Merry Christmas!

Okay, okay; you win.

So many of you have been pestering me for weeks, "Where is my Christmas present?"  "What have you gotten me for Christmas?"  "When will I see that ten dollars that you borrowed from me?"

And, when I pointed out--repeatedly--that I am not a member of any organized religion, denomination or sect, and certainly not of any group that believes that a child is born nine months after an angel visits the household, you merely snickered.  And then told me, "What's wrong with you?  Don't you realize that the Christmas holiday has nothing to do with Christianity?  Shoot, everybody knows that Jesus wasn't born on December 25th.  Early leaders of the Christian church pegged his birthday at sometime between mid-March and mid-June, and historical studies support their conclusion.  The choice of December 25th as Jesus' 'birthday' was made in the fourth century as a PR ploy to attract Roman sun worshippers to the 'new and improved--not your father's faith--more sins at the same low price--religion'.  Because as we all remember, December 25 was the Invictus Sol celebration for the ancient Romans."

 

And so I'm feeling like I've been painted in a corner.  You have made really valid points about the REAL meaning of Christmas--a day dedicated to selling something to some simple-minded consumers through manipulating their emotions.  And I'm the king of simple-minded and emotional consumerism.  So, yes, I have gotten you a Christmas present.  This Blog Post!

 

And what cheery, uplifting topic have I chosen for my holiday blog?  Why, "Race In America", of course.  Something that rates second only to the whoopee cushion as a sure-fire laugh riot.

 

But to clarify:  when I say "race" I am not talking about the Boston Marathon, The Amazing Race (copyright CBS television) or even Don Big Daddy Garlits.

 

 

 

No, I'm talking about the imaginary conception that different human beings belong to different "races."  Even though there is not physical marker, genetic marker or genealogy that has any meaning when applying our ideas of race to different individuals.  Of course, the fact that identifying individuals according to race makes no sense scientifically or otherwise just means that many, many people (and by 'people' I mean 'Americans') hold onto the fiction of racial identity so fervently.  Because they find the imaginary world they have bought into so much easier to deal with that the real world where nobody is simply their outer appearance.

 

 For example, you have undoubtedly heard the rumor that Thomas Jefferson had frequent conversations with his slave, Sally Hemings, over many years.  Oh, did I say "conversations"?  I think I may have picked the wrong word from my thesaurus.  It seems that "intercourse" is a more descriptive choice of words.  Anyway, whether you chose to believe this rumor or not, your reaction to this rumor is probably grounded primarily in the racial aspect--a white man having sex with a black slave.  But whether your visceral reaction was "TJ, how could you do such a disgusting thing?" or "TJ, you da man!" or maybe both, there is one big problem.  That being, that, if the idea of race has any meaning, then Thomas Jefferson and Sally Heming were of the same race. 

 

You see, Sally Hemings' mother's parents were an African woman being transported to the new world to be sold into slavery and the British captain of the slave ship.  As Mick and Keith told us, "Scarred old slaver knows he's doing all right  .  .  .  hear him with the women just around midnight" 

 

 

Or--another way of expressing it--"That's no slave ship.  That's the Love Boat!"

 As you can see, life was all smiles aboard the H. M. S. You-Are-Now-My-Chattel.  No wonder Sally Hemings' grandmother had a shipboard romance!  Of course, unlike most passengers who have shipboard romances while on a cruise, when the ship docked and the romance had to end Ms. Hemings did not go back to her regular boyfriend or husband but rather to the slave auction block.  Not that that's such a big difference for a woman, to be honest.

 

So, Sally Hemings' mother, Betty Hemings, had one European parent and one African parent.  So, it's a little confusing to say that her "race" was European or  African.

 

But let's hold off on that question and consider instead the matter of Sally Hemings' father.  The place to start on that topic is to look at how Sally Hemings ended up as Thomas Jefferson's slave in the first place.  Well, it turns out that she came to Monticello as part of the dowry of TJ's wife, Martha Wayles.  And what was Hemings' background leading up to that glorious day when she, the silverware and the table linens moved to Monticello?

