalls. Red dust rose in little clouds with each step, the accumulation on my boots and legs marking my progress.
I started to see more and more green the deeper I got into the canyon. It was sparse at first, but soon I saw clusters of it ahead as the trail widened and the canyon began to open up. I rationalized that where the clusters of green were located, that was where I would find the cool, turquoise waters of Havasu Creek.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Like Sands Through the Hourglass…
The average life expectancy for an American male, according to the 2009 CIA World Factbook, is 75.65 years. This past August, I hit one of life’s more dubious milestones and turned the ripe-old-age of forty.
I’m already beyond middle-age.
Most of the time – hell, the bulk of the time - things like age and birthdays don’t add up to a tin shit to me. I really do believe, as cliché as it sounds, that age is nothing but a number and a state of mind. It’s how you think and feel that determines your “age”, not some number that corresponds to the day you were born. I know people a good fifteen years my senior that think and act like they’re still in their twenties. Likewise, I know folks in their twenties that have already grown crotchety and tentative – old long before their time.
I don’t feel forty, or what I imagined forty would feel like when I was in my 20’s. Not even close. I’m in decent shape, as far as the physical aspect goes. I’m fairly active. Sure, I’ve got some of the nagging aches and pains that come with age; but I’m pretty far ahead of the curve, all things considered. My mind is definitely still active. I read voraciously. I’m a news junkie. I’m pretty in tune with today’s cultural zeitgeist. I’m always seeking out new authors and filmmakers and musicians to further broaden my horizons. The collection of music on my ipod definitely doesn’t stop with shit published in 1987. Yes, indeed – I’m doing pretty well in my war with the grand hourglass.
So why is it that, lately, I feel like my life is slipping through my fingers?
Make no mistake, I’m not having some sort of existential crisis of the mid-life variety. I’m not having one of those, “What does it all mean?” conundrums. I’ve noticed, while peering through the window onto the soul that is Facebook, that many people I wouldn’t have expected have “found” religion as they’ve approached or reached the crest of life’s big hill. Maybe they’re true, honest conversions (if one believes there is such a thing); but I would hazard a guess that for some, it’s something to hold on to as they enter the uncharted waters of middle age. (I could be wrong. It’s hard for me to look objectively at religion, given my strong feelings on the subject.) No, my feelings as I begin the downhill portion of this existence aren’t so sweeping and grand as to have earth-shaking, spiritual undertones.
What I’ve been feeling lately, and what has caused me feelings of intermittent distress and melancholy, is more a culmination of little things.
This blog, for instance, is part of an attempt to address one of these nagging issues. I love to write. I’ve loved to write since I was a kid, sitting on the floor of my bedroom writing stories and fashioning the pages into books with staples and scotch tape. What I find is that I’m inherently lazy when it comes to putting pen to paper (or finger to keypad, in the parlance of our times). The real problem comes when I examine why I get lazy about something I’m so passionate about. Of course, the deeper I go down that rabbit-hole, the more I realize that a lot of it comes from the clichéd “fear of failure”. As much as I don’t want to be “that guy”, I am “that guy”. If I really put rubber to road and try my ass off to write and somehow parlay that into something bigger, and I fail, will that somehow sully this thing that I love? Is that even a relevant argument, since this fear keeps me from doing it on a regular basis anyway? I don’t know. It’s a thorny issue for me. One thing I can say for sure is that I’m going to make a concerted, committed effort to do this, as well as the fiction writing that I prefer, on a much more regular basis.
The fact that writing is one of the few things I truly love brings me to another conundrum: I’m 40 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. (Ok, I do know, but I’m also aware of little things like odds, percentages, skewed perception of one’s own abilities, etc.) I have a job, and it serves a function in society and I feel like I do some good, no matter how small my contribution may be. However, I can’t disguise the fact that I feel adrift. I try to imagine doing my job for the rest of my life, and frankly the idea of it makes me fucking depressed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not whining. I know that I’m lucky to have a job in these uncertain times. That being said, I sometimes feel that I’m slipping into this trap of mind-numbing complacency with every day that passes me by. I entertain other options, other career avenues, more education, and then my mind starts reeling with thoughts of debt and more time demands on a schedule that, quite frankly, doesn’t have a whole lot of room for more shit. It’s all overwhelming at times, and this feeling of overall angst is just rubbing me like an ill-fitting shoe.
Anyway, enough about that. On to bigger and better sources of angst.
My daughter turned 18 back in November. She’s now an adult in the eyes of the state, even though I still need to remind her to take the empty glasses from her bedroom and put them in the god damn dishwasher. She’s graduating from high school in a few months, and moving forward on her own path through life. This has caused me no end of stress and worry. It’s not her choices that worry me. It’s the fact that she’s grown up, leaving and striking out on her own, that stirs up all these emotions and fears. You know, standard Dad stuff. This subject is hard to talk about, because anything I throw up on this computer screen is going to sound trite, but I never imagined how hard it would be to see her grow up and go make her own life. I was never one of those parents who wanted my child to stay a little girl forever. I loved her as a little girl, but I found that I loved her in so many other ways as she grew and formed opinions and a unique personality. (The fact that she inherited the old man’s sick sense of humor didn’t hurt.) Little things these days make me look back over the years, back to when she was a little girl and things were much simpler. I know this is just garden-variety parent shit, and I’m at one of those emotional crossroads that parents reach with regularity. I’m truly happy that she found something she loves to do, and is going to set out to make a life out of it. In a purely selfish way though, looking back frames just how quickly 18 years, a quarter of my life, have passed by in a blur.
