Meet your Meat

For several years I’ve toyed with the idea of vegetarianism. While I can’t claim that there’s ANY way I can go as far as veganism, I really do feel badly about the sad and pervasive inefficiency of eating meat products. Add to this the fact that the whole industry is just terribly cruel and you can build a good case for not subsidizing it with our dollars. Most of this just rattled away in the back of my mind until I visited a local dairy farm the other day.

Firstly, let me say that I went into this with a fairly open mind. I imagined a tour of a facility that was at least grounded in some level of realism. Sure, animals are going to be dirty and crowded and I was prepared to deal with that. I spent a fair bit of my life around a small farm so I get the farming thing. You do what you have to do to get your product to market. Fine. I can accept that much. You know what really just turned my stomach? You walk into the place and instantly you’re hit with the barrage of marketing. How environmentally friendly the farm is. How incredibly clean it is. How healthy the product is for you. A fucking animatronic tree babbles on for 10 minutes about how much the native wildlife just LOVES the farm because of all the wilderness areas that have been left untouched. There’s a 3D movie that talks about how healthy milk is for you and how clean and sterile the environment is for these cows. I may not know much but I do know enough to realize that any time a company spends that much time telling you how clean and sterile their product is and how good it is for the environment that they are totally fucking feeding you bullshit.

So let’s get down to facts. Facts from the tour. The tour that was promoting the farm and how great it was. Firstly, do you have any idea how wasteful this whole thing is? Their big line was, “From grass to your glass.” The premise being that these miraculous cows turn grass into milk. It’s like magic! Well firstly, that’s utter bullshit (no pun intended). These cows would be lucky if they’ve ever SEEN grass let alone had the opportunity to consume it. Every day, the video happily proclaims, the average cow eats… get this… 100 pounds of grain. Yeah. You read that right. One hundred pounds of grain, 30 gallons of water and in exchange you get 10 gallons of milk and, one can only assume, 100+ pounds of excrement. Do you have any idea how many people you could feed with 100 pounds of grain or similar vegetable products? People are starving on this planet and yet we’re force-feeding grain to dairy cows. The video made all sorts of wonderful claims about how the cows live in luxurious conditions. They have clean sand every week in their pens (because cows in their native habitat no doubt hang out at the beach so this is utterly natural) and they have all the food they want, available 24 hours a day, and even get to go (I shit you not) “hang out with each other” in a special area of their pen. Their description makes it sound more like a retirement home than the abattoir that it really is.

The marketing also went to great lengths, repeatedly, to talk about how clean and sanitary their product was, how they “harvest” the milk and sanitize the udders and cool it down rapidly to make sure it stays fresh. It just sounds so yummy and delicious! That is until you see the cows on the huge rotary milker covered with their own shit. Seriously, their pens are filled with sand, so I’m fairly certain that brown material covering them is probably not mud. If you put antiseptic on a shit-covered cow and then suck the milk out of it, is that really sanitary? Or is it just “kinda” sanitary? Close enough for the USDA, perhaps. Just worth keeping in mind, I suppose, that every drink of milk contains some amount of cow shit.

What struck me most of all was the birthing barn. Here you had cows that had been force-fed to the point of being utterly obese, filled with hormones and unable to give birth to their own children without the assistance of a stout rope. The audio voice-over claimed, “only 5% of births need assistance” but even our small sample size proved that an utterly contrived statistic. These poor animals, stretched beyond all proper bounds of nature’s intention by human greed and force-feeding, have as much chance of giving birth naturally as an obese woman does of running a marathon. In many cases their udders are so grossly distended that they can barely walk in a straight line let alone give birth naturally.

In summary, the dairy farm is a dim parody of nature. While the voice-over proudly proclaims how happy the cows are and, most disturbingly, how smart and easily trained they are, they live out existences that are more closely akin to something from an H.P. Lovecraft novel than anything else. Once they serve out their useful lives in the dairy they head to the slaughterhouse to “give their all” as the tour guide said when it was asked of her. What logical sense does that make? Who in their right mind subsidizes an industry that is not only horrendously wasteful but just idiotically cruel? In our pursuit of cheap calories, we’ve created a monstrosity, a travesty of all logical justice.

I, for one, am off dairy. I’ll admit that it will be difficult to give up cheese but the image of the shit-stained udders of dozens of cows being suckled by probing mechanical nozzles is more than sufficient to put me off milk and beef. How can we justify such an industry? As intense as the marketing is, I shudder to think what the reality is hidden behind the sanitized version we see on the tour. Perhaps if I put these products aside it can help make the huge pile of shit a bit smaller. Perhaps if we all do it will vanish entirely.

In Defense of Women

It has occurred to me that as of late I have found myself increasingly confrontational. I delivered my polemic from yesterday morning to the Lafayette Journal and Courier in the hopes that someone might take sufficient notice to make the issue of which I write visible to a larger crowd than the small one that reads this blog. Since the article on economic inequality on March 19th, (“On Organized Labor”), I’ve found myself increasingly controversial and ready to face whatever negativity that might result from my opinions. Whether any of this prolixity is justified is left as an exercise to the reader but suffice it to say that I grow increasingly unimpressed with the society in which we live.

For today’s rant I take up a topic that I’ve touched on before in the long history of this blog but never with quite this level of specificity. It seems that there exists in this country a silent war on women. I was greeted this morning by a post from Sarah Kimmett in defense of the right of a woman to breastfeed her baby in some public place aside from a restroom. While the imagery of her post was… well, a tad unsettling, her point was well taken. Why should a woman who wishes to feed her baby, in the most natural way possible, and in the most healthy and responsible way possible, be consigned to do so in a public restroom? Because of a group of ultra-conservative, ultra-religious assholes, we’ve vilified the natural act of feeding a child. It’s become something to be hidden away in a dark corner like taking a shit. Feeding your baby is not the moral equivalent of dropping a deuce. Stop treating it like it is.

My personal experience with this is fairly limited. I’ve seen a few women breastfeeding in my day but not many. The most poignant that I recall was, somewhat ironically, in the Field Museum in Chicago. Amongst the displays of primitive man and bones of long-dead Dinosaurs, I saw a woman quietly sitting in the stairwell feeding her child. She wasn’t terribly exposed. She wasn’t a repugnant display of human flesh. She was simply and discretely and quietly feeding her baby. I didn’t feel repulsed or disgusted. What did I feel? I felt an overwhelming sense of well-being. Here was a woman who was sharing of herself to bring life and joy to the next generation of humankind. The image of her still dances through my mind all these years later. In some utterly bizarre way this image gives me hope for humanity. It lets me know that there is hope for all of us, that we are still one big human family that cares for one another generation after generation. I would be sad if some close-minded bigots kept me from having that feeling. Every time that I see a group of people on television I’m greeted by a sign that says, “Support our Troops.” It would be nice if once in a while we saw a sign that said, “Support our Moms.” Their jobs are no less important, but their song goes unsung.