 

Well, the best explanation is the one that Jack Nicholson got when he came to visit the Jefferson's.  After a few rye whiskeys, Jack pointed out Sally Hemings to Martha Wayles Jefferson and asked who she was.  I have a picture of the encounter right here:

 

 

 

The conversation went like this:

 

                                       "Who is that young woman?"

                                       "My slave."

                                       (slap)  "Who is she?!"

                                       "My sister."

                                       (slap)  "Stop lying!  Who is she?"

                                       "My slave and my sister."

 

Yes, Sally Hemings was the half-sister of Thomas Jefferson's wife.  And the three of them, of course, were the first guests on the Jerry Springer Show.  And I have a photo from that show.  Of course I do.

 

 You see, Martha Wayles' father, John Wayles, was quite the chatty slaveholder.  He was such a big fan of conversations with Betty Hemings that he had six children with her, including Sally Hemings.  Of course, all six of those children were, and remained for their entire lives, slaves.  And since in the Americas it was not allowed to hold European/"white" people in perpetual captivity, then it was necessary to adjudge this six children who had three European grandparents and one African grandparent to be Negroes.  So that's what John Wayles did.  He declared these children of his to be condemned to lifelong servitude.  And that is what forms the underpinnings of the issues of race in America.

So Martha Wayles brought along her slave-slash-sister when she became Mrs. Jefferson.  And when she became the late Mrs. Jefferson, Thomas began sleeping with her sister, which suggests that--though Jefferson was not a practicing Christian--he did take a Biblical attitude toward finding a new wife.  And he and Sally also followed the Biblical admonition to go forth and practice the multiplication tables (although probably not "3 x 23") and they begat four children.  And since these children had two white parents and seven of eight white great-grandparents, they were, of course, Negroes and slaves.  Except that as each child became an adult, Jefferson freed them and three of the four at that moment in time changed from being Negroes to being white.  Because IT IS ALL A FICTION!

 And because fictions are by their very nature not factual, so is the issue of race in America not a matter which is grounded in fact.  Rather, it is based on prejudice and stereotyping. 100% based on prejudice and stereotyping.  And I am referring to how we Americans perceive people of "our own race" as well as people of "another race", and our expectations on how these other people will behave.  And, unfortunately, this prejudice and stereotyping is predictive of behaviors enough of the time that we hold onto it--not because of actual racial differences but because these other people tend to hold the same prejudices and stereotypes about themselves and their racial identities as we do.  Which is a testament to the power of a longstanding fiction because THERE ARE NO ACTUAL RACIAL DIFFERENCES, SINCE THERE ARE NO ACTUAL RACES.

In the aftermath of the tragedy in Ferguson, Missouri, I read so many expressions of outrage from people who selectively culled bits of rumor that they then wove into a grand pronouncement of good and evil applied to a generalized population (black people or white people or police or liberals or conservatives or black leaders or President Obama [for some folks, it appears that he is an entire population]).  While a few were insightful and thoughtful, most were not.  Sadly, most were just ignorant condemnations of some group of people, based not on the available information about what occurred but rather by doing what our professors in law school called "assuming facts not in evidence"--which is an educated way of saying "you are just making shit up."

For example, on the liberal side, there was an article by Ezra Klein saying that Darren Wilson's account of his encounter with Michael Brown was literally unbelievable.  That it could not be believed.  Klein said this after numerous eyewitnesses (all of them black) had come forward and substantiated the bulk of his testimony.  But aside from that, Klein's reasoning was based on what he wanted to be true in order to have the narrative he had already chosen.  Among other things, Klein said that Wilson could not be believed when he said that Brown grabbed the waistband of his pants before charging at Wilson.  "No one would do that!", asserts Klein.  Well, Ezra, I happen to think highly of you in general (I really do), but if you were any more "white" you'd be Chevy Chase.  If you are wearing those stylishly sagging jeans that are de rigueur with young black males, you HAVE TO grab the waistband if you want to run.  (Yes, what I just said is a stereotype, not based on my having known Michael Brown.  Which makes my point, actually--that stereotyping is like a dysfunctional family--each person plays a role that preserves the dysfunction.)