So here I sit at the supposed halfway (more or less) point of my existence, feeling sorry for myself. If you made it this far through this self-indulgent rant, then I owe you something. A box of Girl Scout cookies. A subscription to the Jelly of the month Club. Shoot me an email, and we’ll settle up.
I really don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. I’m not. In the grand scheme of things, I have a great life. I have a wonderful daughter, I’m in a great relationship, I have a job and a home and a great family. I’m not blind to how fortunate I am. All that being said, I still can’t stop from occasionally glancing over my shoulder and seeing that sand slowly trickle down through the narrow neck of that hourglass. I can’t help looking back over the years with a profound mixture of joy and sadness. I can’t help but look at the future with combined hope and uncertainty. Mostly, I can’t help but wonder why I fail to recognize that the only person who can shape my life into what I want it to be is me.
I’m already beyond middle-age.
Most of the time – hell, the bulk of the time - things like age and birthdays don’t add up to a tin shit to me. I really do believe, as cliché as it sounds, that age is nothing but a number and a state of mind. It’s how you think and feel that determines your “age”, not some number that corresponds to the day you were born. I know people a good fifteen years my senior that think and act like they’re still in their twenties. Likewise, I know folks in their twenties that have already grown crotchety and tentative – old long before their time.
I don’t feel forty, or what I imagined forty would feel like when I was in my 20’s. Not even close. I’m in decent shape, as far as the physical aspect goes. I’m fairly active. Sure, I’ve got some of the nagging aches and pains that come with age; but I’m pretty far ahead of the curve, all things considered. My mind is definitely still active. I read voraciously. I’m a news junkie. I’m pretty in tune with today’s cultural zeitgeist. I’m always seeking out new authors and filmmakers and musicians to further broaden my horizons. The collection of music on my ipod definitely doesn’t stop with shit published in 1987. Yes, indeed – I’m doing pretty well in my war with the grand hourglass.
So why is it that, lately, I feel like my life is slipping through my fingers?
Make no mistake, I’m not having some sort of existential crisis of the mid-life variety. I’m not having one of those, “What does it all mean?” conundrums. I’ve noticed, while peering through the window onto the soul that is Facebook, that many people I wouldn’t have expected have “found” religion as they’ve approached or reached the crest of life’s big hill. Maybe they’re true, honest conversions (if one believes there is such a thing); but I would hazard a guess that for some, it’s something to hold on to as they enter the uncharted waters of middle age. (I could be wrong. It’s hard for me to look objectively at religion, given my strong feelings on the subject.) No, my feelings as I begin the downhill portion of this existence aren’t so sweeping and grand as to have earth-shaking, spiritual undertones.
What I’ve been feeling lately, and what has caused me feelings of intermittent distress and melancholy, is more a culmination of little things.
This blog, for instance, is part of an attempt to address one of these nagging issues. I love to write. I’ve loved to write since I was a kid, sitting on the floor of my bedroom writing stories and fashioning the pages into books with staples and scotch tape. What I find is that I’m inherently lazy when it comes to putting pen to paper (or finger to keypad, in the parlance of our times). The real problem comes when I examine why I get lazy about something I’m so passionate about. Of course, the deeper I go down that rabbit-hole, the more I realize that a lot of it comes from the clichéd “fear of failure”. As much as I don’t want to be “that guy”, I am “that guy”. If I really put rubber to road and try my ass off to write and somehow parlay that into something bigger, and I fail, will that somehow sully this thing that I love? Is that even a relevant argument, since this fear keeps me from doing it on a regular basis anyway? I don’t know. It’s a thorny issue for me. One thing I can say for sure is that I’m going to make a concerted, committed effort to do this, as well as the fiction writing that I prefer, on a much more regular basis.
The fact that writing is one of the few things I truly love brings me to another conundrum: I’m 40 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. (Ok, I do know, but I’m also aware of little things like odds, percentages, skewed perception of one’s own abilities, etc.) I have a job, and it serves a function in society and I feel like I do some good, no matter how small my contribution may be. However, I can’t disguise the fact that I feel adrift. I try to imagine doing my job for the rest of my life, and frankly the idea of it makes me fucking depressed. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not whining. I know that I’m lucky to have a job in these uncertain times. That being said, I sometimes feel that I’m slipping into this trap of mind-numbing complacency with every day that passes me by. I entertain other options, other career avenues, more education, and then my mind starts reeling with thoughts of debt and more time demands on a schedule that, quite frankly, doesn’t have a whole lot of room for more shit. It’s all overwhelming at times, and this feeling of overall angst is just rubbing me like an ill-fitting shoe.
Anyway, enough about that. On to bigger and better sources of angst.
My daughter turned 18 back in November. She’s now an adult in the eyes of the state, even though I still need to remind her to take the empty glasses from her bedroom and put them in the god damn dishwasher. She’s graduating from high school in a few months, and moving forward on her own path through life. This has caused me no end of stress and worry. It’s not her choices that worry me. It’s the fact that she’s grown up, leaving and striking out on her own, that stirs up all these emotions and fears. You know, standard Dad stuff. This subject is hard to talk about, because anything I throw up on this computer screen is going to sound trite, but I never imagined how hard it would be to see her grow up and go make her own life. I was never one of those parents who wanted my child to stay a little girl forever. I loved her as a little girl, but I found that I loved her in so many other ways as she grew and formed opinions and a unique personality. (The fact that she inherited the old man’s sick sense of humor didn’t hurt.) Little things these days make me look back over the years, back to when she was a little girl and things were much simpler. I know this is just garden-variety parent shit, and I’m at one of those emotional crossroads that parents reach with regularity. I’m truly happy that she found something she loves to do, and is going to set out to make a life out of it. In a purely selfish way though, looking back frames just how quickly 18 years, a quarter of my life, have passed by in a blur.
