It seems to be getting harder and harder for me to organize my thoughts and retain them long enough to sit down and work them into a coherent post here. They're too scattered, entering my mind like tabloid headlines read in the supermarket checkout line with no point-by-point stories to clarify them. Here's a sampling, not necessarily in chronological order:
I should put away the folded laundry. Nah, there's no rush. I can read another chapter.
Donald Trump leads in the polls. Is that not the scariest thing ever? Do people think he just landed in the limelight yesterday with pockets full of money? Have they read nothing at all about his ruthlessness in business and in life? About the total disrespect he has for almost everyone whose name isn't emblazoned in gold on a building? I understand that some people rally behind a man who isn't afraid to say what he thinks -- we've all had times when we'd like to stand up and stick it to "the man" -- but isn't diplomacy an important quality in someone who'll be dealing with foreign leaders? The presidency is no place for a hothead.
What is that in my mouth? Holy crap! It's my denture! Why is it in two pieces? I was taking a nap; how did it break while I was asleep?
Why is this towel on the sofa? I'll just pick it up and pretend I didn't notice it's where it isn't supposed to be. Gimpy's wearing his guilty face, and I don't want to hurt his feelings.
Oh, no! Another theater shooting! And this one was only an hour away from here. How many died? Two, not counting the shooter? That is so sad! And there's our governor, smack in the middle of the investigation bigwigs outside the crime scene. That's gotta be the fastest trip he ever took. Ha! Listen to how he dodged the question about gun control.
I need to go to the store. But the heat index is over three digits. How can I put this trip off until tomorrow? Peas. I can eat this can of peas for supper. Tomorrow won't be cooler, but I can get an earlier start.
Another murder in Baton Rouge. Another person dead, another family traumatized. How many does that make this year? Hm. This website says 40 already. So that's, what, almost six a month? Not much fuss raised about most of these individuals. Why not set aside one day a year to lower the flag and collectively acknowledge all those who have been slain one at a time? It would at least call attention to the fact that this country has a murder problem.
I should empty the dishwasher. Nah, I'm gonna read for another twenty minutes.
I really want to see the new baby! Look at all that dark hair! She looks just like her daddy, and I know he's gonna be a good one. Her mama will be a good one, too. She's a lucky little girl. They're probably having a lot of visitors now. I'll wait a little longer.
Good grief! There's a brain-eating amoeba in the water supply! Not ours, thank goodness, but too close for comfort. They're saying the water is safe to drink, but be careful not to get it up your nose. Seriously? How thirsty would I have to be to drink water that I know contains a brain-eating amoeba? I'd stick with diet soda; the chemicals in that might kill me, too, but it would take them longer to do it.
Why are the dogs scratching at the base of this little table? There must be a ball under there. (Pulling out table.) Oh my goodness, five balls -- and dust bunnies and dog hair. Heh. All three boy dogs are darting in and grabbing a ball. Heh-heh. Lucy's nuts. She's ignoring the two remaining balls and scooping up dust bunnies.
This raisin bread is SO good! How many slices should I toast? That's a lot of carbs and calories, especially with the butter on it, but I haven't eaten yet today, and it's almost noon. It could be breakfast and lunch. Yeah, that's it, that's how I'll think of it. Hm. How can I keep the first two slices warm while I wait for the second two to toast?
Look at this nonsense on Facebook! Why does she insist on posting political videos that have no foundation in fact? She's smarter than that. She is, right? Have I given her credit for having better sense than she actually does? This one is just way over-the-top ridiculous. Okay, I'm sorry, but that does it. Let's see...click to pull down menu...click unfollow.
I really should vacuum. Nah, I'm not expecting company, and it's quiet now. It's a good time to start that next book I've been waiting to read.
.
Showing posts with label opinions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label opinions. Show all posts
Friday, July 31, 2015
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
He Who Would Be King
On October 20, 2007, I cast my electronic ballot for Bobby Jindal to become Louisiana's next governor. The following day I wrote a post about that vote, the iffiness of it and the hope behind it. That post included these words:
In the beginning I was encouraged. Early in his first term we had Hurricane Gustav, and Bobby Jindal showed himself to be far more adept at crisis management than his predecessor, Kathleen Blanco, who was notably inept during Hurricane Katrina three years earlier. There. I've given him credit where he deserved it. That's the last thing I remember liking about him.
It is perhaps a fault of mine that I'm overly impressed by intelligence. Jindal is bright; there's no question about that. I have tended to equate intelligence with logic and open-mindedness, but I've learned from watching our governor that I'm wrong about that, that those traits don't always go hand in hand.
I've also learned that naked ambition trumps intelligence when it comes to making decisions in the best interest of the citizenry. (And speaking of "trump," the Donald's naked ambition is brazenly obvious, too--but that's a subject for a whole 'nother post.)
I don't think Bobby Jindal has ever cared one iota about the State of Louisiana except as a stepping stone on his path toward the presidency. If he believes every single piece of right-wing propaganda he's spouted in the last eight years, then, in my opinion, he's dangerous to a free society. If he doesn't really believe everything he's said, then he's such a suck-up that Tea Party bigwigs must have permanent hickeys on their behinds. Either way, polls indicate that seventy per cent of this red state's population are disappointed in his performance.
Why am I bringing all this up today? Because Bobby Jindal is expected to announce his candidacy for president at four o'clock this afternoon. What an ego! What a loser!
I'd say, "What a joke!" but I'm not laughing.
I made a huge leap of faith when I pushed that button yesterday, and I pray to God I didn’t make a mistake. If time proves that my faith wasn’t justified, I hope you’ll all remind me of that–-mercilessly--before the next major election.Well, folks, I screwed up. If you want to heap scorn upon my head, I'm ready to stand here and accept it. Voting for Jindal isn't the stupidest mistake I've ever made, but it's the stupidest one I've ever made public.
In the beginning I was encouraged. Early in his first term we had Hurricane Gustav, and Bobby Jindal showed himself to be far more adept at crisis management than his predecessor, Kathleen Blanco, who was notably inept during Hurricane Katrina three years earlier. There. I've given him credit where he deserved it. That's the last thing I remember liking about him.
It is perhaps a fault of mine that I'm overly impressed by intelligence. Jindal is bright; there's no question about that. I have tended to equate intelligence with logic and open-mindedness, but I've learned from watching our governor that I'm wrong about that, that those traits don't always go hand in hand.
I've also learned that naked ambition trumps intelligence when it comes to making decisions in the best interest of the citizenry. (And speaking of "trump," the Donald's naked ambition is brazenly obvious, too--but that's a subject for a whole 'nother post.)
I don't think Bobby Jindal has ever cared one iota about the State of Louisiana except as a stepping stone on his path toward the presidency. If he believes every single piece of right-wing propaganda he's spouted in the last eight years, then, in my opinion, he's dangerous to a free society. If he doesn't really believe everything he's said, then he's such a suck-up that Tea Party bigwigs must have permanent hickeys on their behinds. Either way, polls indicate that seventy per cent of this red state's population are disappointed in his performance.
Why am I bringing all this up today? Because Bobby Jindal is expected to announce his candidacy for president at four o'clock this afternoon. What an ego! What a loser!
I'd say, "What a joke!" but I'm not laughing.
Friday, November 07, 2014
What I've Been Reading--and Thinking
It's tempting to blame my recent blogging lapse on writer's block, but that would be a lie. The truth is I've been heeding that old adage: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Half of my friends and family are Republicans, and I didn't want to offend any of them by ranting about what I really think about the Grand Old Party and its billionaire backers who are itching to get their hands more deeply into the pockets of America's senior citizens than the hands of the Nigerian email scammers we've all been warned about will ever go. The difference is that the billionaires will rob us a few dollars at a time, controlling Congress to tweak one bill here and another one there in favor of corporate earnings, until the middle class is nothing but a thing remembered from the olden days.
I remember when it didn't cost $13 to buy enough ground beef for a meatloaf like the one I made last night. Food prices are astonishingly high. And I laugh when I hear newscasters rejoicing because the price of gasoline has dropped pennies below $3 a gallon. That's still way too expensive, people! It's as though everybody who's bought gas in recent years has been held up at the pumps by an armed robber who took all the money out of their wallets, and it's happened so many times they've begun to expect it. In fact, the holdups are still happening, only now the robber is allowing each victim to keep, say, a $10 bill, so the gas customers are smiling and the news reporters are positively gleeful. Personally, I'd say the news about gas prices is better than it has been but still isn't up to the standard of good.
Anyway, you can see that it doesn't take much thinking about this for me to start ranting, which I had not intended to do today. I've avoided ranting for the past couple of weeks by escaping into books, specifically these:
Black Butterflies
by Sara Alexi
Deadly Offerings
by Alexa Grace
The Saints Go Dying
by Erik Hanberg
Ava's Man
by Rick Bragg
Surviving Goodbye
by Morgan Parker
Deathwatch
by Dana Marton
Prince Edward
by Dennis McFarland
Heller
by JD Nixon
Gone Girl
by Gillian Flynn
Dark Places
by Gillian Flynn
Sharp Objects
by Gillian Flynn
Courting Cate
by Leslie Gould
To read a description and reviews of any of these books,
click on its image above.
My favorites in this batch were Rick Bragg's biography of his grandfather, Ava's Man; Dennis McFarland's Prince Edward, a true-to-life novel about the integration of schools in Prince Edward County, Virginia; and the three chilling novels by Gillian Flynn: Gone Girl, Dark Places, and Sharp Objects. Those were excellent reads; the others were all pretty good. (I also attempted to read a couple of real clunkers that, as a favor to you, I have not included in the list above.)
Okay. I thought a reading list would be a good way to ease back into blogging and leave political vitriol behind. That plan seems to have been only partially successful, though I do feel more peaceful at the end of this post than I did at the beginning of it. Now I'll go make an expensive meatloaf sandwich and read a book while I eat it. Tomorrow I'll try to muster up a Saturday Song Selection video, possibly one with a pleasant story to go along with it, and maybe I can get back to regular posting after that. If not, I'll blame it on writer's block.