As for what conservatives said, I'm not going to repeat what I read because some things are too vile to ever be repeated.  However, the tamer aspect of these comments seems to be that race and violent conduct are connected attributes.  To which I would suggest that these people spend some time in non-safari parts of Africa and then explain why these young black men--who have 100% African ancestry, unlike the bulk of black men in America--are not killing each other or anybody else at even the rate that American whites kill each other.  It's almost as if it's not a racial thing at all!  But rather a cultural thing?  And, by the way, the people who say that the high rates of violence in the American black communities are a symptom of poverty?  Same thing.  Go to sub-Saharan Africa and tell me that they don't know poverty there like we do in America.  Yeah, right.

Okay.  So the problem is deep seeded and endemic.  What's a non-prejudiced, morally impeccable, genuinely nice person--meaning, you--supposed to do about it?  Actually, the solution is easy.  All you need to do is to forward this blog post to all of your friends, enemies and vague acquaintances, with the admonition to read and follow all my writings.  The end result, I fervently hope, will be the realization of my dream to be the leader of a vast mob of simpleminded, brainwashed, fanatical followers.  Ideally  .  .  .  carrying pitchforks. 

 

The Problem of Evil--Is There One?

Ever since men and women started observing religiously-inspired celibacy, there has been a ongoing debate about the relationship between God and evil.  The essence of the problem is easy to state:  If God is all-good, all-knowing and all-powerful, why is there evil in the world?  Why does God not intervene to prevent good people from suffering?

 

The Puritan minister, Jonathan Edwards, had his answer:

 

"The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire."

 

Which is to say, there are no good people, and you're lucky God doesn't make you suffer even more than you do.  Needless to say, Edwards was a big hit at all the Yale University keg parties of the mid-1700's.  In fact, the oldest "residential college" (living and eating grouping) at Yale is Jonathan Edwards College.  (A rare True Fact.)

 

 

Of course, the message that God hates you and wants to burn you like an insect does tend to make for an empty collection plate.  So even Jonathan Edwards had to come up with a "Get-Out-Of-Hell Free" card--commonly called, Salvation.  Which happens because God is also--did I forget to tell you before?--All-Merciful.  Which, unfortunately, leads us right back to the question of why an all-good, all-knowing, all-powerful and all-merciful God doesn't just give Evil one swift kick in the rump.

 

Which leads to one of my questions for you.  If you are not all-knowing, or even more importantly, if you're concerned that the all-knowing God might mistakenly think there's a little Evil in you, how should one go about deciding what and who are Evil? 

 

Personally, the tricky part has been NOT to share the world view of Calvin and Hobbs:

 

 

I'm going to propose that it won't work to say that Evil is restricted to people who eat other people's livers with fava beans and a nice Chianti, although I would agree that it is not behavior that we'd like to see adopted on a widespread basis. 

 

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assert that Adolph Eichmann never ate any person's body parts or, for that matter, any fava beans.  Nonetheless, the State of Israel found it appropriate to execute him as a war criminal.  While this would seem akin to the Hannibal Lecter situation, in truth it is not.  Eating other people in the US is illegal--rightly or wrongly, depending on your beliefs in the sanctity of hunting game for meat versus for sport--but it is clearly against the law.  What Eichmann did in Nazi Germany--arranging the transportation of millions of people to concentration camps where the great majority of them died--was not against the law.  Quite to the contrary--it was enforcing the law.

 

Which is why the prosecutors had to argue, in effect, for a recognition by the court of Lawful Evil. 

 

 

All that could be proven about Eichmann was that he did as he was told.  There was no indication that he played any part in the development of the Final Solution, or that he had a passionate desire to see Jews and gypsies killed, or that he had any motivation other than to take the easy path and the one that would be best for him and his family.  But doing as he was told was held to be sufficient to justify hanging him.  Because, in the opinion of the court, we all can be held accountable for the choices that we make.  And those choices can be characterized as wrong or bad or evil simply on the basis that a clearly better choice was available.  It is not necessary that you actively want something bad to happen to someone, nor is it sufficient that your choice will result in some good happening to someone (especially since that "someone" so often turns out to be the person making the choice).

"Wait a minute!" you are saying.  "Everybody I know--except for myself of course [you use this phrase because you are a functional illiterate who thinks that 'myself' is an emphatic way of saying 'me']--makes the sort of sub-optimal choices you are describing.  Surely not all of them are evil?"