So here I sit at the supposed halfway (more or less) point of my existence, feeling sorry for myself. If you made it this far through this self-indulgent rant, then I owe you something. A box of Girl Scout cookies. A subscription to the Jelly of the month Club. Shoot me an email, and we’ll settle up.
I really don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. I’m not. In the grand scheme of things, I have a great life. I have a wonderful daughter, I’m in a great relationship, I have a job and a home and a great family. I’m not blind to how fortunate I am. All that being said, I still can’t stop from occasionally glancing over my shoulder and seeing that sand slowly trickle down through the narrow neck of that hourglass. I can’t help looking back over the years with a profound mixture of joy and sadness. I can’t help but look at the future with combined hope and uncertainty. Mostly, I can’t help but wonder why I fail to recognize that the only person who can shape my life into what I want it to be is me.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Hammer it Out Your Ass, Mitt Romney.
So I'm at job numero dos today, scanning the store's web page for upcoming book releases. I'm having a mellow morning, all things considered. Just dealing with a light customer flow and looking for some good, upcoming reads. As I'm scanning the lists, I see that Mitt Romney, Mormon and hair gel enthusiast, is releasing a book. I read the title, and my blood begins to percolate.
That title? "No Apology: The Case For American Greatness".
The first thing that frosts my balls is "No Apology". If there's one thing that just boggles my mind, it's this bullshit, macho idea that apology represents a form of weakness. The idea that, by admitting a wrong, we've somehow compromised ourselves. Aren't children taught from a young age that when you do something wrong, you apologize for it? Don't you, as a human being, expect an apology when you've been wronged? Don't you consider someone's ability to admit an error a sign of good character? So why, pray tell, do some people throw those basic ideas out the window when it comes to the notion of this country being conciliatory and admitting wrongs on the stage of world affairs?
Let's be honest, and put the patented phony patriotism this country is famous for on hold for a bit. I love this country. I think we, as Americans, are capable of great kindness and generosity and acceptance. But, and here's where the honesty comes in, I'm not blind to our faults. In addition to our more noble and admirable traits, we're also capable of atrocity and violence and selfishness and bigotry. Does it make me less of an American to admit our faults? Some would say yes. The segment of the population that thumps their chest, crowing, proclaiming America's superiority at every turn, would most definitely label me unpatriotic. I just find it strange that in this country, a land born of rebellion, some find it un-American to question the motives and actions of one's country. I think Gilbert K. Chesterson said it best: "My country, right or wrong is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, My mother, drunk or sober."
Lest you think I'm putting the cart before the horse and jumping to conclusions about Mitt's meaning, here's a quote from the book description:
"On his first presidential visit to address the European nations, President Obama felt it necessary to apologize for America’s international power. He repeated that apology when visiting Latin America, and again to Muslims worldwide in an interview broadcast on Al-Arabiya television."
As much as I want to crawl up Mitt's ass on a number of points, I'm going to stay on topic. The "apology". Look, I'm not entirely happy with the way Obama has approached his first term to date. He's been a corporatist and he hasn't been nearly progressive enough for my taste. But the idea that Obama apologized for "America's international power" is a big, steaming pile of horseshit on par with W's, "The terrorists hate us for our freedom" spiel. What Obama apologized for was America's haughty, arrogant attitude in dealing with the world. I'll let Obama's own words speak for themselves. Here's what he said in the speech Romney mentions:
"In America, there is a failure to appreciate Europe’s leading role in the world. Instead of celebrating your dynamic union and seeking to partner with you to meet common challenges, there have been times where America has shown arrogance and been dismissive, even derisive."
Anyone want to challenge those assertions? I didn't think so. Ask anyone in France, and they'll tell you what happens when a country can't in good conscience follow America's lead. The French choose not to participate in the horror-show that is Iraq, and in America they're demonized for it. What did they really do? They said, "No thank you, America. We're sitting this bullshit out." America responds with name-calling, Toby Keith and a scathing renaming of the French fry.
But wait, there's more!
"In No Apology, Mitt Romney asserts that American strength is essential—not just for our own well-being, but for the world’s. Governments such as China and a newly-robust Russia threaten to overtake us on many fronts, and Islam continues its dangerous rise."
Mitt, part of America's strength should be our ability to admit when we're wrong. Do you know how many friends and allies we lost with the whole, "We're the toughest motherfuckers on the block and we don't answer to anyone" shit of the past eight years? How does alienating people make us stronger? How does acting like a bunch of smug, dismissive pricks do anything but harm?
Oh, and another thing - when a bunch of Christians go around bawling that they all can't be judged by the acts of a few bad apples, it's best not to judge all of Islam on the acts of a few. The growth of Islam is a "dangerous rise"? Get off it, you racist prick. Stop pandering to the fringe elements of your base and grow up.
As for "American Greatness"?
Have we, as a nation, been great? Absolutely. Will we be great heading into the future? Undoubtedly. Are we great all the time? Hardly. Nobody is. I think I'm a good person, but admittedly there are times when I fall short. We all do. We're all flawed, the people who make up this land; and by virtue of that this country, this collection of flawed humanity, is flawed as well. To deny those flaws, and to belittle those who admit to and apologize for them, is the height of arrogance and ignorance. What makes a nation great is the ability to be strong not just in bluster and military might, but strong in character and principle as well. Showing the world that we value them and their opinions, and don't just view them as a means to our own selfish ends, goes a long way toward showing true American greatness.