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
What's Not to "Like"?
The reason I'm seeing each of these photos is that one or another of my Facebook friends (who actually knows the people in the photo) clicked the "like" button on it, and Facebook, in its infinite quest to link us all together, has decided that each of us needs to know what our friends "like." Against my will--and probably yours--if you're my Facebook friend, my nose is all up in your business.
I'm not talking about status posts that friends wrote or photos they posted. I want to see those. Those are the reason I signed up for Facebook in the first place. Nor am I speaking of things friends decided to "share." If it meant enough to them that they wanted to call attention to it, then, by golly, I'll give it a look. I just don't want to have to search through a page full of random posts my friends have "liked" in order to find the things they intended for me to see.
Facebook shows those "liked" posts anyway. There is currently no way to opt out of seeing all the "likes" while leaving the status posts and "shares" intact.
Why is this a problem? Well, for example, one friend really likes cat pictures. I don't mind one or two cat pictures, but a news feed full of them is way too many. A male friend "likes" photos of swimsuit models, so those show up in my news feed, too, even though swimsuit models are definitely not my thing. Some of my friends are talented artists and craftspeople, and I enjoy seeing photos of their work. Those friends, of course, "like" the images that their friends who share the same interests post of their own work, so I see those photos, too. Another friend (bless her heart) recently experienced a betrayal. When she sees a pre-made graphic or slogan related in any way to broken trust, it resonates with her, she clicks the "like" button, and voila! There it is on my news feed. Sometimes there's a long string of slogans and images on that topic, and, frankly, that's kind of a bummer. All those "liked" posts add up, and it takes a lot of time to filter through them. But wasted time isn't the biggest problem. It's the photos of "friends of friends" that bother me most. I feel as if I'm invading people's privacy when I see those pictures, yet there isn't a doggone thing I can do about it.
The flip side of this hasn't escaped me: I realize that posts I've "liked" (mostly because I really did like them but occasionally just to be polite) must have contributed to the clutter on my friends' news feeds, too. I sincerely apologize for that, but this time the buck stops with Facebook.
Tuesday, February 04, 2014
Bits and Pieces
ENOUGH!
This is the view from my backdoor day before yesterday:
I expect to see a similar view as soon as I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed and step outside to go to the grocery store. If you click on the picture to enlarge it, you can just barely see that it was pouring down rain. Who needs more of that?
GROSS!
This is what I found on the den floor yesterday, about an hour after the dogs spent a few minutes outside:
All the dogs were sleeping when I found the dead lizard, so whichever one had caught it must have tired of it quickly. Dead lizards are not good for much.
On the other hand, over in East Texas a couple of days ago, my niece's dogs killed a cat that had strayed into their fenced-in yard. She found it on her porch, where her sleeping puppy was snuggled up with it.
We dog lovers tend to forget that our precious pets are natural-born predators. I wish they didn't have such a gruesome way of reminding us.
BOTHERSOME!
While Kim and I watched TV last night, we heard a strange noise and couldn't identify the source of it. A few minutes later, we heard it again and got up to search it out. The refrigerator was...er...snoring. I'm not kidding; it sounded exactly like this. It makes that noise half a dozen times spaced a couple minutes apart, stops for several hours, then does it again a few more times. Otherwise, it seems to be working fine. If my car were making that noise, I'd take it to a mechanic, but I think I'll wait to see what happens with the refrigerator. It might stop cooling, but at least it won't leave me stranded.
SAD...JUST SAD
On a serious note, I wrote the following on April 1, 2006: "...I can’t say enough good things about Philip Seymour Hoffman, who starred in the role of Truman Capote. He’s been in so many movies that my daughter and I have joked about it for several years. One of us will ask, 'Who’s in that movie?' and the other will answer with a list that always ends in '...and Philip Seymour Hoffman.' He hasn’t been blessed with leading-man looks, which may be why he’s had time to hone his talent in supporting actor roles, but I think he’s brilliant! It’s about time a movie came along that allowed him to shine."
Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. We will miss you deeply, but your star will continue to shine.
This is the view from my backdoor day before yesterday:
I expect to see a similar view as soon as I take a shower, do my hair, put on makeup, get dressed and step outside to go to the grocery store. If you click on the picture to enlarge it, you can just barely see that it was pouring down rain. Who needs more of that?
********
GROSS!
This is what I found on the den floor yesterday, about an hour after the dogs spent a few minutes outside:
All the dogs were sleeping when I found the dead lizard, so whichever one had caught it must have tired of it quickly. Dead lizards are not good for much.
On the other hand, over in East Texas a couple of days ago, my niece's dogs killed a cat that had strayed into their fenced-in yard. She found it on her porch, where her sleeping puppy was snuggled up with it.
We dog lovers tend to forget that our precious pets are natural-born predators. I wish they didn't have such a gruesome way of reminding us.
********
BOTHERSOME!
While Kim and I watched TV last night, we heard a strange noise and couldn't identify the source of it. A few minutes later, we heard it again and got up to search it out. The refrigerator was...er...snoring. I'm not kidding; it sounded exactly like this. It makes that noise half a dozen times spaced a couple minutes apart, stops for several hours, then does it again a few more times. Otherwise, it seems to be working fine. If my car were making that noise, I'd take it to a mechanic, but I think I'll wait to see what happens with the refrigerator. It might stop cooling, but at least it won't leave me stranded.
********
SAD...JUST SAD
On a serious note, I wrote the following on April 1, 2006: "...I can’t say enough good things about Philip Seymour Hoffman, who starred in the role of Truman Capote. He’s been in so many movies that my daughter and I have joked about it for several years. One of us will ask, 'Who’s in that movie?' and the other will answer with a list that always ends in '...and Philip Seymour Hoffman.' He hasn’t been blessed with leading-man looks, which may be why he’s had time to hone his talent in supporting actor roles, but I think he’s brilliant! It’s about time a movie came along that allowed him to shine."
Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman. We will miss you deeply, but your star will continue to shine.
Wednesday, September 04, 2013
Not Only That, but the Shake Machine's Broken
A couple of weeks ago, after finding nothing in the refrigerator or pantry that appealed to me, I decided to indulge in a hamburger at the nearest drive-thru restaurant. Knowing that the service at that particular "fast-food" place is normally quite slow, I packed my Kindle in my purse so the wait wouldn't be boring, then set out to pick up supper.
Mine was the fourth car in line at the drive-thru. The first car in line had been parked next to the ordering speaker ever since I drove up, and I'd already read about half a chapter by the time I noticed that nobody had moved. Right then I saw a young male employee come around the corner of the building, headed in our direction. His steps--and his smile, too--seemed tentative. As he drew near, making eye contact with first one driver then the next, I rolled my window down so I could hear what he had to say.
"I'm so, so sorry, y'all, but I just thought I should come out here and tell y'all that I'm th' only one that showed up at work this evenin'. I don't know why they didn't come, and I'm doin' the best I can by muhself, but I cain't do ever'thing fast enough. I didn't want y'all to have to wait so long that you go all nine-eleven on me."
Bless his heart. That was a brave thing to do, and I appreciated it. As for his co-workers who didn't show up? Well, that's the sloppy work ethic we've all come to expect, isn't it?
A former in-law visited that same restaurant a few years ago, walked inside to place his order, and discovered--after shouting "hello" a few times--that he was the only person in the building. I suppose nobody had bothered to show up to work that shift, either, and the last person to leave from the previous shift hadn't even taken the trouble to lock the door.
There's a fried chicken place a little farther down the road that's just been reopened after having been closed for quite some time. I don't plan to visit there anytime soon. The last time I went there before the place shut down, I ordered a two-piece meal. The voice-in-the-box at the drive-thru replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we're all out of two-piece meals. Would you like a three-piece?" Huh? Does that make sense on any level?
These are the kinds of incidents that come to mind when I read about fast-food workers striking to double their wages. I'm usually pro-union, but not in this case. The best thing about fast-food jobs is that entry-level workers can handle them, so they're good places for teens to gain a little work experience. Good workers move on to bigger and better jobs. As for the ones who stick around because they aren't capable of moving on to something more lucrative, for goodness' sake, let's not give them the idea that they're doing such a bang-up job that they deserve more money for it.
That's my opinion. Would you like fries with that?
Mine was the fourth car in line at the drive-thru. The first car in line had been parked next to the ordering speaker ever since I drove up, and I'd already read about half a chapter by the time I noticed that nobody had moved. Right then I saw a young male employee come around the corner of the building, headed in our direction. His steps--and his smile, too--seemed tentative. As he drew near, making eye contact with first one driver then the next, I rolled my window down so I could hear what he had to say.
"I'm so, so sorry, y'all, but I just thought I should come out here and tell y'all that I'm th' only one that showed up at work this evenin'. I don't know why they didn't come, and I'm doin' the best I can by muhself, but I cain't do ever'thing fast enough. I didn't want y'all to have to wait so long that you go all nine-eleven on me."
Bless his heart. That was a brave thing to do, and I appreciated it. As for his co-workers who didn't show up? Well, that's the sloppy work ethic we've all come to expect, isn't it?
A former in-law visited that same restaurant a few years ago, walked inside to place his order, and discovered--after shouting "hello" a few times--that he was the only person in the building. I suppose nobody had bothered to show up to work that shift, either, and the last person to leave from the previous shift hadn't even taken the trouble to lock the door.
There's a fried chicken place a little farther down the road that's just been reopened after having been closed for quite some time. I don't plan to visit there anytime soon. The last time I went there before the place shut down, I ordered a two-piece meal. The voice-in-the-box at the drive-thru replied, "I'm sorry, ma'am, we're all out of two-piece meals. Would you like a three-piece?" Huh? Does that make sense on any level?
These are the kinds of incidents that come to mind when I read about fast-food workers striking to double their wages. I'm usually pro-union, but not in this case. The best thing about fast-food jobs is that entry-level workers can handle them, so they're good places for teens to gain a little work experience. Good workers move on to bigger and better jobs. As for the ones who stick around because they aren't capable of moving on to something more lucrative, for goodness' sake, let's not give them the idea that they're doing such a bang-up job that they deserve more money for it.