To which I say, please see the Calvin and Hobbs cartoon above.

Of course, the argument can be made that it is inherent in being a human being that one will make poor choices.  Actually, an irrefutable argument can be made to that effect if one submits in support of his or her position, say, a list of top terms and/or people searched on Google last year.  (Assuming that "What is twerking?" is not a misspelling of "What are the latest developments in unified field theory?"  Which, given the pervasiveness of 'autocorrect', is actually a possibility.)  And if making bad decisions is part of our fundamental nature, then it should not be called "evil", should it?  So there really isn't any evil.  The Problem of Evil?  Solved.  Hence the title of this post.

Well, almost solved.  Because if nothing anyone does is "evil", why do we have a criminal justice system that punishes people for the choices that they make?  Is this just an irrational, pointless activity that randomly doles out punishments, with no greater purpose?  Well, in the US that seems to be true.  With less than 5% of the world's population, we have 25% of the world's prisoners.  And even I am not willing to argue that we are five times more awful than the rest of the world. 

              WE'RE NUMBER 1!  WE'RE NUMBER 1!  U - S - A!  U - S - A!

However, if we are willing to agree that the Idea of having a criminal justice system that does not operate in an arbitrary and random fashion is a good one and that certain behaviors should merit unpleasant consequences, then we should also agree that it is permissible, or even necessary, to distinguish between behavior that is "good enough" and behavior that is "not good enough"--which is a nice way of saying that the behavior is "bad" or "evil."

And if we feel that we want to show approbation to primarily good people and disapprobation to primarily evil people--which is to say, that we'd prefer not to feel that we are friends with total dicks--then there needs to be some sort of dividing line.  Of course, some people are so predominantly evil either in their nature or in having committed such a heinous act (I am thinking now of whoever did John Travolta's makeup for "Battlefield Earth") that the decision is easy.  But for most people, it probably comes down to their "body of work."  Back to Adolph Eichmann--I don't think he would have been treated the same if he had only overseen the shipment of 10 people to a concentration camp.  Not that this is any more moral than what he actually did, but there is a difference between a case of bad judgment and a life-style choice, so to speak.

Of course, now we are trying to draw a bright line in a thick cloud of grey.  Where between 10 people and 3,000,000 people does someone become a criminal against humanity?  Are we stuck with U. S. Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart's comment about pornography, that he was not going to attempt to define it, "But I know it when I see it"?  (After which he added, "And I need to see that film a few more times, so that I can really know it when I see it.")  That works for me.

So now let me go off and ponder what sorts of behaviors would qualify one to be regarded as a classmate of Dr. Evil (Austin Powers' arch-nemesis).  Obviously, being a doctor would be a good start on being properly considered evil, but we should have a more generalized yardstick than that.

 

 

Questions I will ponder include:

 

1. Does it make you evil if you say you ran a marathon under 3 hours when actually it took you over 4 hours?  (Paul Ryan -- Republican candidate for Vice President of the United States)
2. Does it make you evil if you say you ran a marathon when it took you over 6 and one-half hours?  (Mike Pence -- Republican governor of Indiana)
3. Does it make you really, really evil if you "ran" a marathon in more than 6 and one-half hours and you say that you did it because God told you to?  (Again, Mike Pence -- Republican governor of Indiana)
4. Does it make you evil if you own 5 pairs of Uggs?  (Come to think of it, that one's pretty easy.)
5. Does it make you evil if you say that something is "gay" to mean that it is stupid or awful?  (Wow, these keep getting easier and easier.)
6. Does it make you evil if you hire somebody to clean your house?  Only if it's a working class woman?  How about an immigrant woman?  How about if you pay her at the same hourly rate that you get paid?  (Sorry--that was an insane idea, wasn't it?)
7. Does it make you evil if you "Share" something on the Internet?  (Well, if it's a link to this blog it most certainly does.)

See you next time! 

 

 

Hey, America: Where Are You Going? . . . And Why Are You In That Handbasket?

Let me preface this post by paraphrasing Quentin Compson:  "I don't hate America!  I don't hate it!  I don't!"  In point of fact, I still carry a US passport, speak ungrammatical English, care whether my university's fake students can beat your university's fake students at football, and have a disturbingly passionate interest in things automotive.  Can't be more American than that.  So I raise the questions in the title of this piece out of love.  Out of my love for being an annoying, know-it-all jackass, that is; but it is still out of love.