Closely related to this, I’ve been increasingly confronted as of late with men, or at least stories of men, who are stuck in the year 1953. There is still a small cohort of mankind who believes that there is something called “women’s work” and that women are uniquely qualified to carry it out. To them I will merely say, the year is 2011 and it is time to dispose of your old value systems. The women of today are capable of much more than their assigned roles from 60 years ago. June Cleaver didn’t bring home a paycheck, run the house and keep junior’s fingernails trimmed in the way that today’s modern woman does. Because of this added responsibility, she deserves not only your respect but very nearly your worship. She balances more things in a day than an average man could possibly conceive of. Appreciate her for all that she is and she will, I assure you, more than compensate you for your attentions. Men of the world, do not wage war on your women. Stand beside them and recognize them for the awe-inspiring allies that they are.

Fourth Reich

If you talk to most people about Hitler’s extermination of six million Jews during World War II or the death of a million and a half Armenians in 1915 or even the work of the Khmer Rouge killing two million Cambodians in the seventies, the predictable quizzical refrain is, “How could they DO such a thing?!” Unfortunately, it’s not all that uncommon, and the ideological roots of such thinking are alive and well in the United States even today.

Our story begins innocently enough… Yesterday I went to the camera store for my semi-annual shopping trip. I judged myself in “need” of a good macro lens and so, having had good luck at a store in Lafayette I traveled hither and availed myself of the help, selected an appropriate lens and then found myself in the awkward, “Oh jeeze, now the salesman wants to talk about something unrelated to photography” situation. The guy certainly didn’t look like a Nazi; he was about medium build, balding, late 50s with a queer expression that makes you wonder if his mental acuity is fading a bit. Somehow he got onto the topic of crime in the surrounding county and how it had risen dramatically over the past few years. I mentally braced myself when he said the words, “You know why crime is up so much don’t ya?”

He then went on for a full five minutes about how Mexicans and African Americans had invaded from Chicago. He told stories of welfare moms (all with six kids by six fathers he noted), apparently by the dozens, would go to the fair and “let their kids loose to run around unattended and ruin the whole thing for everyone”. The reason they were here was simple, he said. They came because Illinois is out of welfare money and the mayor of Chicago told them to come to Lafayette because Indiana still has plenty. The Mexicans are here because, as you may have heard, there’s a big sign at the Mexican border that says, “Come to Lafayette, Indiana. We have good jobs for you.”

It’s endlessly fascinating to me that I’ve heard many of these stories before but the details and the place names are always different. If they’re all to be believed, then the border with Mexico must just be crowded with signs as far as the eye can see for every burg, hamlet and village in America that’s seeking out cheap labor from Lafayette to Frankfort to South Park, Colorado. It perplexes me even further that if the speaker believes his own story, why does he have such vitriol for the people who have come to Lafayette rather than the situations that brought them here? If the influx of African-Americans is bothersome, why be mad at them for their very existence? Why not vent your angst on the society that made it profitable and reasonable for them to get into their situation in the first place? Why not write a letter to the mayor of Chicago telling him to stop sending his huddled masses down I-65? Is it really their fault for existing? If Mexicans are coming here in droves because of signs then why not boycott the companies who put up the signs to attract them in the first place? If one is going to hate a group of people then at the very least the reasons for doing so should make logical sense rather than being cobbled together from bits and pieces of yokel-pseudowisdom.

So what’s the truth here? Are there really people on the welfare rolls out there with six kids by six different dads collecting taxpayer dollars? Certainly there are. No denying that. But whose fault is that really? If these people exist it’s not because of some inherent flaw in their persons so much as a gap in the systems of education and government that created them. The difference between a welfare mother of six and a successful professional woman is merely a matter of situation and education. As long as America tolerates the existence of a class of ultra-rich elites there will be a class of ultra-poor to balance them out. The question of Mexican immigration has been a hot-button one for decades and somehow it’s perceived to be the fault of the immigrants themselves that American companies demand their cheap and undocumented labor. Of course companies want to keep their costs low and in many cases have no choice about it because the American people have such an insatiable demand for cheap goods. If you have a problem with immigration then you should start by making sure that none of the goods and services you buy are sourced with the labor of immigrants. That will mean that you’ll pay a lot more for them because the equivalent American worker won’t accept $20 a day in wages. But that’s OK, right? No price too high to make sure we don’t have to hear Spanish in the grocery store!

In the end, I’m not sure whether to be angry or sad at the situation. The camera shop salesman’s viewpoint, as loathsome as it is, seems to be a very popular one. And that’s the scary part. It’s thoughts such as these, spread person to person and quickly accepted as reality, that start atrocities such as the Jewish Holocaust. The simple and virulent idea that, “things are bad and it’s the fault of THOSE people,” spreads far too easily and once it permeates a society it lacks only a persuasive leader to turn from an underground movement to an all-out war. We cannot continue to think this way about the people around us. Like it or not, we’re all in this together so rather than spending your wrath hating the person next to you let’s embrace what we’ve got and try to make things better for all of us. Vote for parties that support responsible social programs that help bring people up from poverty and ignorance (if you can find one). Volunteer at literacy programs and give to organizations that help those in need. While the forgotten masses at the bottom of the socio-economic ladder may seem the least important, they also have the most potential. And when you see injustice or ignorance in your community then stand up and talk about it. Don’t let your quiet non-vote contribute to the growing river of hatred and blame that runs through our communities.

A Fish out of Ink

As a rule I tend to keep myself pretty quietly tucked away in my familiar corner of society. This is a polite way of saying that I don’t get out much. Sure I tend to traipse around in nature quite a bit seeing this, that and the other thing but it is not easily lost on anyone who looks at my photo albums that there just aren’t a whole lot of people in them. At least in part this is due to no small degree of anthropophobia on my part, not to mention the concern that taking pictures of people is sometimes likely to get one punched in one’s camera lens. The point is that my experiences in the company of other actual humans are almost frighteningly limited. I can count on my fingers the number of people I’ve spent more than few hours with in my entire life outside the context of work. My circle is very small and very homogeneous.

So it is with this context in mind that I look back on the events of last night. I found myself in the company of people for several hours with whom I shared… well, absolutely nothing. Save for the acts of respiration and other simple biology, it’s exceptionally hard for me to draw any common relationship between myself and the other people in the room. What’s surprising… well, not really surprising actually, but what struck me is that as I sat, quietly observing them, listening to their banter, I built up a fair amount of respect for them. Their values systems were completely different than mine. Hell, I got the impression that they didn’t even know what Monty Python was. What more blaring sign of affiliation with an alternate reality do you need than that? Despite their vastly different life context, they seemed intelligent (though not erudite), passionate (though not about anything that I particularly cared about) and amicable (though in that “I’m likely to insult you just out of playfulness rather than spite” sort of way).

At this point, the patient reader is no doubt asking exactly WHO this demographic is that I’m referring to. The impatient reader hasn’t made it this for. So to the patient reader I grant their reward. The group in question is that you will find if you make your way into any common purveyor of the tattooed arts. The cast of characters consisted of the shop leader, a 45-year-old gent who has been at the task of tattooing for almost 20 years closely followed by a posse of 20-somethings and lastly a young apprentice who was just beginning to learn the trade. There was a fairly clear pecking order and an almost communal feel about the place. I shall illustrate the cast of characters in some detail.