That's my opinion. Would you like fries with that?
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Ceaseless
It's Memorial Day weekend. The weather is beautiful, the stores are having big sales, lots of people are barbecuing (even though newscasters warned that beef prices have risen), and the town next to mine is hosting its annual Jambalaya Festival, featuring plenty of food, beer, live music, and beefed-up security to make sure nobody's good time gets out of hand.
Oh, yeah . . . we're supposed to remember our fallen soldiers this weekend, too.
This week I'm posting two Saturday Song Selections. Both of them speak to what I'm feeling about Memorial Day. The first one, with its dire predictions, moved me every time I heard it back in the mid-'60s. It still does. So much of it is still true, which is distressing, yet I recognize that some things have changed since those lyrics were written. Some things are better. That makes me hopeful. The second song is one we all know, one we've heard too many times, one that's played over and over and over, and still it moves me every single time. Who knows how many times it'll be played in the future while politicians value commerce and industry more than they value human life?
Memorial Day has been set aside to honor the men and women who have died in service of our country. Wouldn't it be good to honor them by not adding needlessly to their number?
The first song is for those of us who are alive and well and in a position to make the world a more peaceful place, beginning with the way we treat our neighbors.
Oh, yeah . . . we're supposed to remember our fallen soldiers this weekend, too.
This week I'm posting two Saturday Song Selections. Both of them speak to what I'm feeling about Memorial Day. The first one, with its dire predictions, moved me every time I heard it back in the mid-'60s. It still does. So much of it is still true, which is distressing, yet I recognize that some things have changed since those lyrics were written. Some things are better. That makes me hopeful. The second song is one we all know, one we've heard too many times, one that's played over and over and over, and still it moves me every single time. Who knows how many times it'll be played in the future while politicians value commerce and industry more than they value human life?
Memorial Day has been set aside to honor the men and women who have died in service of our country. Wouldn't it be good to honor them by not adding needlessly to their number?
The first song is for those of us who are alive and well and in a position to make the world a more peaceful place, beginning with the way we treat our neighbors.
The second song (with unofficial lyrics below it) is for those whose fight has ended. May they rest in the peace they've earned.
"Day is done,
gone the sun,
from the lakes,
from the hills,
from the sky,
all is well,
safely rest,
God is nigh."
___________________________
The first song above is "Eve of Destruction" by Barry McGuire.
Thanks to Rexall1234 for posting the video and lyrics on YouTube.
The second song is "Taps," performed and posted to YouTube by the United States Navy Band. Thank you, Navy, for this and for so much more.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Linda Waits, Kim Waits, Tom Waits. Hold On.
So ... yesterday I wrote about a long day wasted in the waiting room of a surgical clinic. Today I want to talk about the difference between waiting and a similar but more intense state of existence: holding on. Waiting seems to me to be a benign, passive condition, requiring nothing more of us than to be patient while a long line creeps forward or a boring lecturer babbles on. Holding on is like waiting turned up to 11, hanging in there when your stress level is so high you can barely move, and your fate depends on your staying power.
Kim and I waited while seated in fairly comfortable chairs at the surgical clinic. If, instead, we'd been sitting in a leaky boat with sharks circling in the water below us, our comfort level would have zeroed out, and waiting would no longer have been a viable option; we'd have had to escalate all the way up the scale to holding on. And bailing. Never overlook the importance of bailing.
"Take one day at a time," people tell us. "Hang in there." "Wait and see." All of that is good advice, because sometimes conditions do change from one day to the next. Sometimes we change. So, yes, there are times when all we can do is hold on, and if that's all we can do, then we have to do at least that.
Sometimes things can't be changed. I'm thinking now of the Serenity Prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change ... " There's nothing serene about holding on, and it may take a lot of holding on before one settles down into patience, then finally, if we practice enough, into acceptance and serenity. Serenity is a good place to live.
Then there's the second line of that prayer: " ... the courage to change the things I can . . ." That's harder, don't you think? I lack courage, so I'm a lot better at waiting and holding on than I am at changing things, even though I know that changing some things is every bit as important as accepting others. Bailing water out of a leaky boat is a good example of changing things. If you're in a leaky boat, serenity is not your friend.
The last part of the prayer, the part about "the wisdom to know the difference" (between things that can be changed and those that must be accepted) is tricky. Wisdom can definitely help us decide which things fit which category, but not if we don't even bother to ask ourselves the question: "Can I change this?" There have been times in my life when I've gotten so bogged down in the holding-on process that I haven't even considered whether or not I could do something to change the situation. I couldn't, of course -- not until I asked the question. Then, sometimes, I discovered I could. And did.
I suppose, while we're on this subject, we should at least acknowledge that there's a different kind of holding on, the kind in which we attach ourselves to people or things or beliefs or perceptions that hold us back and keep us from being our best selves. That kind of holding on isn't healthy. The remedy for it is letting go, another useful concept in our psychological toolbox.
So, in addition to praying for the wisdom to know which things can be changed and which can't, we might also need to ask for help in figuring out which kind of holding on we're doing in any given set of circumstances. It gets confusing, doesn't it?
What prompted such a serious post on this beautiful spring day? Today's Saturday Song Selection did. It's one I've liked for a long time:
The song is "Hold On" by Tom Waits.
Thanks to Epitaph Records for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.
Kim and I waited while seated in fairly comfortable chairs at the surgical clinic. If, instead, we'd been sitting in a leaky boat with sharks circling in the water below us, our comfort level would have zeroed out, and waiting would no longer have been a viable option; we'd have had to escalate all the way up the scale to holding on. And bailing. Never overlook the importance of bailing.
"Take one day at a time," people tell us. "Hang in there." "Wait and see." All of that is good advice, because sometimes conditions do change from one day to the next. Sometimes we change. So, yes, there are times when all we can do is hold on, and if that's all we can do, then we have to do at least that.
Sometimes things can't be changed. I'm thinking now of the Serenity Prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change ... " There's nothing serene about holding on, and it may take a lot of holding on before one settles down into patience, then finally, if we practice enough, into acceptance and serenity. Serenity is a good place to live.
Then there's the second line of that prayer: " ... the courage to change the things I can . . ." That's harder, don't you think? I lack courage, so I'm a lot better at waiting and holding on than I am at changing things, even though I know that changing some things is every bit as important as accepting others. Bailing water out of a leaky boat is a good example of changing things. If you're in a leaky boat, serenity is not your friend.
The last part of the prayer, the part about "the wisdom to know the difference" (between things that can be changed and those that must be accepted) is tricky. Wisdom can definitely help us decide which things fit which category, but not if we don't even bother to ask ourselves the question: "Can I change this?" There have been times in my life when I've gotten so bogged down in the holding-on process that I haven't even considered whether or not I could do something to change the situation. I couldn't, of course -- not until I asked the question. Then, sometimes, I discovered I could. And did.
I suppose, while we're on this subject, we should at least acknowledge that there's a different kind of holding on, the kind in which we attach ourselves to people or things or beliefs or perceptions that hold us back and keep us from being our best selves. That kind of holding on isn't healthy. The remedy for it is letting go, another useful concept in our psychological toolbox.
So, in addition to praying for the wisdom to know which things can be changed and which can't, we might also need to ask for help in figuring out which kind of holding on we're doing in any given set of circumstances. It gets confusing, doesn't it?
**********
What prompted such a serious post on this beautiful spring day? Today's Saturday Song Selection did. It's one I've liked for a long time:
The song is "Hold On" by Tom Waits.
Thanks to Epitaph Records for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boston: Hitting Us Where It Hurts
Yesterday, while eating lunch, I finished reading a James Patterson novel. There were three serial killers in that one book, and I asked myself how likely it was that three people with so much evil in their hearts would be active in one community at one time. A few hours later I turned on the television for company while I gave Levi a haircut. Regularly scheduled programming was interrupted by news of the bombings at the Boston marathon. Now I had a new question: how much evil must be in the heart of someone who would do a wretched thing like that?
There were three bombs in Boston, including the one that didn't explode. It's being reported today that the bombs were built in pressure cookers and hidden in backpacks. That leads me to believe that more than one person is responsible. I understand that one backpack wouldn't have stood out among the many that were at the scene of the marathon, but one person with three backpacks might have drawn attention. It would also seem to increase the risk of exposure for one person to navigate the logistics of placing three bomb-laden backpacks in three separate locations--at least riskier than it would be for three separate individuals, each carrying one backpack, to unload their bombs.
So maybe James Patterson had it right. Maybe on any given day, in any given place, there are a number of people who are evil (or crazy) enough to murder remorselessly. Some of them use automatic weapons; some use shrapnel-filled pressure cookers. It's tragic no matter how it happens.
I watched the news for hours yesterday and again for a short while this morning. I won't watch continuous coverage any longer. I want to know about new developments, but I don't want to immerse myself in that overwhelming sense of sadness that was exploded into the atmosphere yesterday. It feels cowardly to admit that, because a part of me feels that if some people are forced to live through such a terrible event, I should at least have the courage to watch the news coverage.
I don't. I won't. I'll watch small snippets or read the latest reports online, and I'll pray for all those affected by this stupid, senseless, evil act of terrorism, but I won't succumb to the fear and hopelessness that the bomber(s) tried to instill in all of us.
I'm safe today. I'm comfortable. I have food, water, and shelter. In those ways I'm like most Americans--not all, but most. Also like most of us, I'm grateful, and I don't take my good fortune for granted.
We all took a hit yesterday, but it'll take more than a few sick f--ks to break our collective spirit.
There were three bombs in Boston, including the one that didn't explode. It's being reported today that the bombs were built in pressure cookers and hidden in backpacks. That leads me to believe that more than one person is responsible. I understand that one backpack wouldn't have stood out among the many that were at the scene of the marathon, but one person with three backpacks might have drawn attention. It would also seem to increase the risk of exposure for one person to navigate the logistics of placing three bomb-laden backpacks in three separate locations--at least riskier than it would be for three separate individuals, each carrying one backpack, to unload their bombs.