So why do I think that in general America has what we in the education field, when talking to our failing students' parents, refer to as "Areas for Improvement"?

It may surprise you to discover that I am not going to point to twerking or people related to Bruce Jenner by marriage.  You see, there has been bear-baiting, Punch-and-Judy shows and actors saying such smutty things as, "[I will take] the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads."  (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 1) for as far back as you care to look.  So, other than showing that America is not so much a "classless society" as a "tasteless society", it's not a big deal that Americans equate "merit" with "having appeared on a 'reality' TV show."  Admittedly, I personally would prefer that television was only used to transmit sporting events (especially those involving men the size of beef cattle {and with the same pharmaceutical history} crashing into each other) and reruns of The Wire and Firefly.

 

But that's only because I have such good taste.


So why IS America going to Hell and doing its best to bring the rest of the world along for the ride?  Because America has become the land of "Eat Dessert First!"  Oh, yeah.  "And Send the Bill to That Other Table!"  Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.  Because, by the time the next generation figures out how badly we've screwed them, we will have retired to some foreign country with cheap labor and no extradition.  Yay Us! 

Speaking of the next generation, I salute the concept that has taken such firm root in the minds of privileged Americans, that making things easy for one's children can be equated with parenting.  No, really; I do!  I vaguely remember some demented old nutbags telling me that I needed to knuckle down and do things that weren't fun--that working was the price I had to pay for having things I wanted, and that hard work was just a part of accomplishing anything.  Who were those lunatics, anyway?  Oh, yeah.  My parents.  And the parents of all my friends.  I mean, who were they to be giving us advice?  It's not like they ever had to overcome anything.

 

So, I am sure that we are on the right track when we give our 2-year-olds and 4-year-olds their own iPads to play with.  (No, I am not using my much beloved hyperbole--acquaintances of mine are actually doing this.)  Because otherwise those children would have to do something for themselves.  Oh, The Horror!  The Horror!  Though perhaps I am being unfairly critical.  I suspect that these children's early familiarity with touch-screen technology will prepare them very well for working in the fast food industry. 

So, yes; maybe I am suggesting that "Eat Dessert First!" may not be the greatest long-term strategy.  Still, it has three hundred thirty million practitioners in the US.  Which is to say, all Americans except for you and me.  And I have my doubts about you.

So how can you tell if you really are part of the problem or are part of the solution?  A simple, sure-fire way to find the answer to that question is to take a look at the following scientifically generated graphic, calculated specifically for you:

 

 

 

 

 

Okay.  Maybe you'd rather have a more interactive way of determining your status.  Can do!  Just answer the following questions and then we can figure out which circle of Hell is ideal for you!

  

1. Did you trade in an older model iPhone for an iPhone 6 or 6 Plus?  You are part of the problem.  Since no one on this planet (including the software engineers at Apple) has yet figured out how to use all the features of the iPhone 4S, much less the iPhone 5,  you didn't buy this phone because you needed its functionality; you bought it out of vanity.  And we all know where vanity leads:  to writing a blog calling into question the judgment of people who have the latest iPhones. 

By the way, if you have one of the new iPhones, make sure you're not getting your cell phone service from AT&T.  I hear that their coverage is awful   .  .  .   in Hell!

 

 

1.  
2. Have you given an iPhone 5C, 5S, 6 or 6 Plus to your child or grandchild?  Then you are a Big part of the problem.  You be seated in Hell immediately in front of an overactive 8-year-old, who will relentlessly kick the back of your seat while singing the Barney song nonstop at the top of his lungs, for all eternity.  But that's only because the Devil has not been able to think up any worse torture.  However, if I am wrong about Dick Cheney being a flesh-eating zombie who will live forever, then it is only a matter of time until he takes his intended place as Vice President of Hell.  And then there will be some serious torture there.
    