The lowest person in rank, the apprentice, was clearly stuck with the grunt work: cleaning up, autoclaving, filling out paperwork, etc. These non-artistic (and possibly non-paying) jobs seemed to fall exclusively to him. A small joke was exchanged that if he continued to do his job well he could very well be at it for life, but if he sucked badly enough he might actually get to tattoo someone some day. It’s unclear that there is any formal process for apprenticeship, but there did seem to be knowledge that there was a process of sorts and that it was clear he was at the bottom of it. Physically, the apprentice was the most unique of the group. Of course everyone present was heavily laden with artwork but in particular this gentleman sported a shaved head, decorated with a colorful design as well as a cake donut with pink icing tattooed around his navel. He used this bit of art in particular to scare away a group of cackling teenagers who had come into the shop apparently for the purposes of gawking.

Next in the ranks came a man of similar age who had at least passed out of the initial stages of apprenticeship. He was in the midst of giving his first tattoo, a large, red rose on his own leg. Apparently it is common, if not required, that a fledgling artist perform his first tattoo on his own person. When we quietly inquired of the owner about this practice he said simply, “you have to learn how hard to press down.” It is comforting to know that practitioners of this art do only to us what they would be willing to do on themselves first. More amazing to me, I suppose, is that this gentleman was able to accurately and protractedly use an electric needle on his own person with no apparent outward signs of stress. This indicates a fairly high degree of devotion to ones trade if not a super-human tolerance for pain.

The rest of the group, save for the lead in our story who I shall save for last, seemed fairly non-descript. It was unclear to me if these were other artists who simply didn’t have clients in at the time or just “friends of the band” as it were. In total the group varied from six to seven with a couple of people popping in and out from time to time. As I mentioned earlier, the whole group was wonderfully congenial but one always had the sense of being an “outsider” in someone else’s party. Perhaps in part this was exacerbated by the fact that Laura and I were the only people present in the shop who didn’t seem to have some affiliation with the shop or the people in it.

At any rate, I move lastly to Roger, who I presume to be the shop owner and the only one with an actual paying client that night. Roger’s a soft-spoken gentleman who quietly seems to hold sway over the rest of the shop. Because he is such a gentle character though, it’s difficult to ascertain exactly what his relationship is with the rest of the people working there. As cliché as it sounds, he has an almost fatherly aspect. While the rest of the shop is bantering about whatever it is that 20-ish guys banter about, he’s off somewhere quietly working away on something (or someone). It’s clear from his demeanor as well that he really, really likes doing this sort of thing. His professionalism and pride in his work is obvious yet without the egotism that sometimes comes with those qualities. What struck me most though was that after he’d really settled into his task he seemed to pass into a trance-like state of complete concentration. I’ve seen the expression many times passing by a programmer’s cube at work when they’re in the throes of some deep and gritty technical problem. The two are not unrelated, I suspect.

I would feel remiss if I didn’t take at least a short moment to comment on the art itself. Having some time to browse the common designs available and see no small amount of it actually on the people in the shop, I’m struck by the themes. For the most part, it seems to be expected that men should have tattoos depicting skulls and death and gushing blood and hearts stabbed by knives and similarly gruesome themes and I honestly just don’t understand why this is at all popular. I realize in some cultures it’s important to look “bad-ass” and to carry off an aspect of toughness but is that really the majority of the tattoo-buying crowd? If I were in the market for a tattoo then I’d imagine something by Hieronymus Bosch would be much more appealing and appropriate. Is society really so fascinated by death or is this just the tattoo shop’s polite way of suggesting that perhaps you bring in your own damn design rather than asking them to tattoo the same shit over and over? Or more likely are these designs the type of things that drunken last-minute decision-makers tend to like when they stumble into the shop impaired but with a mind to mark themselves for life? Who can say?

So all in all I would say the experience was a vastly broadening one. Considering that I’ve babbled on for 1400 words about it, it apparently made a fairly significant impression. The question that now bubbles to mind is how to continue this. I don’t mean tattoo shops specifically, I could stumble into plenty of those, but how does one in today’s society reach out and find new aspects of culture to explore without invading and inserting one’s self where otherwise unwanted?

Coping With My Own Ignorance

The most surprising thing about the movie Invictus that we watched last night was its effortless ability to remind me of my own complete and utter ignorance of African History. From there my mind was able to trace its way backwards through a thousand topics of which I know very nearly, if not exactly, nothing.

On one hand this makes me desperately sad because I feel a large hollow space in my soul where a lot of really amazing information is begging to be. Sure, I can call up the image of Nazi soldiers on hang-gliders any time I want for entertainment but part of me knows that there’s so much MORE to be had for the assiduous pursuer of knowledge. There are eight million stories in the Naked City and I want to know every fucking one of them. As song lyrics from songs that were popular before I was born blast through my head, I ponder reading a biography of Nelson Mandela. But the pang of sadness is palpable as I realize I had to do a Google search to verify the Nazi hang-glider story I remembered from high school history wasn’t apocryphal… another to recall that there are eight million stories in the Naked City and not just one million… and a third to get rid of the second L that I tried to put in Mandela. And of course the spellchecker corrected my spelling of apocryphal. Christ but I’m getting soft…

The problem seems to be that there’s just so damn much to KNOW. It’s always been my goal to pursue breadth of knowledge not depth. I don’t really need to know the exact structure of a Benzene molecule but it would be nice to know enough to at least have an intelligent discussion about chemistry. (As a side note, I completely bite ass at chemistry. My mind works conceptually and I never found enough logic in chemistry to make it properly hang together in any reasonable structure to actually remember anything aside from tidbits from the Periodic Table.) The problem though even with a depth-wise view of human knowledge is that it’s still impossible. Some topics are just too deep to skip over and you become hopelessly mired in detail. Eighteenth century Italian Opera you can hit the highpoints on but Quantum Mechanics not so much. If you condense some topics to their fundamentals you lose them entirely. Distilling World War II down to: “An embittered Germany, after being let off far too easily after World War I, seeks continental dominance.” Is at best a hollow summary and at worst raises far more questions than it answers. Some things are worth a year looking into. Unfortunately, we just don’t have enough years.

So what’s the answer? How do we all keep from feeling like hopeless mental failures? In general, and simply put, we specialize. I know a lot of people who have one area in which they are simply legendary whether it’s sump pumps or some arcane technical topic. Personally that seems unsatisfying. I’d go insane if I were the foremost expert on the world on subject web browser compatibility testing but knew little to nothing about anything else. Even so, I would feel like I knew something. As it stands, I look at the vast open plains of my lacking intellect and I feel vacuous and in need of more, More, MORE!