John Donne said, "No man is an island entire of itself." I think that applies to nations as well as individuals. Relationships based on mutual respect, honesty and the ability to concede past wrongs are essential. America must move beyond this posturing role as the biggest bully on the block, and realize that greatness often comes in the form of silent dignity, rather than bluster.
That title? "No Apology: The Case For American Greatness".
The first thing that frosts my balls is "No Apology". If there's one thing that just boggles my mind, it's this bullshit, macho idea that apology represents a form of weakness. The idea that, by admitting a wrong, we've somehow compromised ourselves. Aren't children taught from a young age that when you do something wrong, you apologize for it? Don't you, as a human being, expect an apology when you've been wronged? Don't you consider someone's ability to admit an error a sign of good character? So why, pray tell, do some people throw those basic ideas out the window when it comes to the notion of this country being conciliatory and admitting wrongs on the stage of world affairs?
Let's be honest, and put the patented phony patriotism this country is famous for on hold for a bit. I love this country. I think we, as Americans, are capable of great kindness and generosity and acceptance. But, and here's where the honesty comes in, I'm not blind to our faults. In addition to our more noble and admirable traits, we're also capable of atrocity and violence and selfishness and bigotry. Does it make me less of an American to admit our faults? Some would say yes. The segment of the population that thumps their chest, crowing, proclaiming America's superiority at every turn, would most definitely label me unpatriotic. I just find it strange that in this country, a land born of rebellion, some find it un-American to question the motives and actions of one's country. I think Gilbert K. Chesterson said it best: "My country, right or wrong is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, My mother, drunk or sober."
Lest you think I'm putting the cart before the horse and jumping to conclusions about Mitt's meaning, here's a quote from the book description:
"On his first presidential visit to address the European nations, President Obama felt it necessary to apologize for America’s international power. He repeated that apology when visiting Latin America, and again to Muslims worldwide in an interview broadcast on Al-Arabiya television."
As much as I want to crawl up Mitt's ass on a number of points, I'm going to stay on topic. The "apology". Look, I'm not entirely happy with the way Obama has approached his first term to date. He's been a corporatist and he hasn't been nearly progressive enough for my taste. But the idea that Obama apologized for "America's international power" is a big, steaming pile of horseshit on par with W's, "The terrorists hate us for our freedom" spiel. What Obama apologized for was America's haughty, arrogant attitude in dealing with the world. I'll let Obama's own words speak for themselves. Here's what he said in the speech Romney mentions:
"In America, there is a failure to appreciate Europe’s leading role in the world. Instead of celebrating your dynamic union and seeking to partner with you to meet common challenges, there have been times where America has shown arrogance and been dismissive, even derisive."
Anyone want to challenge those assertions? I didn't think so. Ask anyone in France, and they'll tell you what happens when a country can't in good conscience follow America's lead. The French choose not to participate in the horror-show that is Iraq, and in America they're demonized for it. What did they really do? They said, "No thank you, America. We're sitting this bullshit out." America responds with name-calling, Toby Keith and a scathing renaming of the French fry.
But wait, there's more!
"In No Apology, Mitt Romney asserts that American strength is essential—not just for our own well-being, but for the world’s. Governments such as China and a newly-robust Russia threaten to overtake us on many fronts, and Islam continues its dangerous rise."
Mitt, part of America's strength should be our ability to admit when we're wrong. Do you know how many friends and allies we lost with the whole, "We're the toughest motherfuckers on the block and we don't answer to anyone" shit of the past eight years? How does alienating people make us stronger? How does acting like a bunch of smug, dismissive pricks do anything but harm?
Oh, and another thing - when a bunch of Christians go around bawling that they all can't be judged by the acts of a few bad apples, it's best not to judge all of Islam on the acts of a few. The growth of Islam is a "dangerous rise"? Get off it, you racist prick. Stop pandering to the fringe elements of your base and grow up.
As for "American Greatness"?
Have we, as a nation, been great? Absolutely. Will we be great heading into the future? Undoubtedly. Are we great all the time? Hardly. Nobody is. I think I'm a good person, but admittedly there are times when I fall short. We all do. We're all flawed, the people who make up this land; and by virtue of that this country, this collection of flawed humanity, is flawed as well. To deny those flaws, and to belittle those who admit to and apologize for them, is the height of arrogance and ignorance. What makes a nation great is the ability to be strong not just in bluster and military might, but strong in character and principle as well. Showing the world that we value them and their opinions, and don't just view them as a means to our own selfish ends, goes a long way toward showing true American greatness.
John Donne said, "No man is an island entire of itself." I think that applies to nations as well as individuals. Relationships based on mutual respect, honesty and the ability to concede past wrongs are essential. America must move beyond this posturing role as the biggest bully on the block, and realize that greatness often comes in the form of silent dignity, rather than bluster.
Now Even Bloggier!
So this is my new blog. Same stuff, different name. Meet the new blog, same as the old blog, as it were.
Why the change? I'm certain that I won't reside in the Northeast forever, and frankly the old blog title - Dispatches From the Great Northeast - felt confining.
I like the new name. It works on more than a few levels, I think.
Christ, I really need to write more. My output is pathetic. Here's to changing all that. Like I haven't said that before...
Why the change? I'm certain that I won't reside in the Northeast forever, and frankly the old blog title - Dispatches From the Great Northeast - felt confining.
I like the new name. It works on more than a few levels, I think.
Christ, I really need to write more. My output is pathetic. Here's to changing all that. Like I haven't said that before...
Monday, May 25, 2009
Meat
A few months back, I decided to try being a vegetarian for 30 days. I had myriad reasons for this undertaking, one of them being the simple question of whether or not I could pull it off. In short, I did.