So maybe James Patterson had it right. Maybe on any given day, in any given place, there are a number of people who are evil (or crazy) enough to murder remorselessly. Some of them use automatic weapons; some use shrapnel-filled pressure cookers. It's tragic no matter how it happens.
I watched the news for hours yesterday and again for a short while this morning. I won't watch continuous coverage any longer. I want to know about new developments, but I don't want to immerse myself in that overwhelming sense of sadness that was exploded into the atmosphere yesterday. It feels cowardly to admit that, because a part of me feels that if some people are forced to live through such a terrible event, I should at least have the courage to watch the news coverage.
I don't. I won't. I'll watch small snippets or read the latest reports online, and I'll pray for all those affected by this stupid, senseless, evil act of terrorism, but I won't succumb to the fear and hopelessness that the bomber(s) tried to instill in all of us.
I'm safe today. I'm comfortable. I have food, water, and shelter. In those ways I'm like most Americans--not all, but most. Also like most of us, I'm grateful, and I don't take my good fortune for granted.
We all took a hit yesterday, but it'll take more than a few sick f--ks to break our collective spirit.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Pontificating about the Papal Election
Two days? Can you believe it took only two days to pick a pope? I'm impressed. My message to the College of Cardinals would be, "Congratulations, Your Eminences, way to go! And would you please come en masse to the United States and teach our congress how you did it."
Now, I know this story has been all over the news since Pope Benedict XVI resigned, but most of the news I'vebeen unable to avoid seen has been about speculation: Why did the outgoing pope resign? Who would be chosen to replace him? I didn't see a single television ad in which one papal candidate dished dirt about another one. I haven't heard a single cardinal complain about his mailbox being flooded with colorful, oversized mail-outs, bearing bullet-pointed lists of reasons to vote--or not vote--for a certain candidate. Imagine that. An election without ads, negative or otherwise.
Of course, you know they talked amongst themselves. I'll bet they did some lobbying, wagging their tongues about an assortment of scandals, gossiping as aggressively as little old la -- heh-heh -- I started to type "little old ladies," but picturing female cardinals is such a stretch I don't even want to go there.
Anyway, the election is over, and the we-have-a-winner message of white smoke poured out over the Vatican to let the whole world know. Good luck, Pope Francis, you've taken on a huge job.
Two days. Only two days. I'm not Catholic, never have been, but I think I'll send up a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys just to show how much I appreciate political efficiency.
Now, I know this story has been all over the news since Pope Benedict XVI resigned, but most of the news I've
Of course, you know they talked amongst themselves. I'll bet they did some lobbying, wagging their tongues about an assortment of scandals, gossiping as aggressively as little old la -- heh-heh -- I started to type "little old ladies," but picturing female cardinals is such a stretch I don't even want to go there.
Anyway, the election is over, and the we-have-a-winner message of white smoke poured out over the Vatican to let the whole world know. Good luck, Pope Francis, you've taken on a huge job.
Two days. Only two days. I'm not Catholic, never have been, but I think I'll send up a few Our Fathers and Hail Marys just to show how much I appreciate political efficiency.
Monday, March 04, 2013
The Shinier Side of the Golden Years
If you're a frequent visitor here at Velvet Sacks, I have good news for you: You can save yourself ten minutes by skipping this post. This is what I wrote for homework for my second Life Writing class, and most of what's in it you already know. Oh, it's all been totally rewritten, so it isn't as if I'm serving up leftovers. It's just that there are no new dishes on the menu.
On the other hand, if you want to check it out anyway, maybe I can spice it up for you by adding some links and photos to the text I read aloud in class. Here goes:
To my mind the phrase "golden years" implies that if we only live long enough, we’ll reach a point at which we’re free to kick back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of our labor. Frankly, I find this stereotype offensive. This is exactly why so many young people view us as selfish old coots, dilly-dallying our over-extended lives away on their FICA-tax dollars. There’s so much more to us than that. What about the person who ends up being a full-time caretaker for a spouse afflicted with Alzheimer's? What about the elderly couple who find themselves raising grandchildren because their own grown children aren't stepping up to the job? What about those who worked hard all their lives at low-paying jobs, unable to save for retirement, and now live at or below the poverty level? Do you think those people believe these years are "golden"?
"Okay, then," you may ask, "what’s been your personal experience with the so-called golden years?"
"Well," I'd have to admit, "I'm, uh, kickin' back. And relaxin'." And sometimes I feel really guilty about that, as if more suffering on my part would somehow make it up to those who aren’t as fortunate. I'm well aware that a financial or medical emergency could upset my rosy retirement years in an instant, but for right now, things are pretty good.
I find that the great gift of the golden years is time: time for doing and time for just being. Conscious that most of my life is behind me, I penny-pinch both time and money. No longer concerned about making my money grow, I worry about making it stretch. I try to stretch out time, too, but it keeps ticking away no matter what I do. The best I can do is draw interest on each minute by spending it in a way that gives me my moment's worth.
Through the gift of time, I finally have more than enough of the solitude required to nurture my introverted soul. I'm able to stay in close touch with what I think and feel, no longer needing to run away and hide from the hustle and bustle to regroup. Now that most of my time is spent in serenity instead of in chaos, I can fully delight in the company of other people without feeling that they are sucking away my last ounce of energy. Ironically, just when it’s become easier for me to play well with others, I find myself without playmates. Most of the friends I've made in recent years have been people I met at work. Most of them are younger than I am. They still work.
My closest companions these days are my dogs, Levi and Gimpy. They’re Goldendoodles, big, blond, and curly. My stepsister calls them "lion dogs," an apt description, except that if lions are kings, these two dogs are court jesters. They keep me laughing. They also keep my sense of responsibility acute. I need them to know they can depend on me. Sometimes that merely means feeding them on schedule or letting them outside when they need to go. Other times it means whacking their tennis ball out from under the coffee table with a broom handle, over and over, while my favorite TV show is on.
I’m close to my family, too, but we don’t spend a lot of time together. They don’t have the free time that I do. I remember being where they are now and understand the pressures of jobs, chores, and relationships. In between planned family get-togethers, my daughters and I stay in touch through phone calls and daily texts. I keep up with my grown grandkids on Facebook. The fact that I don't see them more often makes all of our face-to-face visits more meaningful, more memorable.
Those children and grandchildren may not realize it now, but one day in the future, one of them or one of their children will become curious about their roots. Our family history has been a long-time passion of mine and will be my legacy to them. I've worked on it for 24 years and still spend hours each week collecting names, dates, and places, connecting the people of one family to those of another, following the trail of men, women and children who moved over the sea in ships and over this land by covered wagon. I'm writing down stories that were passed down by elders, and I’m puzzling out and piecing together other stories through long hours spent poring over old documents. I'm gathering and labeling family photos, providing a visual reference through which a widow's peak or a distinctive nose can be traced through time and history.
Old photos aren't the only ones that interest me. I take new pictures almost daily, capturing as much of the beauty around me as I can. Photography is a hobby I discovered late in life. It's taught me to look at the world differently, to pay attention to details, to notice color and texture, light and shadow. Film and prints were expensive when my children were growing up, so photography was reserved for vacations or other special occasions. These days, with a digital camera, I can take a dozen pictures of an interesting weed if I want to.
I share some of my photos online, posting a different one each day. While I work with the images, cropping one to keep only the prettiest part of it or digitally erasing power lines from an otherwise lovely landscape, I listen to music. I never imagined that music would be as meaningful to me in my post-retirement years as it's turned out to be. My relatives are generous with iTunes cards on gift-giving occasions, and I've used those cards to compile the soundtrack of my life. I listen to songs I remember hearing as far back as the 1940s and new songs that speak to me when I hear them for the first time now. From country to classical, I'm moved by a melody, reminded by a snatch of lyrics, transported to another place, another time, another experience.
Books transport me, too, allowing me to travel to places I'd never be able to visit, get to know fascinating characters, and experience adventures that the kind of cautious person I am wouldn't dare seek out on her own. Books have been my best friends for as long as I can remember. I'm protective of them. If I lend you a book, I'll think about it every time I see you until you return it. If you forget to return it, I won't badger you, but I'll obsess about it quietly until, finally, out of a need to preserve the friendship, I'll buy myself another copy of the book.
As an avid reader, I have the utmost respect for the authors who write the words that expand my thinking and engage my emotions. I value the content and caliber of their work more highly than ever now that I write for publication, too. Publication seems much too grand a label for what I'm doing, but I am expressing my thoughts and feelings in writing, clicking my computer mouse on a button that reads "publish," and setting my words free on the Internet. There they can be accepted or rejected by anyone who happens upon them. Knowing that someone, somewhere, will read my words makes me care a great deal about the way I present them.
I started writing a blog because I wanted to leave something of myself behind when I die, a way for my daughters to find me at those moments when they need their mother, and a way for younger generations to get acquainted when or if they're interested. I feel lucky to have lived at the center of seven generations. I had a relationship with my great-grandmother, and I'm building one now with my three-year-old great-grandson. That sense of continuity is comforting to me, and I think of my blog as a bridge from one generation to another.
I didn't know when I started writing online that I'd be entering a diverse community known as the Blogosphere. I've learned not to be offended that some people take one look at what I’ve read and move on. The readers who come back again and again do so because they like what they've read there, and those are the people I want to reach. Many of the readers write blogs of their own, so sometimes it's nothing more than mutual admiration of the written word that brings us together. Sometimes it’s shared values. Sometimes real friendships form. It’s gratifying to live in an age when people from different parts of the globe, people of different ages, ethnicities, and lifestyles, with different religious and political perspectives, can forge a bond because a string of words written by one of them has struck a familiar chord with the other.
Those are the ways I spend most of my time. When I need a little variety, I squeeze in a puzzle: crossword, logic, or jigsaw. I'm trying to learn how to paint. I watch some television but almost never in the daytime. I cook or clean or grocery shop when I have to, and I like the fact that I don't have to do those chores on anyone else's timetable. I've learned that a minute of reverie can be just as enriching as a minute of activity; the key is to pay attention to it.