Returning to the long-neglected other hand, does it really matter? What point would there be in owning even the entire breadth of human knowledge? Perhaps a bit of focus, not so razor sharp that you can unravel the secrets of the universe but forget how to button your shirt in the morning, is a good thing. Picking a few things to be reasonably good at and quietly being at peace with ignorance of the rest seems a good and healthy attitude to have in a world that offers so many options that they exceed the human lifespan to consume them. If I can practice a trade and write a bit of prolix triteness to my own satisfaction and capture a sunset with the great-great-great-grandson of the daguerreotype, then what else need I worry about? I can spend my life fighting and being at odds with my own ignorance or I can walk down the hall and sing quietly to myself…

“Don't know much about history
Don't know much biology
Don't know much about a science book
Don't know much about the French I took…

(Never underestimate the wisdom of songs that were popular before you were born…)

The One and Only You

Last week I listened to an episode of Radiolab, a podcast that discusses interesting scientific concepts and stories at a universally accessible level. On the episode a woman told the story of one day during her childhood when she was at a party and she suddenly became disoriented. In fact, she became so confused that she ran into her own back yard and failed to recognize it as her own. The part of her brain that recognizes spatial relationships had had a sort of “short-circuit” and the world rotated ninety degrees. The details of this are unimportant but what followed made me ponder. When she told her mother about it she was more than a bit unhelpful and so for the next twenty years this woman carried around the belief that her brain was somehow “screwed up” in a way that was unique to her. She couldn’t fathom the possibility that anyone else had this problem… until she met someone who did, decades later.

I’ve often noted in humanity the tendency to think that we’re each wonderfully unique individuals. “There’s nobody like you,” sang Barney the Dinosaur, “you’re special!” For most of us childhood is filled with trite phrases and affirmations like that one. Society works so hard at lifting us up and making us feel good about ourselves that it forgets the simple truth that in the grand scheme of things, we’re each ultimately replaceable. Sure, in our own local circles we matter greatly because our families would notice if we were suddenly replaced with the next best version of ourselves, but looking at it globally, we’re all really just different copies of the same model number. If the internet can teach us nothing else it’s that no matter what you might happen to be into, there’s somebody else out there who’s into the exact same thing. There are one-legged crocheting cat-fanciers in the hundreds just waiting for your annual membership dues.

And while it may be depressing to think of the world that way, remember the woman from our opening. Her brain was suffering with a serious problem. She thought she was uniquely damaged in a way that nobody else could ever begin to share or relate to. Yet the show goes on to describe her amazing relief when she realized that she was NOT the only one. While it may deflate one’s ego to think that you’re not the unique and wonderful person you think you are, the flip side is that no matter what your problem, no matter how down you may get, perhaps it’s some comfort to know that there are hundreds, maybe thousands of people who have the exact same problem. There are people out there who feel your pain and know your sorrow. Sometimes being special feels like the most magical feeling in the world. Sometimes being special makes you feel like the loneliest and most isolated person in the universe. Take comfort in the simple fact that you are not special.

Second Childhood

It was once the rage, not so much now in this indulgent 21st century, to practice something called ‘tough love’. This trite phrase has fallen out of favor for one because… well, it’s trite, and secondly because nobody seems to want to actually do it. Increasingly it seems that we just give our children anything they ask for because we want them to just shut up and go away. The act of parenting has been reduced to that of a Walmart stock person filling up the shelves of junior’s room with any and every gewgaw, bauble, trinket and gadget that their little heart should so temporarily set itself upon. The parents that practice this mentality of parenting utterly fail to realize that the seemingly harsh act of saying, “no” is the best thing they can do with their children. It prepares them for the very real time in their adulthood when the world will look them straight in the eye and say, “NO!” with vastly greater emphasis and far less empathy. It is best that we teach our children the ways of the world now rather than letting them learn the lesson when the purulent Valkyrie of reality does it for us.

Recently I’ve been reminded that it is not only the children of youth who need this lesson but sometimes also those who have lived their lives and found themselves back in the simple-minded throes of a second childhood. As children, it is easy to look at our parents and say that they have earned the right of perpetual self-determination. While it is never an easy task to curtail the most precious freedom to run one’s own life, there comes a time for most older people when they’re a danger to themselves and others. Every day we see fragile senior citizens crouched behind the wheel of a car, barely able to see over the dash, unable to turn to see traffic or react quickly enough to avoid a collision. It is sometimes only by the tenuous thread of happenstance that they don’t cause serious harm to someone. How will you feel as a child if your parent comes to an unpleasant end or causes someone else’s because you respected far too long their expired right to direct their own lives?

Far too often we confuse love and respect for a parent with obedience. We’re trained to honor our fathers and mothers and to be obedient and respectful. To truly honor and love someone though does not mean to blindly follow their desires and wishes to the murky and uncertain endings to which they might lead. Just as they parented us in our youths, giving us what they thought was best rather than what we said we wanted, it is the duty of every child to guard over their aging parents with the same assiduous pursuit of what is in their best interest. Sometimes this will lead to conflict or even schism, but whatever the result, it is a far better one than that of a parent lost too soon because we failed to guide them safely though their final years as they so faithfully guided us through our first.

On Organized Labor

Personally, I’ve always found the idea of unionization repulsive. The idea of bargaining collectively with my colleagues rather than standing out on my individual merits bothers me at my very core. What possible motivation would I have to excel at work if the result for me would be the same as for all my neighbors who are idly clipping their toenails for eight hours a day? Despite the physiological wonder that growing one’s nails that quickly might imply, one hardly believes it appropriate compensation for the fact that it leaves their hands free to do little else. Isn’t it the American dream to make good and do well for yourself rather than tugging along at the party line so that those around you can be paid the same while contributing less?

However this morning when I cracked open the March 7th edition of the New Yorker and read the lead ‘Talk of the Town’ story I couldn’t help but scowl quietly to myself. It goes on at length about the decline of the American labor union. The workforce has doubled in 50 years and yet union membership has declined. Increasingly, republicans engage in union-busting legislation that makes it harder and harder for unions to exist at all. Per the paragraph above, this doesn’t bother me overly. These people should negotiate on their own behalf and make their way as best they can. All is well and good and my mind is filled with the wine and roses of equality and self-determination until the numbers start to come out. Like any good analytic, I respond well to numbers.

Currently in this country the top 10% of the earners account for 50% of the money earned. The fact that the remaining 90% of the population is left to scrape by on the remainder makes it unsurprising that we see as much poverty as we do. How can this be deemed at all reasonable? While I by no means wish that everyone should be paid the same for what they do, they should at least be paid enough to comfortably exist without having to worry every single day about where their next meal will come from. Perhaps a program in which the bottom 10% can eat from the garbage cans of the top 10% is in order. No doubt the Republican elite would find this a fine and amicable agreement.

All this talk of social inequality brings me to the topic of taxes. Classically, the rich complain bitterly about their tax rate. They reason greedily, that if they were taxed less, then they would have more leftover to invest in industry to create new jobs for those who are jobless. Even if this were true, however, without unions the jobs created would likely pay a pittance. The rich certainly will invest extra proceeds in industry but only, of course, with the view of making themselves even richer. One does not become richer by paying a fair and equitable wage to one’s workers. One becomes rich by doing as much with as little as possible. Squeezing every last drop of productivity from a given resource is the very definition of efficiency. In the interest of efficiency we increase the wage-gap and do everything we can to make sure our worker drones remain under-paid and ignorant of their own inherent value to the company for which they slave away. The unions serve as the only mechanism by which the workers, largely oblivious to the larger economics of their relationship with the parent company, can be fairly represented and compensated.