   
   
3. Have you driven more than 5000 miles in the past year in a personal car?  Of course you have.  You are a part of the problem.  And were you the only person in the car a majority of the time?  Of course you were.  You are a BIG part of the problem.  And did your car average under 25 miles per gallon (not the EPA perfectly tuned car driving downhill in a tailwind mpg, but the true, mathematical mpg)?  Of course it did.  You are a HUGE part of the problem.  As am I, and as is every American who can buy, rent, borrow or steal a car. 

You know those pictures of people in Beijing having to wear hospital masks when they go outside?  Well, China pollutes the air at less than half the rate of Americans.  (By the way, care to guess how receptive the Chinese are to Americans telling them that the solution to climate change is for the Chinese to cut back on their industrialization?)  In fact, we are the best in the world at polluting the world.  (Time now for all of us to raise our big foam fingers [made of non-renewable materials and fully non-biodegradable] and together chant, "We're Number One!")

4.  Do you have an adult child who has never a "job" job--the kind where he or she had to get up five days a week and go do something he or she doesn't especially enjoy, for 7 or 8 hours?  You know, pretty much the definition of "job" for our parents, and their parents, on back to the beginning of time?  Actually, this does not make you part of the problem.  If your child has been motivated, worked hard, developed a talent, and is earning his or her own living doing something that he or she loves, you are part of the solution.  It is people like your child who may be willing to take the hard steps that will be necessary to clean up the mess that we are leaving them. 

In contrast, if your adult child has never had a "job" job, or any sort of full-time job, or any job that he or she went out and found for themselves, it's likely that you are part of the problem.

 

5.  Do you shop at Walmart?  Part of the Problem.  Do you not know who is the president of China?  (Hint: if like me you think it is Hu Jintao, you are 2 years behind the times.)  P of the P.  Do you think that Islam is a Middle Eastern religion?  P o t P.  Do you not know what the fifth most populous country in the world is?  Or that it just had a presidential election?  Or who won that election?  Or what her political party is?  P o t P.  Do you think that evolution and intelligent design are both scientific theories?  P o t P.  Do you think that immigrants (legal and illegal) are drag on the American economy? P o t P.  Do you think that people who own businesses should be taxed at a lower rate than the people who do the work--as is currently the case in America?  P o t P.  Do you think gas prices in the US are too high?  P o t P. 

So, what's the point of this?  The point of this is that, although you clearly are a part of the problem, in fact, a big part of the problem, actually, if all of the parts of the problem were collected in one place, it would look like Gulliver and the Lilliputians, and you would be Gulliver--

Nonetheless, there is something you can do.  Actually, there are a lot of things that you can do, but I have eliminated all of those that require effort, or sacrifice, or paying your fair share, as now is NOT the time for invoking the humor of the absurd.  But there is one thing that you can do, consistent with your historic behavior of sending the check to the other table.  And it has been explained for us by the people at www.despair.com (who also can provide calendars, coffee mugs and other items designed to keep the recipient from even trying, all of which make perfect gifts this holiday season): 

 

 

For People Who Read Books--And Other Mythical Creatures

I saw where someone was asked to list 10 books that "had stuck with them."  It went on to explain that these should be books that they had found significant in some fashion, not books that haunted their dreams because of the horribly bad writing.  (In other words, you can leave "50 Shades of Cliché" off of your list.)

 

                                            “Did you give him our address?”                                               
                                            “No, but stalking is one of his specialties,” I muse matter-of-factly.
                                             Kate’s brow knits further.

 

I am told that this is actual text from "50 Shades of Bad" but I have not bothered verifying that fact.  I have been too busy trying to teach my brow to knit--what with winter coming and all, I can always use some extra pairs of socks.

 

Nonetheless, the idea of a list of 10 books intrigued me.  I immediately sat down and opened my computer to find a translation of that word "books" into American English.  Sadly, it turns out that there is no such word in American.  The nearest translation was "tweet."  Luckily, I was able to find a really old man--a guy who was a freshman at my high school when I was a senior--who told me this tale about trees being transmuted into collections of words that you can read.  Very "sorcerer's apprentice" stuff. 

 

 

Anyway, I asked this old man if he could give me his list of 10 of these "books" and he replied that he would give me TWO lists:  one list of books that were actually memorable and significant; and one list of books that a moron like me might actually read.  Here they are:

 

TEN MEMORABLE BOOKS

 

100 Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez (in which a character levitates after consuming chocolate; if this has never happened to you, then you need to be eating better chocolate  .  .  .  or smoking better weed.  I've been told.  I'm looking at you, John Stacklyn.)