The truth is that the quality of my life feels richer and fuller now--and freer of aggravation--than it did before I retired. My health is better, too. In that positive light I can see why some people call these years the golden ones. That being said, I'm ending this piece now and crossing my fingers that the gods of perversity don't read all this happy-sappy stuff and make me sorry I wrote it.
On the other hand, if you want to check it out anyway, maybe I can spice it up for you by adding some links and photos to the text I read aloud in class. Here goes:
**********
To my mind the phrase "golden years" implies that if we only live long enough, we’ll reach a point at which we’re free to kick back, relax, and enjoy the fruits of our labor. Frankly, I find this stereotype offensive. This is exactly why so many young people view us as selfish old coots, dilly-dallying our over-extended lives away on their FICA-tax dollars. There’s so much more to us than that. What about the person who ends up being a full-time caretaker for a spouse afflicted with Alzheimer's? What about the elderly couple who find themselves raising grandchildren because their own grown children aren't stepping up to the job? What about those who worked hard all their lives at low-paying jobs, unable to save for retirement, and now live at or below the poverty level? Do you think those people believe these years are "golden"?
"Okay, then," you may ask, "what’s been your personal experience with the so-called golden years?"
"Well," I'd have to admit, "I'm, uh, kickin' back. And relaxin'." And sometimes I feel really guilty about that, as if more suffering on my part would somehow make it up to those who aren’t as fortunate. I'm well aware that a financial or medical emergency could upset my rosy retirement years in an instant, but for right now, things are pretty good.
I find that the great gift of the golden years is time: time for doing and time for just being. Conscious that most of my life is behind me, I penny-pinch both time and money. No longer concerned about making my money grow, I worry about making it stretch. I try to stretch out time, too, but it keeps ticking away no matter what I do. The best I can do is draw interest on each minute by spending it in a way that gives me my moment's worth.
Through the gift of time, I finally have more than enough of the solitude required to nurture my introverted soul. I'm able to stay in close touch with what I think and feel, no longer needing to run away and hide from the hustle and bustle to regroup. Now that most of my time is spent in serenity instead of in chaos, I can fully delight in the company of other people without feeling that they are sucking away my last ounce of energy. Ironically, just when it’s become easier for me to play well with others, I find myself without playmates. Most of the friends I've made in recent years have been people I met at work. Most of them are younger than I am. They still work.
My closest companions these days are my dogs, Levi and Gimpy. They’re Goldendoodles, big, blond, and curly. My stepsister calls them "lion dogs," an apt description, except that if lions are kings, these two dogs are court jesters. They keep me laughing. They also keep my sense of responsibility acute. I need them to know they can depend on me. Sometimes that merely means feeding them on schedule or letting them outside when they need to go. Other times it means whacking their tennis ball out from under the coffee table with a broom handle, over and over, while my favorite TV show is on.
Muddy-footed companions: Levi (left) and Gimpy.
I’m close to my family, too, but we don’t spend a lot of time together. They don’t have the free time that I do. I remember being where they are now and understand the pressures of jobs, chores, and relationships. In between planned family get-togethers, my daughters and I stay in touch through phone calls and daily texts. I keep up with my grown grandkids on Facebook. The fact that I don't see them more often makes all of our face-to-face visits more meaningful, more memorable.
Typical family get-together.
Those children and grandchildren may not realize it now, but one day in the future, one of them or one of their children will become curious about their roots. Our family history has been a long-time passion of mine and will be my legacy to them. I've worked on it for 24 years and still spend hours each week collecting names, dates, and places, connecting the people of one family to those of another, following the trail of men, women and children who moved over the sea in ships and over this land by covered wagon. I'm writing down stories that were passed down by elders, and I’m puzzling out and piecing together other stories through long hours spent poring over old documents. I'm gathering and labeling family photos, providing a visual reference through which a widow's peak or a distinctive nose can be traced through time and history.
This photo from about 1930 shows four generations.
The little girl in front is my mother.
Old photos aren't the only ones that interest me. I take new pictures almost daily, capturing as much of the beauty around me as I can. Photography is a hobby I discovered late in life. It's taught me to look at the world differently, to pay attention to details, to notice color and texture, light and shadow. Film and prints were expensive when my children were growing up, so photography was reserved for vacations or other special occasions. These days, with a digital camera, I can take a dozen pictures of an interesting weed if I want to.
Random sample of digital photos.
I share some of my photos online, posting a different one each day. While I work with the images, cropping one to keep only the prettiest part of it or digitally erasing power lines from an otherwise lovely landscape, I listen to music. I never imagined that music would be as meaningful to me in my post-retirement years as it's turned out to be. My relatives are generous with iTunes cards on gift-giving occasions, and I've used those cards to compile the soundtrack of my life. I listen to songs I remember hearing as far back as the 1940s and new songs that speak to me when I hear them for the first time now. From country to classical, I'm moved by a melody, reminded by a snatch of lyrics, transported to another place, another time, another experience.
Random screenshot from my iTunes music list. (You know
you can click on all these images to enlarge them, right?)
As an avid reader, I have the utmost respect for the authors who write the words that expand my thinking and engage my emotions. I value the content and caliber of their work more highly than ever now that I write for publication, too. Publication seems much too grand a label for what I'm doing, but I am expressing my thoughts and feelings in writing, clicking my computer mouse on a button that reads "publish," and setting my words free on the Internet. There they can be accepted or rejected by anyone who happens upon them. Knowing that someone, somewhere, will read my words makes me care a great deal about the way I present them.
Screenshot of Blogger's "compose" page for the post you're reading right now.
Dora, my great-grandmother - about 1950.
Owen, my great-grandson - Nov. 2012.
I didn't know when I started writing online that I'd be entering a diverse community known as the Blogosphere. I've learned not to be offended that some people take one look at what I’ve read and move on. The readers who come back again and again do so because they like what they've read there, and those are the people I want to reach. Many of the readers write blogs of their own, so sometimes it's nothing more than mutual admiration of the written word that brings us together. Sometimes it’s shared values. Sometimes real friendships form. It’s gratifying to live in an age when people from different parts of the globe, people of different ages, ethnicities, and lifestyles, with different religious and political perspectives, can forge a bond because a string of words written by one of them has struck a familiar chord with the other.
Those are the ways I spend most of my time. When I need a little variety, I squeeze in a puzzle: crossword, logic, or jigsaw. I'm trying to learn how to paint. I watch some television but almost never in the daytime. I cook or clean or grocery shop when I have to, and I like the fact that I don't have to do those chores on anyone else's timetable. I've learned that a minute of reverie can be just as enriching as a minute of activity; the key is to pay attention to it.
The truth is that the quality of my life feels richer and fuller now--and freer of aggravation--than it did before I retired. My health is better, too. In that positive light I can see why some people call these years the golden ones. That being said, I'm ending this piece now and crossing my fingers that the gods of perversity don't read all this happy-sappy stuff and make me sorry I wrote it.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Involuntary Confinement
A neighbor around the corner whose deep backyard extends all the way across mine must have bought himself a new gun. Twice in the last couple of weeks I've heard shots being fired and looked out to see him having target practice. This afternoon I heard gunfire coming from a different direction, either across the road that runs in front of my house or across the side street, near the corner. Apparently another neighbor is practicing to use deadly force if necessary.
I've read about the rush to buy guns in light of pending legislation. Although I think it's stupid for someone who never thought they needed a gun before to run out and buy one now "just in case," I respect their right to give in to their Fox-News-induced fears and buy a weapon to protect themselves.
I also understand that I live outside the limits of an incorporated city and that, without the restrictions of city ordinances, people in my neighborhood are as free to fire their guns as they are to shoot off their fireworks, which I'm also not crazy about. If they're going to have guns, I guess it's a good thing that they're working to improve their aim, but the sound of gunshots in the neighborhood still scares me.
I've mentioned here before that my little sister was shot by a ricocheting bullet fired by a neighbor who was aiming at a squirrel up in a tree. Fortunately, that neighbor was far enough away that the only damage to my sister was a big red welt on her neck. Unless my current neighbors are crack shots--and I have no way of knowing if they are or not--I'm concerned about the possibility of a bullet going astray. One bullet. That's all it takes.
So go ahead. Knock yourself out playing with your guns. Levi and Gimpy and I will stay in the house until you finish.
I've read about the rush to buy guns in light of pending legislation. Although I think it's stupid for someone who never thought they needed a gun before to run out and buy one now "just in case," I respect their right to give in to their Fox-News-induced fears and buy a weapon to protect themselves.
I also understand that I live outside the limits of an incorporated city and that, without the restrictions of city ordinances, people in my neighborhood are as free to fire their guns as they are to shoot off their fireworks, which I'm also not crazy about. If they're going to have guns, I guess it's a good thing that they're working to improve their aim, but the sound of gunshots in the neighborhood still scares me.
I've mentioned here before that my little sister was shot by a ricocheting bullet fired by a neighbor who was aiming at a squirrel up in a tree. Fortunately, that neighbor was far enough away that the only damage to my sister was a big red welt on her neck. Unless my current neighbors are crack shots--and I have no way of knowing if they are or not--I'm concerned about the possibility of a bullet going astray. One bullet. That's all it takes.
So go ahead. Knock yourself out playing with your guns. Levi and Gimpy and I will stay in the house until you finish.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
"Thou Mayest"
I was excited to see Mumford & Sons perform at the Grammys last weekend. I heard their music last year for the first time and have been a fan ever since. My favorite song of theirs is called "Timshel," and it's this week's Saturday Song Selection. Curious about the title, I looked it up earlier in the week, expecting to find a one-sentence definition of the word.