So, like an embittered Christmas Scrooge, the top echelon of the American wealthy look down from on high and ask simply of their less fortunate cohorts, “are there no workhouses?” To them I say, there are, but not nearly enough. Perhaps a tax cut for you so you can build some more. While part of me is fiercely independent and desires to “get ahead”, another part of me wishes fervently for a society in which we all go to bed every night knowing that we need not fear for our lives, our health or our families. Clearly unions are imperfect entities, but such is the inevitable result whenever such an uneven fabric as the American workforce is ironed out into something resembling equal treatment.

On Blogging

As I look back at the long and tangled history of this blog, I realize that it’s gone on for very nearly eight years.  Eight years of sometimes random and almost always unnecessary detail about a person that most of you probably don’t even know.  I flatter myself a bit here since to say this implies that more than about the five people in my immediate personal sphere of friendship actually read it.  Google’s statistics on the matter are brief, numerically unimpressive and no doubt completely accurate.  My audience is miniscule and generally entirely quiet.  It brings one quickly to the question of why one would even bother.  Why sit down for two hours a night to write something that five people might read?  

The most important answer to this question really is that my most fervent reader is some future copy of myself and my children.  From time to time I dig about for a random nugget from the past.  The words “bring on the cocaine” echo through my mind from 2005.  (http://tatteredthread.blogspot.com/2005/06/poverty-of-plenty.html)  When I’m feeling particularly in need of inspiration to divest myself of some unnecessary possessions, I re-ask questions from ’08 (http://tatteredthread.blogspot.com/2008/12/on-futility-of-ownership.html).  Even if nobody ever read a word I have to say it would still be satisfying in the extreme to leave this trail of myself weaving sinuously through the internet.  Thing is though… people do read it.  Even total strangers read it.  Google reports quite diligently that people looking for “boss fix powder” or notes on old books I’ve read or “sardinian bronze figures” find some small solace in my words from the past.  The net is a wide and varied place but on many topics is not nearly so deep.  There’s a place for random tidbits here.  It’s hardly the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but it is still a voice.  In my wild imaginings, if I helped or entertained even one person, then my efforts were more than worth it.  I’m confident that I’ve contributed something to the wide world.  Certainly not the cure for cancer, but I’m sure that at some point I’ve made one person think or laugh or ponder a bit longer than they would have otherwise.  

What is saddest to me in this whole topic is that so many voices are silent.  I’ve seen many blogs spring to life, ardently persist for a few months and then slowly fall silent.  Those at least tried to add to the world.  Sadder still are those that never open their mouths to speak at all.  Their wisdom and words are lost forever.  So, in an effort to bring those voices to the foreground I will address the common excuses I hear one by one.  For those of you who are unheard, perhaps you will see some echo of yourself in the words I share below and realize that you too have a story to be told.  

Most commonly I hear the excuse, “I can’t write.  I’m no good at writing.”  Forgive me if I say, simply, that if you’re not good at writing it is merely because you don’t do it enough.  Writing is simply concretized communication and communication is what humanity is all about.  The simple act of speech and sharing of ideas is what separates us from the apes and the iguana.  You can be good at writing but you simply need to do more of it.  It’s said that it takes 10,000 hours to become good at something.  In many walks of life putting words to paper is as foreign and strange a pastime as any you can imagine.  If you belong to a part of society that doesn’t write often or doesn’t feel the need then it is absolutely IMPERITIVE that you make an effort to do so.  The literary history of the world is littered with the words of Kings and scholars.  What is most important and in most short supply is the word of the common people.  Don’t let the affluent speak for you and write your history as well as your own.  

My last point overflowed with zeal, I fear.  For the second I shall proceed more gently.  Next most commonly we have those who are simply afraid.  They fear to put their words to paper in front of the public because of what people might think.  Often these ideas are not explosive in nature.  There is no vast and unsettling profundity lurking that will upset the balance of humanity.  Instead the problem is simply one of self-image.  Much like those who profess no talent for the written word, those lacking confidence also deserve to be heard.  Often those people are the ones whose ideas are most thoroughly composed and well-constructed because they have spent a lifetime going over and over in their minds what exactly they would say if asked the exact right question at the exact right time.  

The primary fear of the second group is that of criticism.  In their well thought-out scenarios, they imagine they will say something that will offend someone else and will be hit upon the head with a large hammer in response.  To this fear I say simply… yup.  You will.  Be prepared, not only to argue your point but also to change your mind if appropriate.  Personally, half my reason for writing anything is to invite discussion and debate.  At times, I say things that are intentionally irrational or excessively vitriolic just in the hopes of inviting some response because ultimately I want people to think about what they’re reading.  I want them to disagree.  I want them to think about why and I want them to express it.  I stand ready to be argued with as should any writer.  The majority of human ideas are blunt weapons only honed to trueness by the test of scrutiny by others.  Your ideas are no different but that doesn’t make them any less worthy of sharing.  

The third group of non-writers is those who say simply, “I don’t have time.”  At this group I simply smirk and shake my head.  With few exceptions we have time for exactly what we make time for.  Television ratings are far too high for me to believe that any American person is too busy to sit down for a few hours to write something meaningful.   Except for single mothers of quadruplets and those working two full-time jobs, Americans are overflowing with free time.  It may not be utterly convenient to write about your life as you sit at your child’s soccer practice but technology has come far enough that you can certainly do it.

To close, the point here is simple.  Everyone within the sound of my keyboard needs to write about themselves and contribute to the vast choir that is the account of the human condition.  Technology has advanced to the point that we can leave for our progeny an account of our lives with unparalleled accuracy from coal miners in West Virginia to software developers in Seattle.  Every voice that is lost is lost forever.  We need to hear you.  There is no reason to be afraid.  Simply be honest and put yourself out there.  If not for humanity in general then for your own children.  What amazing treasure will it be to your children when they are old and gray to have your words and innermost thoughts to peruse and perhaps say to themselves, “Yes, I feel that too…”  Let your words today be your testament and your monument to the future.

On Books: “The Finkler Question”

“The Finkler Question” earns fairly poor Amazon reviews and I can see why. The book is more than a bit heavy for American tastes; its prose is complex and at times difficult to unwind. That said, for the determined reader it not only has a statement to make but is an education in and of itself.

Per my long-standing tradition I picked up “The Finkler Question” while doggedly avoiding any back-cover reading that might have hinted at what I was about to read. So the first and obvious interrogative is, of course, “What *IS* the Finkler Question?” Or, for those who like to leap forward, “Who *IS* this Finkler person anyway?” To encapsulate, and potentially spoil this little mystery that lasts for all of 5 pages within the book, Finkler is one of the triumvirate of protagonists in this novel and he represents the prototypical modern Jewish person. Rounding out the trio we have Treslove the goy and Libor the old-school Jew.