I mentioned this 30-day commitment on the Facebook, and was frankly surprised at how many people became interested in my dietary habits. Vegetarians encouraged me, as did a few meat-eaters. Some folks made it clear that not eating meat endangered my manhood – as if my testicles would shrink to the size of raisins, my dick would fall off in the shower and I'd start wearing a frilly tutu if I didn't tear into hulking slabs of dead animal flesh. Mostly, people would just ask, “how is the vegetarian thing going?”
I fulfilled my thirty days. I felt good. However, I started wondering if I really felt good because of the lack of meat in my diet. Was it all psychological? Did I maybe just expect to feel better? I made the decision to resume my meat-eating ways for a while and do a little compare and contrast.
When I resumed eating meat I almost immediately felt a difference. I felt almost heavier...sluggish. I felt like I was weighed down. Physically, I just felt better when there was no meat in my diet. Case closed.
I spent a lot of time thinking of the reasons for and against not eating meat. Frankly, there aren't any logical reasons to go on eating it. Sure, it tastes good sometimes. There's no denying that. However, weighing the pros and cons, the cons won out in a landslide. I don't entirely subscribe to the “meat is murder” ideal. On one hand, I think that the killing and eating of animals is a part of the natural processes of nature. That being said, I think that human beings have a rare ability to make a decision on whether or not we want to consume other animals. I don't look at this decision as black and white, right and wrong. I don't think there's an easy answer to the question, or an easy resolution to the debate. You choose to eat meat, or not eat meat? That's your choice. It's not my place to judge. I think I focused more on the health benefits, as it's pretty clear that eating meat opens you up to a lot more health issues than forgoing it. Cholesterol. Fat. Carcinogens. Antibiotics. Hormones. Pick your poison – they're all in the mix.
To satisfy the curiosity of the surprising number of people who still ask, here's the decisions I've come to:
I'm no longer eating any chicken, beef, pork, etc. Having just read “Fast Food Nation”, I got a good, horrific look at how poultry and pork and beef make their way to the table. No thanks. Do yourself a favor and read the book. It will change the way you look at your meat, I can guarantee you that much. Last night at the wedding of my friends Theresa and Austin, I ate beef. That was the last piece I'll ever eat, and I ate that because they already paid for it and I didn't want it to go to waste.
In a vote for sheer selfishness, I'm going to continue to eat fish and seafood. I enjoy sushi and fish tacos, crab-dip and the occasional raw oysters too much to cut them from my diet completely. I'm going to enjoy these items sparingly. I'm going to do my best to eat fish that isn't harvested in an ecologically insensitive manner. Sure, it's going to take some extra work...but it's worth it to me.
To prove that I am not a complete selfish prick? No turkey with thanksgiving dinner. Trust me, this is a HUGE concession from me. My reasons? Look into the conditions turkeys live in before they're turned into dinner.
I don't consider myself a vegetarian, as I'm still eating some meat. I just choose not to eat some animals based on a plethora of personal views I have come to form over the course of this experiment.
So that's it. That's my decision. Thanks to the people that encouraged me. A different kind of thanks to the people who criticized my decision – I've forwarded your names so that Obama can put you on his secret, liberal watch-list. Take that, fuckers.
I mentioned this 30-day commitment on the Facebook, and was frankly surprised at how many people became interested in my dietary habits. Vegetarians encouraged me, as did a few meat-eaters. Some folks made it clear that not eating meat endangered my manhood – as if my testicles would shrink to the size of raisins, my dick would fall off in the shower and I'd start wearing a frilly tutu if I didn't tear into hulking slabs of dead animal flesh. Mostly, people would just ask, “how is the vegetarian thing going?”
I fulfilled my thirty days. I felt good. However, I started wondering if I really felt good because of the lack of meat in my diet. Was it all psychological? Did I maybe just expect to feel better? I made the decision to resume my meat-eating ways for a while and do a little compare and contrast.
When I resumed eating meat I almost immediately felt a difference. I felt almost heavier...sluggish. I felt like I was weighed down. Physically, I just felt better when there was no meat in my diet. Case closed.
I spent a lot of time thinking of the reasons for and against not eating meat. Frankly, there aren't any logical reasons to go on eating it. Sure, it tastes good sometimes. There's no denying that. However, weighing the pros and cons, the cons won out in a landslide. I don't entirely subscribe to the “meat is murder” ideal. On one hand, I think that the killing and eating of animals is a part of the natural processes of nature. That being said, I think that human beings have a rare ability to make a decision on whether or not we want to consume other animals. I don't look at this decision as black and white, right and wrong. I don't think there's an easy answer to the question, or an easy resolution to the debate. You choose to eat meat, or not eat meat? That's your choice. It's not my place to judge. I think I focused more on the health benefits, as it's pretty clear that eating meat opens you up to a lot more health issues than forgoing it. Cholesterol. Fat. Carcinogens. Antibiotics. Hormones. Pick your poison – they're all in the mix.
To satisfy the curiosity of the surprising number of people who still ask, here's the decisions I've come to:
I'm no longer eating any chicken, beef, pork, etc. Having just read “Fast Food Nation”, I got a good, horrific look at how poultry and pork and beef make their way to the table. No thanks. Do yourself a favor and read the book. It will change the way you look at your meat, I can guarantee you that much. Last night at the wedding of my friends Theresa and Austin, I ate beef. That was the last piece I'll ever eat, and I ate that because they already paid for it and I didn't want it to go to waste.