Wow! I found a lot more than that. In fact, I've had a mini-education through reading online discussions about the title word, the song, and the meaning behind it all. It seems the song itself is based on John Steinbeck's East of Eden, and the title comes from a particular passage in which the characters discussed how various translations of the Bible can influence its followers to assign different interpretations (and, therefore, beliefs) to God's words. Here are a few relevant paragraphs from East of Eden (emphasis is mine):
Wow! I found a lot more than that. In fact, I've had a mini-education through reading online discussions about the title word, the song, and the meaning behind it all. It seems the song itself is based on John Steinbeck's East of Eden, and the title comes from a particular passage in which the characters discussed how various translations of the Bible can influence its followers to assign different interpretations (and, therefore, beliefs) to God's words. Here are a few relevant paragraphs from East of Eden (emphasis is mine):
“After two years we felt that we could approach your sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis. My old gentlemen felt that these words were very important too—‘Thou shalt’ and ‘Do thou.’ And this was the gold from our mining: ‘Thou mayest.’ ‘Thou mayest rule over sin.’ The old gentlemen smiled and nodded and felt the years were well spent. It brought them out of their Chinese shells too, and right now they are studying Greek.”
Samuel said, “It’s a fantastic story. And I’ve tried to follow and maybe I’ve missed somewhere. Why is this word so important?”
Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?”
“Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph.Timshel. "Thou mayest." There's that "free will" we've all been told about: the right to decide whether to do right or wrong, to choose how we will respond in the face of life's blessings or misfortunes. That's a lot to think about. It gives the song depth and substance and makes me like it even more.
The song is "Timshel" by Mumford & Sons.
Thanks to mab24pred for posting the video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.
Monday, December 31, 2012
2012: A Year of Ups and Downs
It took a while to decide on a title for this post. Yes, there were ups in 2012, and plenty of downs to balance them out. Except nothing felt balanced. The goods and bads weren't always separate and distinct, so it all felt jumbled. Sometimes the bad stuff bled into the good and tainted it, and sometimes the good stuff took the sting out of the bad.
The economy has improved slightly; that's an up, right? I guess it's a question of perspective. Acknowledging the improvement without acknowledging that the nation's finances are still stuck in the dumps is a little like being grateful when the surgeon announces he'll be amputating a shorter length of your leg than originally anticipated.
My candidate won the presidential election. I was happy about that. Even more than happy, I felt relief. Now, just remembering that election campaign season unsettles me, because I've never before seen so much hatred and anger spewed out over the airwaves, the Internet, and printed media. It's hard to be happy when "we the people" are screaming at one another. But we won. That's an up, I think.
Assault weapons rose in prominence in 2012, primarily for the death and destruction they caused in Aurora, Colorado and Newtown, Connecticut, just to name the worst of the year's mass murders. This all falls under downs; not a single thing up about it.
The year brought ups and downs on a personal level, too:
Early in the year I lost my beloved Butch to melanoma. As heartbreaking as it was, that loss was put into perspective two months later when my nearest neighbor lost his beautiful, young wife to a different type of cancer. I still grieved for Butch, but I considered myself lucky.
Gimpy joined our family in April, bringing with him a steady supply of ups and, only occasionally, when he has experienced a behavioral lapse for which he has always been very sorry, a well-chewed down. He's not only Levi's brother, he's his best bud. Together, they keep me grinning.
I've had wonderful visits this year from Texas relatives, visits that have reminded me that the ties that bind are indeed blessed, and I've been fortunate to share big and small moments with generations of my family here in Louisiana. I love these people, and any one of them can turn a down moment into an up one with nothing more than a quick word and the flash of a smile.
You know, the more that I write today, the more that I think about it, some years are better than others, but all of them have their ups and their downs. All of us humans have them, too. Sometimes the distinction between ups and downs is a matter of luck or circumstances, sometimes it's a matter of attitude or perspective. Viewing 2012 through a wide angle lens, I see a lot that went wrong. Zooming in, though, everything and everyone close to me at the end of the year looks as good as ever.
Stay safe through the end of your New Year's Eve celebration, and I'll give the year a temperate "thumbs up."
The economy has improved slightly; that's an up, right? I guess it's a question of perspective. Acknowledging the improvement without acknowledging that the nation's finances are still stuck in the dumps is a little like being grateful when the surgeon announces he'll be amputating a shorter length of your leg than originally anticipated.
My candidate won the presidential election. I was happy about that. Even more than happy, I felt relief. Now, just remembering that election campaign season unsettles me, because I've never before seen so much hatred and anger spewed out over the airwaves, the Internet, and printed media. It's hard to be happy when "we the people" are screaming at one another. But we won. That's an up, I think.
Assault weapons rose in prominence in 2012, primarily for the death and destruction they caused in Aurora, Colorado and Newtown, Connecticut, just to name the worst of the year's mass murders. This all falls under downs; not a single thing up about it.
The year brought ups and downs on a personal level, too:
Early in the year I lost my beloved Butch to melanoma. As heartbreaking as it was, that loss was put into perspective two months later when my nearest neighbor lost his beautiful, young wife to a different type of cancer. I still grieved for Butch, but I considered myself lucky.
Gimpy joined our family in April, bringing with him a steady supply of ups and, only occasionally, when he has experienced a behavioral lapse for which he has always been very sorry, a well-chewed down. He's not only Levi's brother, he's his best bud. Together, they keep me grinning.
I've had wonderful visits this year from Texas relatives, visits that have reminded me that the ties that bind are indeed blessed, and I've been fortunate to share big and small moments with generations of my family here in Louisiana. I love these people, and any one of them can turn a down moment into an up one with nothing more than a quick word and the flash of a smile.
You know, the more that I write today, the more that I think about it, some years are better than others, but all of them have their ups and their downs. All of us humans have them, too. Sometimes the distinction between ups and downs is a matter of luck or circumstances, sometimes it's a matter of attitude or perspective. Viewing 2012 through a wide angle lens, I see a lot that went wrong. Zooming in, though, everything and everyone close to me at the end of the year looks as good as ever.
Stay safe through the end of your New Year's Eve celebration, and I'll give the year a temperate "thumbs up."
**********
As I typed the next-to-last paragraph above, a little snatch of a song lyric flitted through my mind, and I had to Google the words to see if I could find where they came from. The song at the end of the search turned out to be one I'd completely forgotten about, though I had enjoyed it very much back around 1969. I don't usually include music videos in back-to-back posts, but this one fits too well to pass up:
_______________________________________________________________
The song is "Life Has Its Little Ups and Downs" by Charlie Rich.
Thanks to 2much4mymirror for posting this video on YouTube.
Click here for the lyrics.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Hold On Just a Doggone Minute!
According to the news, in the wake of President Obama's re-election, citizens of a number of states have signed petitions requesting that their states be permitted to secede from the United States. This evening's local news reported that Louisiana was the first state to gather enough signatures to meet the requirements for a review of their petition by the White House.
Now, I like a good protest as well as the next person, but what are those petition signers thinking? We're talking about Louisiana, right? Louisiana, the state that's either at the bottom or second from the bottom (after Mississippi) of every damn list except the ones that rate college football teams, good food, or (now) secession petitions? Holy crap!
Imagine some high-ranking official using a checklist to determine whether or not to allow Louisiana to secede: High crime? Check. Bad roads? Check. Eroding coastline? Check. Hurricane-prone? Ohhhh, yeah, that's a real budget buster.
I'm scared the U.S. government will consider Louisiana's petition as the opportunity of a lifetime and lop us off the map without a second thought. Then what are we gonna do?
I've lived in Louisiana 34 years now. Most of those years have been great ones. Now that I have children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren living nearby, you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming from this state. And there are plenty of wonderful people here. It's those other people--the kind of hotheaded, sore-loser, Fox-news-watching good ol' boys and their womenfolk who would go so far as to sign a secession petition--who make me shake my head and wonder how I ended up here in the middle of them.
Life sure plays tricks on people sometimes.
Now, I like a good protest as well as the next person, but what are those petition signers thinking? We're talking about Louisiana, right? Louisiana, the state that's either at the bottom or second from the bottom (after Mississippi) of every damn list except the ones that rate college football teams, good food, or (now) secession petitions? Holy crap!
Imagine some high-ranking official using a checklist to determine whether or not to allow Louisiana to secede: High crime? Check. Bad roads? Check. Eroding coastline? Check. Hurricane-prone? Ohhhh, yeah, that's a real budget buster.
I'm scared the U.S. government will consider Louisiana's petition as the opportunity of a lifetime and lop us off the map without a second thought. Then what are we gonna do?
I've lived in Louisiana 34 years now. Most of those years have been great ones. Now that I have children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren living nearby, you'd have to drag me kicking and screaming from this state. And there are plenty of wonderful people here. It's those other people--the kind of hotheaded, sore-loser, Fox-news-watching good ol' boys and their womenfolk who would go so far as to sign a secession petition--who make me shake my head and wonder how I ended up here in the middle of them.
Life sure plays tricks on people sometimes.
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
"It's a sad, sad situation, and it's getting more and more absurd"*
With the exception of responding to half a dozen comments on Facebook, I've deliberately avoided posting political opinions during the recent presidential election cycle. Too many people I know hold viewpoints different from my own, and I wanted neither to step on their toes nor push their buttons. Instead, I mostly bit my tongue.
Today, remembering that one of the reasons I write this blog is to leave a written trail that my descendants might one day follow, I realize it would be a historical error not to mention the present state of our union and our human condition.
As a nation, we are more deeply in debt than ever before. Money is tight, jobs are scarce, crime is high. Some of our elected leaders are working diligently to address these problems; others do only what is politically expedient, even if it means sitting spitefully on their hands and refusing to do the work that we, the taxpayers, pay them to do. Perhaps because some people find these conditions stressful, or perhaps because some are mean-spirited by nature and now have the technology to dispense their negativity, our American society is not as polite as it used to be.
I've lived long enough to watch our country struggle through the Civil Rights era and, later, through the hostility surrounding the Viet Nam War, but I was on the periphery of those violent, hateful times, aware of them only through the evening news. Never before now, though, have I witnessed so many people--including some I know personally--publicly exhibiting the kind of Jerry-Springer-style behavior I've seen lately. Where does it come from, this anger, this need to call names, tell lies, spread fear? I see it on television--especially on Fox News--and I see it on blogs and on Facebook posts. How did we get to this ugly place?