I will not belabor the reader with the characterizations of our Jewish main characters. They represent well the stereotypes one would expect on the surface. They’re erudite and intellectually immaculate individuals. I’ve noted in my brief survey of Biblical literature that the Jewish view on such matters is impressive in its completeness and honesty. The portraits drawn of that religion in this book strengthen my opinion on the topic. Our goyish third finds himself at a bit of a disadvantage time and again when standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his Jewish counterparts and later a Jewish girlfriend.

At first introduction I found the text a bit daunting. Coming off a long stint in the land of L. Frank Baum, it’s not surprising that my eyes were a bit crossed and my tolerance for long and winding tracks of prose a bit taxed. Finkler is a book best taken in long, savory gulps rather than short, winded sprints. If you cannot devote an hour or more, then do not bother even to begin. It is an immersive tome that requires an investment rather than a mere passing fancy. The rewards, however, are immense, especially for one such as me, who is a true goy among goys. If nothing else, a passing introduction to Yiddish is provided at no cost to the reader save a few trips to the dictionary.

Our gentile protagonist I can relate to well. The book begins trippingly and graphically with the descriptive passage:

“He was a man who saw things coming. Not shadowy premonitions before and after sleep, but real and present dangers in the daylit world. Lamp posts and trees reared up at him, splintering his shins. Speeding cars lost control and rode on to the footpath leaving him lying in a pile of torn tissue and mangled bones. Sharp objects dropped from scaffolding and pierced his skull. Women worst of all. When a woman of the sort Julian Treslove found beautiful crossed his path it wasn’t his body that took the force but his mind. She shattered his calm. True, he had no calm, but she shattered whatever calm there was to look forward to in the future. She was the future.”

I can feel Julian in my own life. For me, as with Julian, a good woman is not so much an entertainment or amusement so much as a lake to be jumped into, something to completely lose yourself in and maybe, if it’s terribly necessary, maybe something to eventually find your way out of. But that’s only if absolutely necessary.

Aside from Julian’s determined devotion to the gentler gender, the main crux of the book is to examine the world of what it means, exactly, to be Jewish.

“Maybe it wasn’t self-respect at all. Maybe self didn’t enter into it, maybe it was actually a freedom from self, or at least from self in the Treslove sense of self – a timid awareness of one’s small place in a universe ringed by a barbed-wire fence of rights and limits. What Sam had, like his father the showman parmaceutical chemist before him, was a sort of obliviousness to failure, a grandstanding cheek, which Treslove could only presume was part and parcel of the Finkler heritage. If you were a Finkler you just found it in your genes, along with other Finkler attributes it was not polite to talk about.”

As the reader we’re simultaneously privy to Julian’s thoughts on the matter as well as the actions of his Jewish friends that form those thoughts. What is most surprising and a new idea to me, is that as much as there may be groups around the world who dislike the Jewish faith, it seems the Jews are their own harshest critics. As Libor says…

“Oh, here we go, here we go. Any Jew who isn’t your kind of Jew is an anti-Semite. It’s a nonsense, Libor, to talk of Jewish anti-Semites. It’s more than a nonsense, it’s a wickedness.’ ‘Don’t get kochedik with me for speaking the truth. How can it be a nonsense when we invented anti-Semitism?’
‘I know how this goes, Libor. Out of our own self-hatred . . .”

“It’s not peculiar to Jews to dislike what some Jews do.’ ‘No, but it’s peculiar to Jews to be ashamed of it. It’s our shtick. Nobody does it better. We know the weak spots. We’ve been doing it so long we know exactly where to stick the sword.”

So again, going back to the honest and determined analysis, even the Jews themselves have problems with what their culture and their state of Israel is doing in the world. Finkler himself heads a group that calls themselves the “Ashamed Jews” and Libor, while less vocal, seems no less disillusioned. If these two represent the majority or even a sizeable faction then it is more than a bit unexpected. The book, though not by any means an easy read, brings the issues of Zionism and anti-Semitism onto a very personal level. No longer are the issues mere warring world views but have found homes in the embodiment of three people pushing ultimately for what is right rather than what is popular.

Waxing personal, I find myself on the side of Finkler and Julian. I fail to see what business Israel has in pushing itself into existence at the cost of more recent inhabitants. It cannot be surprising to anyone that this has stirred the ire of everyone in the region. While I don’t disagree that everyone deserves a place to live and prosper, I’m not personally of the opinion that one should get first choice merely because they happen to be Jewish. Countries come and countries go and any attempt to turn back history is bound to instigate conflict on a greater and greater note.

Julian is the embodiment of fascination with Jewish culture as we look in from the outside. I will admit that I agree whole-heartedly with him in that respect as well. I find the Christian faiths trite. The Muslims, while exotic hold little interest. The Eastern religions, while shrouded in mystery, still seem like mere toys. The Jewish faith, however, seems grounded in a sort of determined honesty and analysis that I find infinitely refreshing. They have traditions like any other group of people but I simply can’t help but respect them because they deal bare-facedly with the world around them and their relationship to their creator. I cannot help but think of a line from Fiddler on the Roof. Tevya asks, “How did this tradition get started?” and his quite acceptable response is, “I don’t know.” While other religions work fervently to construct a reason for everything, the Jewish faith is OK just shrugging its shoulders. That is as closely akin as religion gets to science. For that, it earns my respect, my admiration and my interest.

As usual however, I digress. The 2010 Booker Prize winner, “The Finkler Question” is well worth the read to those who have the grit and determination to power through it and really digest its message. To the hundreds of people on Amazon who gave it a right panning… perhaps you want the “young readers” section. The words are shorter and the messages simpler.

On Mothers and Literature

Note: This exceptionally random and rambling entry is a reaction to Meghan O’Rourke’s article “Story’s End: Writing a Mother’s Death” from the March 7th, 2011 edition of the New Yorker.

Like so many things I read, O’Rourke’s article simultaneously screamed in my ear and whispered offstage to an audience of which I was never a part. Her portrayal of a book-obsessed child scribbling down her thoughts rang strongly in my memory and my own self-identity. The image of her mother left me with the same empty feeling I had as a child when I saw other children whose parents actually gave a damn about them.

Ultimately, I think the consumption of all literature is basically a selfish act. Our eyes race over the written page and our enjoyment is proportional to the degree to which we can imagine ourselves written into those pages. How would my life be different, my psyche posits, if my mother actually made a positive comment or took an interest in my ill-formed adolescent self? At this point, of course, that’s unthinkable to me. So why did this article instill in me the desire to write about it despite the yawning distance between the childhood portrayed and the childhood of reality…?

Leaving behind the Topic Maternal for a moment, and hopefully forever, it has become increasingly clear to me that writing is a process more akin to digestion than it is spontaneous generation. Part of me thought that if I simply sat down three hours a night to write that I would consistently pump out prose with greater efficiency and alacrity with every passing evening. After having spent several months now producing only fitfully and reading almost nothing, I’ve found the folly of my thinking clear before me. While it is tempting to concretize the digestion analogy to the point of disgust, let it merely be said that to write, one must read or failing that, have a life interesting enough in and of itself to inspire the issuance of something interesting enough for anyone else to read. Sadly, we cannot all be Joseph Conrad so we must rely on the re-digested tidbits of others. In a way this is a tragedy because each writer who writes in this way is not so much a generator of new material but a mill producing finer or coarser material from what has come before. My babblings are a pale shadow of the quality of the original article yet I continue to turn and turn and turn the stone. What results bears only a passing resemblance to the original.