In a vote for sheer selfishness, I'm going to continue to eat fish and seafood. I enjoy sushi and fish tacos, crab-dip and the occasional raw oysters too much to cut them from my diet completely. I'm going to enjoy these items sparingly. I'm going to do my best to eat fish that isn't harvested in an ecologically insensitive manner. Sure, it's going to take some extra work...but it's worth it to me.
To prove that I am not a complete selfish prick? No turkey with thanksgiving dinner. Trust me, this is a HUGE concession from me. My reasons? Look into the conditions turkeys live in before they're turned into dinner.
I don't consider myself a vegetarian, as I'm still eating some meat. I just choose not to eat some animals based on a plethora of personal views I have come to form over the course of this experiment.
So that's it. That's my decision. Thanks to the people that encouraged me. A different kind of thanks to the people who criticized my decision – I've forwarded your names so that Obama can put you on his secret, liberal watch-list. Take that, fuckers.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
How Full is your Quiver?
Just when I think religion couldn’t possibly get any bat-shit crazier, something comes along to make me change my tune. If you’ve read anything I’ve ever regurgitated into the blogosphere, then you’re aware that I view religion as little more than sanctioned lunacy – a mass delusion that, for deeply ingrained sociological reasons, gets a pass from the majority of humanity.
The other morning I was buried under the covers, trying to avoid dragging my ass out of bed, while NPR blared from the clock radio. A story came on about the “Quiverfull” movement. After listening for a few moments, I emerged from my morning fog. I was intrigued. I was aghast. I was horrified.
I present to you a brief overview of the “Quiverfull” movement. It’s a Christian invention. It’s based on Psalm 127, which states that, “Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.” (In a nutshell? Kids are like arrows. The more arrows a warrior has, the better his chances of killing everybody and everything that he can.) The movement shuns birth control, content in the knowledge that god knows just how many children a family can handle. You know, because that has worked out so well in Appalachia and Sub-Saharan Africa.
We live in a free society. There are no limits on the number of children you can eject from your womb and into the world. Sure, there’s the issue of personal responsibility. The earth has finite resources, and the global population is certainly reaching a tipping point. There’s something to be said for looking at the exploding world population and saying, “do I really want to add 8 or 9 more kids into this hot mess we call planet earth?” It’s no different than choosing the car we drive. Sure, you have every right to buy a Hummer H2 and get 2 mpg and lumber around basking in your freedom to shuffle us one step closer to extinction with each mile you drive. But isn’t it smarter to get a more fuel efficient vehicle to help preserve the only planet we have?
Honestly, I don’t expect much in the way of environmental common-sense from the fundamentalist crowd. After all, the bible is chock full of notions that man helms the cosmic bobsled, and that planet earth is our own personal sandbox to plunder and pillage as we see fit. Live your life according to that book and, well, you can do the math.
The more I listened, and later read, about this Quiverfull movement, the more the ecological concerns took a back seat. Eventually, you muddle through the double-speak and the pictures of happy families and you get to the core of what this group - and many “Christ-centric” groups - are truly all about. You realize that under the shiny veneer of love and harmony and endless singing of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” is an aim that is much, much more nefarious.
One of the leaders of this movement is a woman by the name of Nancy Campbell. Nancy was quoted extensively by NPR, and she wrote a book about said movement called Be Fruitful and Multiply. Listening to Nancy, and reading her words, gave me the creepy-crawlies up and down my spine. Here’s one of Nancy’s greatest hits: “The womb is a powerful weapon; it’s a weapon against the enemy.” Wait…what? Yes, that’s right. You weren’t imagining things. Go ahead, read it again. The enemy? Who is this enemy? Well, let’s let Nancy lay that out for you with another quote.
“We look across the Islamic world and we see that they are outnumbering us in their family size, and they are in many places and many countries taking over those nations, without jihad, just by multiplication.”
Another Quiverfull disciple, Kathryn Joyce, who wrote the book Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement, says:
“They speak about, ‘If everyone starts having eight children or 12 children, imagine in three generations what we’ll be able to do. We’ll be able to take over both halls of Congress, we’ll be able to reclaim sinful cities like San Francisco for the faithful, and we’ll be able to wage very effective massive boycotts against companies that are going against god’s will.’”
Getting the picture? I have seen Nancy’s and Kathryn’s enemy, and it is me. Hell, it might be you. (If you’re reading my blog, it probably is you…let’s be honest.) The enemy is the Muslim, the Buddhist, the homosexual, the atheist. Anyone who disagrees with a strict, biblical interpretation of Christianity is the enemy. Let that sink in.
Part of the problem when you deal with fundamentalist Christianity is that it’s a faith born from persecution. I mean the faith itself, the belief, was literally forged from death and misery. I think this instills in many of its followers a sort of “persecution envy”. Jesus was crucified. Early Christians were tortured and fed to the lions. “What about me?” They ask. “When do I get to suffer?” It’s this attitude, this desire to feel the suffering of their Messiah and the church’s early adherents that drives this cult of persecution. This is what causes fundamentalists to perceive “persecution” where persecution doesn’t exist. Simply disagreeing with them is not disagreement, but persecution. You aren’t someone who disagrees with their views, you are the enemy.
Bill O’Reilly is a category 5 fuck-tard. Everyone with a functioning brain knows this. O’Reilly was also one of the original talking heads to begin vomiting endless venom and nonsense about a “war on Christmas”. Not to be left out, fellow Fox News anchor and intellectual fly-weight John Gibson actually published a book entitled: The War on Christmas: How the Liberal Plot to Ban the Sacred Christian Holiday is Worse Than You Thought. This war of which they speak? Well, it involves the audacity of other cultures and religions to observe holidays over the Christmas season. It involves non-Christians not wanting a 30-foot, light-up baby Jesus on the lawn of a secular courthouse. The nerve of these people, right?