Yesterday Barack Obama was re-elected (by a narrow popular-vote margin) to serve a second term as president. I'm glad about that, but I know many others are not. I also know the shoe could easily have been on the other foot. Regardless of who won or lost, we, the people, need to get a grip. We can begin to make our world a better place by picking up the remnants of the manners our mothers taught us and showing some civility.
So . . . if you happen to be reading this many, many years from now, check the history books to read about the success or failure of the Obama administration. It'll all be clearer in retrospect. While you're at it, see if you can find what's been written about hatred, anger, and intolerance in U.S. society in the year 2012. I hope, by then, you'll find it hard to believe it was ever like this.
Stepping off my soapbox now.
* From the lyrics of "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" by Elton John.
Today, remembering that one of the reasons I write this blog is to leave a written trail that my descendants might one day follow, I realize it would be a historical error not to mention the present state of our union and our human condition.
As a nation, we are more deeply in debt than ever before. Money is tight, jobs are scarce, crime is high. Some of our elected leaders are working diligently to address these problems; others do only what is politically expedient, even if it means sitting spitefully on their hands and refusing to do the work that we, the taxpayers, pay them to do. Perhaps because some people find these conditions stressful, or perhaps because some are mean-spirited by nature and now have the technology to dispense their negativity, our American society is not as polite as it used to be.
I've lived long enough to watch our country struggle through the Civil Rights era and, later, through the hostility surrounding the Viet Nam War, but I was on the periphery of those violent, hateful times, aware of them only through the evening news. Never before now, though, have I witnessed so many people--including some I know personally--publicly exhibiting the kind of Jerry-Springer-style behavior I've seen lately. Where does it come from, this anger, this need to call names, tell lies, spread fear? I see it on television--especially on Fox News--and I see it on blogs and on Facebook posts. How did we get to this ugly place?
Yesterday Barack Obama was re-elected (by a narrow popular-vote margin) to serve a second term as president. I'm glad about that, but I know many others are not. I also know the shoe could easily have been on the other foot. Regardless of who won or lost, we, the people, need to get a grip. We can begin to make our world a better place by picking up the remnants of the manners our mothers taught us and showing some civility.
----------
So . . . if you happen to be reading this many, many years from now, check the history books to read about the success or failure of the Obama administration. It'll all be clearer in retrospect. While you're at it, see if you can find what's been written about hatred, anger, and intolerance in U.S. society in the year 2012. I hope, by then, you'll find it hard to believe it was ever like this.
Stepping off my soapbox now.
* From the lyrics of "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" by Elton John.
Saturday, November 05, 2011
Legislative impasse
I love today's song. The first time I heard it, I thought the lyrics expressed a man's frustration with a woman, but after listening to it in regular rotation on my iTunes list, I began to hear it in a different way. Viewed in that new light (heard through a different ear?), the lyrics seemed to apply to a number of different situations, including the frustration legislators on one side of the aisle must feel when those on the other side refuse to budge.
For the record, I don't intend to turn this into a political blog, so please don't write me off forever just because your opinions differ from mine. It's just that today seems like a good time to feature this song since I already ventured into political territory earlier in the week. What's more, the song is neutral, even if my opinion is not.
The title of the song is "Blue to a Blind Man." Here are the lyrics:
You think we're broken,
What if we're just a little cracked?
I know we're choking on the little things
That seem to come with time.
One word and watch our armies brawl.
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, you for me and me for you,
Tied up without the words that might cut through.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, or walking on the sun.
You try, and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
We used our soldiers,
And it was us against the world.
The toll was taken, now we're buried under life
That comes with time.
One word and watch our eagles (egos?) brawl,
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, but you for me and me for you.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Truth to a lie, and walking on the sun.
I try and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
We can go home,
You can sleep,
And I can think for a while.
We can't go on and on,
On empty, or endless oceans dry.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, and screaming at the sun.
You try, and I, I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
It can't be done.
I'm teaching blue to a blind man.
And here's the music video:
For the record, I don't intend to turn this into a political blog, so please don't write me off forever just because your opinions differ from mine. It's just that today seems like a good time to feature this song since I already ventured into political territory earlier in the week. What's more, the song is neutral, even if my opinion is not.
The title of the song is "Blue to a Blind Man." Here are the lyrics:
Blue to a Blind Man
by Ken Block
You think we're broken,
What if we're just a little cracked?
I know we're choking on the little things
That seem to come with time.
One word and watch our armies brawl.
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, you for me and me for you,
Tied up without the words that might cut through.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, or walking on the sun.
You try, and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
We used our soldiers,
And it was us against the world.
The toll was taken, now we're buried under life
That comes with time.
One word and watch our eagles (egos?) brawl,
No one will bend until one falls.
We used to fight, but you for me and me for you.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Truth to a lie, and walking on the sun.
I try and I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
We can go home,
You can sleep,
And I can think for a while.
We can't go on and on,
On empty, or endless oceans dry.
It's like trying to teach blue to a blind man,
Rude to a kind man, and screaming at the sun.
You try, and I, I do all that I can,
But teaching blue to a blind man can't be done.
It can't be done.
I'm teaching blue to a blind man.
And here's the music video:
_______________________________________________________________
(Thanks to scottymo2009 for posting this video on YouTube.)
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
Occupying Velvet Sacks
It doesn't bother me one whit that there are people in this country who have a lot more money than I do. Let 'em have it. "Live and let live" and all that.
At a time when so many people are struggling financially, it does bother me a tiny bit when I see such overtly ostentatious houses, automobiles, or yachts that there seems to be no reason for their existence other than to stroke someone's outsized ego. It troubles me even more to learn that some individuals have obtained their fortunes through cheating, stealing, or accepting ridiculously large bonuses while workers at lower levels are being laid off. And when exceedingly rich people and corporations use their boatloads of money to buy political influence? That doesn't just bother me, my friends. That pisses me off!
Our laws should ensure that the ultra-wealthy are entitled to exactly the same amount of political influence you and I have: one vote apiece. When our elected officials fail to do the business of our government because the offices they hold have been bought and paid for by the one percent of the population with the deepest pockets, we need to recognize that something has gone terribly wrong. The fact that this kind of paid political persuasion is possible does not make it acceptable.
Today I'm standing up in my little corner of the Internet to join forces with people all across the country who are stepping up to occupy their communities in the interest of letting our officials know that we love America, we love what it stands for, and we're desperate to put a stop to the short-sighted, greedy, grab-what-you-can-get-and-to-hell-with-everyone-else attitude that has permeated Wall Street and Washington.
I've been reading the websites and Facebook pages of some of the Occupy groups. For the most part (there are always exceptions), I like what they're trying to do and the peaceful way in which they're attempting to go about it. The Occupy movement reminds me in so many ways of the push for change that grew in the 1960s until changes did occur. The process was long, frequently painful, but almost always exhilarating, as though the very air we breathed contained a low-voltage electrical charge.
I't's difficult to explain the Sixties to people who didn't experience it for themselves. If you're one who missed it, pay attention to what's happening across the country now. We might be on the verge of something similar.
I haven't yet found the courage to join the bold souls who have recently begun to "occupy" nearby Baton Rouge. Maybe I will, someday, but when I see the hatred being spewed online at some of these groups and the misinformation being dispensed by certain segments of the media, my thoughts turn abruptly away from what's right for our country and focus on my own safety and security.
How selfish I am. I stay hidden, like a rabbit in tall grass, trying not to draw attention to my small presence in this field of dissent. The Occupy protestors march through that same grass, waving signs, singing anthems, shouting slogans, shining a spotlight on the masses of Americans whose financial--and, therefore, physical--security is being threatened. To me, these protestors are soldiers battling bravely in a different kind of war.
I proudly salute them, even as I slink back into posting about dogs, books, autumn leaves, and old family furniture.
At a time when so many people are struggling financially, it does bother me a tiny bit when I see such overtly ostentatious houses, automobiles, or yachts that there seems to be no reason for their existence other than to stroke someone's outsized ego. It troubles me even more to learn that some individuals have obtained their fortunes through cheating, stealing, or accepting ridiculously large bonuses while workers at lower levels are being laid off. And when exceedingly rich people and corporations use their boatloads of money to buy political influence? That doesn't just bother me, my friends. That pisses me off!
Our laws should ensure that the ultra-wealthy are entitled to exactly the same amount of political influence you and I have: one vote apiece. When our elected officials fail to do the business of our government because the offices they hold have been bought and paid for by the one percent of the population with the deepest pockets, we need to recognize that something has gone terribly wrong. The fact that this kind of paid political persuasion is possible does not make it acceptable.
Today I'm standing up in my little corner of the Internet to join forces with people all across the country who are stepping up to occupy their communities in the interest of letting our officials know that we love America, we love what it stands for, and we're desperate to put a stop to the short-sighted, greedy, grab-what-you-can-get-and-to-hell-with-everyone-else attitude that has permeated Wall Street and Washington.
I've been reading the websites and Facebook pages of some of the Occupy groups. For the most part (there are always exceptions), I like what they're trying to do and the peaceful way in which they're attempting to go about it. The Occupy movement reminds me in so many ways of the push for change that grew in the 1960s until changes did occur. The process was long, frequently painful, but almost always exhilarating, as though the very air we breathed contained a low-voltage electrical charge.
I haven't yet found the courage to join the bold souls who have recently begun to "occupy" nearby Baton Rouge. Maybe I will, someday, but when I see the hatred being spewed online at some of these groups and the misinformation being dispensed by certain segments of the media, my thoughts turn abruptly away from what's right for our country and focus on my own safety and security.
How selfish I am. I stay hidden, like a rabbit in tall grass, trying not to draw attention to my small presence in this field of dissent. The Occupy protestors march through that same grass, waving signs, singing anthems, shouting slogans, shining a spotlight on the masses of Americans whose financial--and, therefore, physical--security is being threatened. To me, these protestors are soldiers battling bravely in a different kind of war.