Stepping back to society at large, the article made me ponder the stereotypical relationship between mother and daughter. It is interesting to note that in all my rather narrow experiences I’ve yet to come across a woman who actually got along with her mother. In fact, most typically the daughter universally categorizes her elder as one who is in need of intense psychological scrutiny. It is bizarre and somewhat unthinkable to me that it should be such a consistent experience that a woman is reared by another, literally suckling at their bosom, and finds herself at complete odds after adulthood is reached. As unlikely as it seems, it appears that the schism between mother and daughter is a consistent one and one that is largely irreconcilable until the promise of death should hang over one or the other.

To take this widely-roaming diatribe to an unsettling conclusion, we can ponder why exactly this might be the case biologically. What advantage or disadvantage is it for members of a species, of the same gender and shared genetic background to bicker so endlessly? Why should daughters hate mothers and mothers compete with daughters? If I were forced to guess, which I am not but will indulge myself nonetheless, it seems to come down to simple sexual competition. While today’s society dictates somewhat strongly that mothers and daughters should not compete for the same group of males, this would not have necessarily been the case earlier in mankind’s evolution. In this cesspool of potential incest, if adjoining generations inherently got along and cooperated at first they certainly wouldn’t do so for long. As any long-time fan of Jerry Springer will no doubt be able to confirm, the quickest and most certain way to lose your seat at the Thanksgiving dinner table is to father a child with your mother’s boyfriend. Alternately, if we abandon the purely biological line of reasoning, is the divide between generations merely a necessary mechanism for separation to establish independence? Mothers, fiercely and devotedly nurturing (hopefully) ultimately fall afoul of the daughter’s need to fly free from the nest and make her own way in the world? It is not lost on me that no doubt entire books have been written on this topic but these are my initial thoughts on the topic.

Turning to the other side, what of boys and their mothers? It is fairly seldom that one hears of a man who has reacted so violently and negatively to the attentions of the daintier parent. Clearly there are those who have been ruined by too attentive a maternal influence from Oedipus to Norman Bates but usually there is no extreme in the opposite direction. The typical mother is more than willing to nurture and help their male progeny as they enter the world and most men are more than willing to be nurtured. It is often the wife of those sons who must throw the bucket of water on their new husbands to introduce them to the cold, hard truth that not ALL the women in their life are going to be as undyingly obsequious as their own dear mamas. It seems to be a very typical part of the male growth process to go from devotion to mother to devotion to wife to devotion to children. Often these transitions are difficult for the male as they represent a break in the priorities and the routine but they are of paramount importance. If the transition is not made properly then the result is doubtlessly and swiftly negative. Again, I am fully aware that there are stacks of treatises on this topic but I merely submit my most humble thoughts on the topic as called fourth by Ms. O’Rourke’s submission to my reading queue.

In closing, as I look back on the last words, I realize that my topic, if it can be said I have only one, is scattered and largely inconsequential. I began in one place, tripped to the side briefly for something largely unrelated and then settled out into an area about which my efforts serve only to demonstrate my own ignorance of the subject at hand. While this submission does not have the impact of many of my previous works (each time I write or think that I realize that my best work lies further and further back in my history) I compel myself to write merely because even the most inane drivel is a means to an end. To write well, one must first write. So now is the time on the Tattered Thread when we write. Perhaps later, if our attempts are sincere and properly assiduous, we will write well. But for now, we merely write.

Rob on Geeks… and Little Blue Men

The past twenty-four hours have made me really regret the society in which we find ourselves. Sure, we live in an age when the vastness of human knowledge (and misinformation) is more accessible than ever. Our intellectual predecessors would have hacked limbs from their bodies using poorly sharpened machetes for 10 minutes of access to Google or Wikipedia. Our human potential for progress and inventiveness is greater than any time in our previous history. We have more free time, more resources and more access to information than ever before. If Newton stood on the shoulders of giants then modern man rests easy in the clouds.

Unfortunately, that resting easy is exactly the problem. Recently I sallied forth once again into the realm of podcast blather to find something new to balm my wearied mind on my increasingly frequent commutes between Indianapolis and Lafayette. In the past I’ve had great luck with the simple but strong offerings from Car Talk and The Moth Podcast. Failing those Stuff You Should Know always promised some nugget of amusement though presented in a manner slightly less erudite than I would ultimately prefer. Trying to get back to my roots I chose Growing Up Geek for my previous two trips and to be utterly honest I’m still waiting for the hosts to actually grow up, as the title of their contribution insists they’ve already done. To say the content is banal is to give it far too much credit. These three gentlemen blather on for hours about the latest video game or software and somehow make it even less informative than the ubiquitous Kim Komando.

I realize that someone must take the misty nuances of software and technology to the masses. For this I give Kim credit. She plods on week after week handing out her tidbits of advice to those who only resist the impulse to rest a cup in their open CD trays with the utmost of concentration. As inane as I may find most of what she says, she addresses her target audience with respect and does them a great service. The Growing Up Geek podcast, in contrast, manages to degrade my opinion of ‘geeks’ in general. Are geeks really people who sit around voraciously consuming video games at $50 a pop, mindless agents of consumerism for electronic gadgets but in the end contributing little more to society then the carbon emissions caused by their trips back and forth to Best Buy?

The state of Geekdom really saddens me because these are people with single-minded and delightful focus. They sit, rapt, attentive, staring at a screen for hours. They’re not unintelligent. They have keen and supple minds that could be unraveling the secrets of the universe but instead they’ve become addicted to this opiate of video stimuli. Rather than contributing to society they’ve become side-tracked into this endless loop. They’re constantly solving and re-solving the same contrived problem over and over again. How do I save Zelda? How can I finally beat Mario Kart? These examples are wildly inaccurate but they stand none the less. These geeks spend hours untying the intellectual knots woven by other people, software and game designers, thousands of miles away. I want to shout at the speakers, “What the FUCK is the point! Put your mind to work solving something real! Create something! DO FUCKING SOMETHING ORIGINAL!” Why hash and rehash the same worn path that a thousand, a million people before you have trodden? Why solve a puzzle that has been solved before? These are the thoughts that nag me, like a million little dwarves with hammers striking my toes, when I succumb to the green-glowing eye of the xBox. It dizzies me to think how much might be contributed to the wealth of human knowledge if all the accumulated brainpower were put to better use.

Now having spent my polemic for the day, let me move on to the festivities of last night. Wednesday night found me back in a very familiar place, the much familiar walkways of Purdue University, my albino matron. As I walked along with Laura I could not help but think back to the nearly innumerable years that I spent there. In some ways I think that Laura’s geographic location is a sign of the rightness of our relationship. While at least somewhat inconvenient, the fact that I find myself increasingly back at the University that formed most of my intellectual background is very comforting. Each step brings back at flood of memories from more formative times.