See, wishing people “happy holidays” rather than “merry Christmas” is a shot across Christianity’s bow. It is, if you are to believe the O’Reilly’s, Gibson’s, Joyce’s and Campbell’s of this world, a declaration of war. The Jew who celebrates Hanukkah or Chanukah or however those heathen non-Christians spell it? The atheist who doesn’t celebrate Christmas or any other holiday in December? The Pagan celebrating the winter solstice? Well, these people can go fuck themselves. They will be wished a merry Christmas, like it or not, because quite frankly their own holidays and beliefs take a back seat to the whims of the teeming employees of Jesus Christ, Inc. Other cultures and religions and belief systems simply don’t matter. Ask that your own, non-Christian beliefs be respected? Well, then you’re persecuting the poor Christians.
Don’t get me started on the Muslims. Where Christians just whine and stomp their feet if you “insult” their religion (while inside they secretly relish their time to “suffer”), the Muslims will just cut to the chase and fucking kill you - and they don’t care if they have to grease themselves in the process. Done. Period. End of story. I think this is where much of the Muslim/Christian animosity stems from. Quite frankly, the Christians are pissed because the Muslim’s totally one-upped them on the whole persecution complex.
One thing unites both faiths, however. In each of their individual holy books it implicitly states that they are each far, far superior to all the “non-believers”. They’re both so special. They’re both so…right. All the other faiths? So, so wrong.
Yeah, I know. They both can’t be right. Do you want to be the one to tell either one of them? Especially the ones with the explosive-filled knapsacks? I know I don’t.
So here we are. Myself, and the rest of the non-religious and the “sinners” and “infidels”, are fighting a “war” we didn’t know we were engaged in. See, I don’t give a frog’s fat ass what the Christians and the Muslims and the Jews and all the rest of them do when they’re at church or temple or whatever. I don’t care what they do in their own homes. They’re free to practice their faith. That freedom is guaranteed under the United States constitution. I would certainly never advocate taking that belief from them. What I don’t want, however, is to have their faith bleed over into my private life or my government. I don’t want their gods telling my gay friends they don’t deserve rights. I don’t want my laws crafted on their morality. Is that so much to ask? I don’t expect them to respect what I do or don’t believe. What I do expect is for them to respect my right to hold those beliefs (or lack thereof). Just keep your faith out of my government, public schools and personal life. You do that, and we’ll all get along like gangbusters.
What do we get instead? We get Nancy Campbell getting into a bizarre pissing match with the Muslims over who can shit out more kids and dominate the world. We have O’Reilly and his “war on Christmas”. We have legions of whack-jobs like Kathryn Joyce who want their “full quivers” to multiply like some holy Ponzi-scheme until they take over Congress and the Presidency. Remember the Taliban, those nasty Muslims the god-fearing people of America wanted to overthrow in Afghanistan? Well, rest assured that if the fundamentalist Christians ever seized control of the U.S. government, it would make Shira Law look like 3rd period gym class. I think you’d be surprised how many of your rights violate “god’s will”.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go track down Nadya Suleman. I really have to find out what religion she subscribes to.
(If you like, here’s the link to the NPR story that prompted this blog: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102005062
NPR provides a link to the Quiverfull website.)
The other morning I was buried under the covers, trying to avoid dragging my ass out of bed, while NPR blared from the clock radio. A story came on about the “Quiverfull” movement. After listening for a few moments, I emerged from my morning fog. I was intrigued. I was aghast. I was horrified.
I present to you a brief overview of the “Quiverfull” movement. It’s a Christian invention. It’s based on Psalm 127, which states that, “Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.” (In a nutshell? Kids are like arrows. The more arrows a warrior has, the better his chances of killing everybody and everything that he can.) The movement shuns birth control, content in the knowledge that god knows just how many children a family can handle. You know, because that has worked out so well in Appalachia and Sub-Saharan Africa.
We live in a free society. There are no limits on the number of children you can eject from your womb and into the world. Sure, there’s the issue of personal responsibility. The earth has finite resources, and the global population is certainly reaching a tipping point. There’s something to be said for looking at the exploding world population and saying, “do I really want to add 8 or 9 more kids into this hot mess we call planet earth?” It’s no different than choosing the car we drive. Sure, you have every right to buy a Hummer H2 and get 2 mpg and lumber around basking in your freedom to shuffle us one step closer to extinction with each mile you drive. But isn’t it smarter to get a more fuel efficient vehicle to help preserve the only planet we have?
Honestly, I don’t expect much in the way of environmental common-sense from the fundamentalist crowd. After all, the bible is chock full of notions that man helms the cosmic bobsled, and that planet earth is our own personal sandbox to plunder and pillage as we see fit. Live your life according to that book and, well, you can do the math.
The more I listened, and later read, about this Quiverfull movement, the more the ecological concerns took a back seat. Eventually, you muddle through the double-speak and the pictures of happy families and you get to the core of what this group - and many “Christ-centric” groups - are truly all about. You realize that under the shiny veneer of love and harmony and endless singing of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” is an aim that is much, much more nefarious.
One of the leaders of this movement is a woman by the name of Nancy Campbell. Nancy was quoted extensively by NPR, and she wrote a book about said movement called Be Fruitful and Multiply. Listening to Nancy, and reading her words, gave me the creepy-crawlies up and down my spine. Here’s one of Nancy’s greatest hits: “The womb is a powerful weapon; it’s a weapon against the enemy.” Wait…what? Yes, that’s right. You weren’t imagining things. Go ahead, read it again. The enemy? Who is this enemy? Well, let’s let Nancy lay that out for you with another quote.