I proudly salute them, even as I slink back into posting about dogs, books, autumn leaves, and old family furniture.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Another Brick in the Wall
Pink Floyd sang, "All in all you're just another brick in the wall." In the context of the song, that lyric seems intended to point out the lack of importance of a single individual to the grand scheme of things. That's one way to look at it, I suppose. On a bad day. Usually, I see bricks in a different light.
One brick alone may not be much more than a doorstop or a paperweight, a useful object, but one that won't garner much attention. A lot of bricks together, though, can become buildings: churches, schools, and very sturdy houses (remember the three little pigs). And each individual brick is important to the completion of the building.
It works the same way with us human "bricks." When we stand together, our combined strength can accomplish great social movement. Unfortunately, it's also true that a lot of brick-headed people working together can quickly throw up walls that prevent progress. That's happening a lot in our nation these days. It makes me sad.
I wonder when our leaders and our extremist mobs will recognize that when they build stand-alone walls, they don't have much. A wall that doesn't meet and join with other walls will never be a cathedral. It can only be an obstacle.
I worry sometimes because so many "bricks" in our society seem to be crumbling. And I wonder what kind of mortar it will take to put us back together again.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
To see or not to see: who decides and who cares?
This is not the type of post one would expect to find on an old lady's blog, but the topic is one I've considered from time to time in recent years. If you are easily embarrassed, perhaps you shouldn't read further. Or, perhaps you could read further while pretending you're watching one of the doctor shows on TV and letting your thirst for knowledge override your need to protect yourself from a discussion of things related to the human body.
I'm speaking out today about a sensitive topic because I feel that the male members of the FCC (Federal Communications Commission) have been scamming female television viewers and catering to male ones. (This will not be a discussion of "male members"; they can stand up for themselves.) I'm attempting to make a case that the FCC and network censors have perpetuated a fraud by insisting that any female nipple be covered or blurred on television, while allowing the entire rest of a big boob to bounce freely and while imposing no similar viewing restrictions on nearly identical male nipples. I think they're trying to make us believe that they're on the job by focusing our attention on the tip of the iceberg when, in fact, the giant mass that makes up the rest of the iceberg is where any prurient danger to society may lie.
Several years ago, the local board-of-something-or-other met to discuss what restrictions and ordinances should be applied to a couple of so-called "gentlemen's clubs" that had recently opened in the area. I still laugh when I remember reading the following item in the newspaper's report of the board's decision: "Dancers must remain at least three feet away from customers at all times and must wear pastries." Yes, it read "pastries," with an "r."
At the office we had so much fun discussing that typo. If the dancers themselves were tarts, would they meet the requirements? What if the dancers had cinnamon buns? Could they still be fined if they covered themselves with "bare" claws? Would doughnuts provide acceptable coverage, what with their dirty little peepholes? Thus began my mild curiosity about why female nipples are considered erotic when male nipples are not.
Do you remember the fuss when Janet Jackson had a nip-slip at the nationally televised Super Bowl? What a furor that caused! Since Janet was wearing the gold jewelry equivalent of a "pastry," I submit that it was not the nipple but the rest of the breast that censors and many viewers found too shocking for family television.
More recently -- and what set me on this current bandwagon -- I saw TV censorship carried to such an extreme that my eyes rolled more than once. The show was a documentary about a transgender man who would soon be undergoing surgery to make him a woman. The scene took place in a doctor's office as the doctor explained the upcoming surgical procedures. The patient had been living and dressing as a woman for about a year, but in this scene his body, naked except for a pair of white briefs (or panties maybe?) was clearly that of a very tall, rather skinny, flat-chested man. Get this: They blurred his nipples. Even though it was discussed at length that the patient was still a male in every physical way, the censors must have based their decision on the idea that he would someday in the future be a female. How big of a prude do they think I am?
Another point: If I stop to think about the last handsome, shirtless, well-built guy I saw on TV, I can conjure up a very pleasant image in an instant. I see broad shoulders and amazing abs. The nipples are there, too, but they're no more significant than shirt buttons. They play no role in my fantasy. Not being male, I can't say for sure, but I suspect men's minds work much the same way. My point is that, male or female, it's not the nipples but the shape of the flesh that surrounds the nipples that we find titillating, er, exciting.
I'm guessing most guys, given a choice between looking at a flat-chested woman with bare nipples or a woman with a set of well-rounded boobs under a patch of frilly fabric that conceals the tips, would grin and gape at the second woman. This is not to belittle the first woman, who might even gain a couple of points by covering up with a little frilly fabric of her own to distinguish her nipples from those of her male counterparts. And what about the sweater girls of the 1950s? Not a nip in sight, but they had everybody talking.
Think about the exposed cleavage you see on TV awards shows or red carpet interviews. Think about the barely-there costumes on "Dancing with the Stars." Think all the way back to "Baywatch." On TV, female nipples threaten to pop out all over the place, but they don't, quite. And as long as they don't, nobody raises a fuss. The TV censors go on taking care of their male viewer buddies by showing them plenty of the breast parts that really interest them.
In closing, I assure you that in writing about this topic, I am not making demands on network censors. My calling them out is not an instance of tit-for-tat. I just want the censors to know I see through them. And in no way am I expressing a desire to see more female nipples on television. I'm merely suggesting that if one occasionally does escape confinement, accidentally, it would be nice if we as a nation didn't get sucked into some great, collective, hypocritical gasp.
I can live with the fact that the female nipple doesn't get to breathe as freely as the male nipple does, so long as it gets the same amount of respect. After all, women's nipples serve a legitimate, honorable, and very respectable purpose.
If you have an opinion on this topic, I would be very interested in reading it. Further, I hope no one was offended by what I've posted here. I wrote this only because the perceived public fascination has resulted in a type of discrimination, and I needed to get these nipple issues off my chest.
I'm speaking out today about a sensitive topic because I feel that the male members of the FCC (Federal Communications Commission) have been scamming female television viewers and catering to male ones. (This will not be a discussion of "male members"; they can stand up for themselves.) I'm attempting to make a case that the FCC and network censors have perpetuated a fraud by insisting that any female nipple be covered or blurred on television, while allowing the entire rest of a big boob to bounce freely and while imposing no similar viewing restrictions on nearly identical male nipples. I think they're trying to make us believe that they're on the job by focusing our attention on the tip of the iceberg when, in fact, the giant mass that makes up the rest of the iceberg is where any prurient danger to society may lie.
Several years ago, the local board-of-something-or-other met to discuss what restrictions and ordinances should be applied to a couple of so-called "gentlemen's clubs" that had recently opened in the area. I still laugh when I remember reading the following item in the newspaper's report of the board's decision: "Dancers must remain at least three feet away from customers at all times and must wear pastries." Yes, it read "pastries," with an "r."
At the office we had so much fun discussing that typo. If the dancers themselves were tarts, would they meet the requirements? What if the dancers had cinnamon buns? Could they still be fined if they covered themselves with "bare" claws? Would doughnuts provide acceptable coverage, what with their dirty little peepholes? Thus began my mild curiosity about why female nipples are considered erotic when male nipples are not.
Do you remember the fuss when Janet Jackson had a nip-slip at the nationally televised Super Bowl? What a furor that caused! Since Janet was wearing the gold jewelry equivalent of a "pastry," I submit that it was not the nipple but the rest of the breast that censors and many viewers found too shocking for family television.
More recently -- and what set me on this current bandwagon -- I saw TV censorship carried to such an extreme that my eyes rolled more than once. The show was a documentary about a transgender man who would soon be undergoing surgery to make him a woman. The scene took place in a doctor's office as the doctor explained the upcoming surgical procedures. The patient had been living and dressing as a woman for about a year, but in this scene his body, naked except for a pair of white briefs (or panties maybe?) was clearly that of a very tall, rather skinny, flat-chested man. Get this: They blurred his nipples. Even though it was discussed at length that the patient was still a male in every physical way, the censors must have based their decision on the idea that he would someday in the future be a female. How big of a prude do they think I am?
Another point: If I stop to think about the last handsome, shirtless, well-built guy I saw on TV, I can conjure up a very pleasant image in an instant. I see broad shoulders and amazing abs. The nipples are there, too, but they're no more significant than shirt buttons. They play no role in my fantasy. Not being male, I can't say for sure, but I suspect men's minds work much the same way. My point is that, male or female, it's not the nipples but the shape of the flesh that surrounds the nipples that we find titillating, er, exciting.
I'm guessing most guys, given a choice between looking at a flat-chested woman with bare nipples or a woman with a set of well-rounded boobs under a patch of frilly fabric that conceals the tips, would grin and gape at the second woman. This is not to belittle the first woman, who might even gain a couple of points by covering up with a little frilly fabric of her own to distinguish her nipples from those of her male counterparts. And what about the sweater girls of the 1950s? Not a nip in sight, but they had everybody talking.
Think about the exposed cleavage you see on TV awards shows or red carpet interviews. Think about the barely-there costumes on "Dancing with the Stars." Think all the way back to "Baywatch." On TV, female nipples threaten to pop out all over the place, but they don't, quite. And as long as they don't, nobody raises a fuss. The TV censors go on taking care of their male viewer buddies by showing them plenty of the breast parts that really interest them.
In closing, I assure you that in writing about this topic, I am not making demands on network censors. My calling them out is not an instance of tit-for-tat. I just want the censors to know I see through them. And in no way am I expressing a desire to see more female nipples on television. I'm merely suggesting that if one occasionally does escape confinement, accidentally, it would be nice if we as a nation didn't get sucked into some great, collective, hypocritical gasp.
I can live with the fact that the female nipple doesn't get to breathe as freely as the male nipple does, so long as it gets the same amount of respect. After all, women's nipples serve a legitimate, honorable, and very respectable purpose.
If you have an opinion on this topic, I would be very interested in reading it. Further, I hope no one was offended by what I've posted here. I wrote this only because the perceived public fascination has resulted in a type of discrimination, and I needed to get these nipple issues off my chest.
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