Last night was no exception. Sitting stage-right in the Elliot Hall of Music I was reminded of the time I was coerced onto the stage with Penn and Teller during their visit to Purdue. In retrospect I’m surprised my head did not explode into a million embarrassed fragments. This evening, however, the guests of honor were not magicians but musicians. Blue Man Group paid a visit to West Lafayette and while I am not traditionally a man who is easily impressed I most certainly was in this case. Of course the evening had its lulls but the crescendo of the evening complete with strobes, huge balloons bouncing through the audience and other various astounding visual effects is one that will live with me indefinitely. I wish only that I’d had sufficient deceitfulness to sneak my camera into the event. Sadly the image of that day shall have to live solely in my memory for all times; Flickr will have to take my word for it.

The group’s message, however, was not merely visual. They sought to educate as well as entertain and their statements about technology seemed most apropos given my podcast experience on the way up to Lafayette. The brief recap of their statements are the ones we’ve heard a million times before but all keenly and determinedly ignored. As a society we ignore our kids, we don’t read enough and we’re just too fucking distracted. We’re so constantly connected to every source of information in the universe from text messages to twitter that we multi-task ourselves into doing a shitty job of digesting any of it. Even as I sit here writing this, my phone makes a noise to tell me that some jerkwad friend of a friend on Facebook has posted a futon for sale. Why the fuck would I want a futon? Yet Facebook sees fit to email me about it. Tomorrow I’m going to go to work and have a specific agenda in mind. There are vastly important things to do. If I’m not careful, however, I’ll get sucked into some email-induced hell. Someone will need something and I’ll spend the whole damn day doing it. Just because I didn’t focus sufficiently to do the important thing I was supposed to do that will create some even greater emergency later because of the shitty job I did on the previous thing. It’s a never-ending loop of distraction and half-assedness and it’s now becoming the new norm in American life.

In most things in my life I try to be a throwback. I feel dirty watching new movies. I hate reading books any less than 100 years old (unless they’re at least British). If I find a word is obsolete I make a point to use it as often as possible just to confuse people. I think it’s time to do the same with my own over-connected life. It’s time to turn off the cell phone and close the email. Let’s ignore the multitude of inputs and just do the important shit for a while. Find out what happened at school today. Finish that book you started reading far too long ago. Hell, watch a TV show and not check your email while it’s on. That’s a start. When you’ve practiced all that, sit down and have a conversation. Long-time readers of this blog will be unsurprised to hear me suggest that. For many years I’ve been an advocate of the one-on-one conversation. It’s about time that as Americans we sat down and really made the time for each other. We all have so much to say if only someone would bother to sit down with us and listen to us say it.

I’m listening. Are you?

Rob on Work, on Men and Other Random Diatribe

Apparently, much to my surprise, today is the first of March. It seems only yesterday that it was January. Now that this delightfully insightful comment is over I shall move on to something even less interesting.

With March first comes another release of the product that I oversee at my place of employment. There are a million things that could be said, both good bad and indifferent about it but in the end it all comes back to one simple truism of life in this working world. At their hearts, their very working souls, all employees want is a way to succeed. A long time ago my former boss recommended a book to me. This was back in the days when it seemed I might take my career in a more managerial direction than a technical one. The book described, in a nutshell, what made people happy at their jobs. Not surprisingly, the crux of the whole biscuit was that people wanted some way to actually feel successful. It’s not necessarily important what the job is so much as it is the ability to have some simple metric to distinguish between “I’m doing great!” from “I’m fucking up big time!”. That’s it.

The developers of video games have this down big time. Every damn time I log in to the xBox I’m reminded that I have 4480 points all-time on the grand scheme of game playing. When I sit down to play a game, in some utterly fucked-up way, the bo-doop sound of achievement points really does motivate me. Never mind that I’m doing something totally asinine like jumping around in my front room like an idiot to navigate a fictitious plastic raft down a fictitious river. Again, the activity doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. What’s important is the metric. In a good development shop, this tendency to think numerically is used as a lever long and strong enough to move the Earth (given a place to stand). The well-organized development shop is filled with prioritized lists of “things to do”. In the poorly-organized and unsuccessful one it’s filled with multiple lists, frequently not updated and generally in conflict with each other.

As a related aside, allow me, for a moment, to wax completely sexist and address the ladies in the crowd. Hello, Ladies! OK, so you gotta guy, eh? Can I offer you a piece of advice? You want to get the most out of your dude or significant other? The answer is simple. (It should be noted that this is also an acid test for whether you should date a guy or not.) Give him a list. Say you have a list of things you have to do in a certain timeframe. Gotta get groceries. Need to scrub the floor. Desperately need to fix the cat because it’s become hopelessly broken and yowls all night long. If you mention this list to your gentleman friend and he says, “that’s a lot. Good luck!” then dump him. He’s not only an ass but he’s lazy. Nothing’s more useless than a lazy guy. If he smiles at you and plucks the list from your hands and says, “Oh, honey! Let me take care of all that for you” then dump him. He’s cheating on you with 27 other women. If, however, his eyes light up and he says something closely akin to, “hey, can I help?!?!” then marry him. A good guy loves nothing more than a list. To one such as this there is no more satisfying feeling than throwing away a list of TO-DO items because they have all been most meticulously crossed off. This is not only a test for a good husband but also for a good employee. Give them a list and they’ll do it because nothing is more satisfying or delicious than measureable progress.

Since I’m already rambling, I see no reason why I should not continue in some earnest. There is a term in the music industry that any good song has a “hook”. It’s that unmistakable series of notes that somehow draws the listener in and forces them to listen to the rest of the song. The same, it seems, can be said of television series. Traditionally I have observed a 10-year rule on visual media. I don’t actively pursue anything on the tele until at least a decade has passed. I still enjoy Monty Python’s Flying Circus despite the fact that it’s very nearly as old as I am. What can I say, I’m very unintentionally retro. However, working with younger people I’ve recently started to get the itch. Their witty banter about modern modes of entertainment have made me diversify my interests and I’ve finally caved in. Much like the BSG debacle of ’08, I watched episode 2 of ‘Heroes’ and now I feel the grim compulsion to watch the whole damn thing. I have no idea if it’s still on (luckily BSG had discontinued itself when I started watching so I was able to play it out in one fell swoop) but whether it is or not, I feel I’ll have to add it to the list of things to actually try to watch along with “Big Bang Theory”. Very… very sad. *sigh*

Lastly, and totally unrelatedly, a few days ago I took a look back at the previous history of this blog. To use a worn-out phrase, I can’t help but feel that The Tattered Thread has “jumped the shark”. If the highlights post is anything to judge by, I utterly fail to see how I could match my previous postings. I’m not sure that my life was any more interesting at the time but I certainly seemed more opinionated and determined to share. Perhaps the advance of years has dulled the sword of my prose. In any case, the mundaneness of my recent entries makes them seem simple hollow shells of previous works. Perhaps I’m out of practice. Perhaps my commute is too short. Perhaps nobody is asking the right questions. Whatever the case, The Tattered Thread is in a serious lull of epic proportions. As George sang, this too shall pass. Or, it won’t, and nobody will care. Either way…