“We look across the Islamic world and we see that they are outnumbering us in their family size, and they are in many places and many countries taking over those nations, without jihad, just by multiplication.”
Another Quiverfull disciple, Kathryn Joyce, who wrote the book Quiverfull: Inside the Christian Patriarchy Movement, says:
“They speak about, ‘If everyone starts having eight children or 12 children, imagine in three generations what we’ll be able to do. We’ll be able to take over both halls of Congress, we’ll be able to reclaim sinful cities like San Francisco for the faithful, and we’ll be able to wage very effective massive boycotts against companies that are going against god’s will.’”
Getting the picture? I have seen Nancy’s and Kathryn’s enemy, and it is me. Hell, it might be you. (If you’re reading my blog, it probably is you…let’s be honest.) The enemy is the Muslim, the Buddhist, the homosexual, the atheist. Anyone who disagrees with a strict, biblical interpretation of Christianity is the enemy. Let that sink in.
Part of the problem when you deal with fundamentalist Christianity is that it’s a faith born from persecution. I mean the faith itself, the belief, was literally forged from death and misery. I think this instills in many of its followers a sort of “persecution envy”. Jesus was crucified. Early Christians were tortured and fed to the lions. “What about me?” They ask. “When do I get to suffer?” It’s this attitude, this desire to feel the suffering of their Messiah and the church’s early adherents that drives this cult of persecution. This is what causes fundamentalists to perceive “persecution” where persecution doesn’t exist. Simply disagreeing with them is not disagreement, but persecution. You aren’t someone who disagrees with their views, you are the enemy.
Bill O’Reilly is a category 5 fuck-tard. Everyone with a functioning brain knows this. O’Reilly was also one of the original talking heads to begin vomiting endless venom and nonsense about a “war on Christmas”. Not to be left out, fellow Fox News anchor and intellectual fly-weight John Gibson actually published a book entitled: The War on Christmas: How the Liberal Plot to Ban the Sacred Christian Holiday is Worse Than You Thought. This war of which they speak? Well, it involves the audacity of other cultures and religions to observe holidays over the Christmas season. It involves non-Christians not wanting a 30-foot, light-up baby Jesus on the lawn of a secular courthouse. The nerve of these people, right?
See, wishing people “happy holidays” rather than “merry Christmas” is a shot across Christianity’s bow. It is, if you are to believe the O’Reilly’s, Gibson’s, Joyce’s and Campbell’s of this world, a declaration of war. The Jew who celebrates Hanukkah or Chanukah or however those heathen non-Christians spell it? The atheist who doesn’t celebrate Christmas or any other holiday in December? The Pagan celebrating the winter solstice? Well, these people can go fuck themselves. They will be wished a merry Christmas, like it or not, because quite frankly their own holidays and beliefs take a back seat to the whims of the teeming employees of Jesus Christ, Inc. Other cultures and religions and belief systems simply don’t matter. Ask that your own, non-Christian beliefs be respected? Well, then you’re persecuting the poor Christians.
Don’t get me started on the Muslims. Where Christians just whine and stomp their feet if you “insult” their religion (while inside they secretly relish their time to “suffer”), the Muslims will just cut to the chase and fucking kill you - and they don’t care if they have to grease themselves in the process. Done. Period. End of story. I think this is where much of the Muslim/Christian animosity stems from. Quite frankly, the Christians are pissed because the Muslim’s totally one-upped them on the whole persecution complex.
One thing unites both faiths, however. In each of their individual holy books it implicitly states that they are each far, far superior to all the “non-believers”. They’re both so special. They’re both so…right. All the other faiths? So, so wrong.
Yeah, I know. They both can’t be right. Do you want to be the one to tell either one of them? Especially the ones with the explosive-filled knapsacks? I know I don’t.
So here we are. Myself, and the rest of the non-religious and the “sinners” and “infidels”, are fighting a “war” we didn’t know we were engaged in. See, I don’t give a frog’s fat ass what the Christians and the Muslims and the Jews and all the rest of them do when they’re at church or temple or whatever. I don’t care what they do in their own homes. They’re free to practice their faith. That freedom is guaranteed under the United States constitution. I would certainly never advocate taking that belief from them. What I don’t want, however, is to have their faith bleed over into my private life or my government. I don’t want their gods telling my gay friends they don’t deserve rights. I don’t want my laws crafted on their morality. Is that so much to ask? I don’t expect them to respect what I do or don’t believe. What I do expect is for them to respect my right to hold those beliefs (or lack thereof). Just keep your faith out of my government, public schools and personal life. You do that, and we’ll all get along like gangbusters.
What do we get instead? We get Nancy Campbell getting into a bizarre pissing match with the Muslims over who can shit out more kids and dominate the world. We have O’Reilly and his “war on Christmas”. We have legions of whack-jobs like Kathryn Joyce who want their “full quivers” to multiply like some holy Ponzi-scheme until they take over Congress and the Presidency. Remember the Taliban, those nasty Muslims the god-fearing people of America wanted to overthrow in Afghanistan? Well, rest assured that if the fundamentalist Christians ever seized control of the U.S. government, it would make Shira Law look like 3rd period gym class. I think you’d be surprised how many of your rights violate “god’s will”.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go track down Nadya Suleman. I really have to find out what religion she subscribes to.
(If you like, here’s the link to the NPR story that prompted this blog: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=102005062
NPR provides a link to the Quiverfull website.)
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