 

Absalom's Sound and Fury in August, William Faulkner (a nitpicker might argue that Absalom! Absalom!, The Sound and the Fury, and Light in August are not, in fact, a single book.  To which I say, "Horsefeathers!"  Those three names are merely chapter titles for one book: I Don't Hate the South!  I Don't!  [The preceding is a clever and hilarious joke--if you are one of the seven Americans who actually have read William Faulkner.  Which--unless your name is Linda Girard--I am confident that you are not.])

 

Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf  (to quote the man who gave me this list, "If I had to give an aspiring writer one book as an example of what she or he should aspire to, it would be this book.")   This book has that amazing quality that there is not one thing that could be removed without making it less wonderful, nor one more thing that could be added.  Unlike, say, Little Women, where more cattle-rustling and certainly more gunfights would have greatly improved the story.  "That's my rag doll, Jo.  Slap leather!"

100 Selected Poems, e e cummings  (admittedly, this book is being kept in print by college guys trying to get laid, but nonetheless the poems are remarkably beautiful and subversive.)  "listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door--let's go"

The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver  (besides being wonderfully written from multiple perspectives, this book says all there is to say about fundamentalist religion, patriarchal family structures, and the follies of arrogance.  Or is that completely redundant?)

Justice, Michael J. Sandel  (this book shows in a compelling fashion that "justice" as an ideal inevitably requires a subjective and irrational choice of rewards and punishments.  More importantly, this book reminds us that the body of utilitarian philosopher Jeremy Bentham, in accordance with his instructions, is kept on public display at the University College London and attends College Councils, where it is shown in the minutes as "present but not voting.")

A Mind of Its Own, Cordelia Fine  (an explanation, among other things, of how the human brain, once its owner has decided on an opinion, actually will distort perceptions to keep from having to acknowledge any facts that undercut that opinion.  Or, in other words, if you have been counting on US policy on, say, climate change or education or taxation or discrimination being determined by scientific fact and rational debate   .   .   .   that's hilarious!  "You just keep thinkin', Butch.  That's what you're good at.")

If on a Winters Night a Traveler, Italo Calvino  (if you wonder why some authors write in the first person ["I thrashed all the men in the town singlehandedly and all the women fell in love with me."] and some write in the third person ["Lance Flint thrashed all the men in the town singlehandedly and all the women fell in love with him.  And he was a dead ringer for this author."], but no one ever writes in the second person ["You watched me thrash all the men in the town singlehandedly and you saw that all the women fell in love with me.  And you felt mighty attracted to me yourself."], then you need to read this book, as it is told in the second person.  Plus it is amazingly creative and fun.)

Guns, Germs, and Steel and Collapse, Jerad Diamond  (these books answer the question "What differentiates the human species from all others?"  Not surprisingly, it is the ability and willingness of humans to put short-term goals ahead of long-term sustainable practices.  Thereby destroying its own environment and assuring that future generations will inherit a hot mess.  Hmm, there are things in these books that resonate with The Poisonwood Bible and A Mind of Its Own.  Could I be heading toward a coherent observation?  Yeah, right.  Like that's ever going to happen.)

If This Is a Man (title in US: Survival in Auschwitz), Primo Levi  (this book answers the question "How was it possible for ordinary people to engage in such unthinkable horrors as happened at Auschwitz?"  The answer is "Quite easily."  And it answers the question "How was it possible for other ordinary people to endure those horrors?"  And that answer is "By making it through the next hour."  It is the most remarkable book I have ever read in terms of making the unthinkable--the lives of the guards, the prisoners, and the trustees that were both--become imaginable.)

TEN BOOKS/SERIES YOU MIGHT ACTUALLY READ

The Flashman series, George  MacDonald Fraser.  A cad and bounder and sometime British officer seduces, cheats, lies and wheedles his way through the British Empire and beyond during the 1800's.  If only history had been taught like this in school.

The Travis McGee series, John D. MacDonald.  Before The Sting, before Leverage, when you had been wronged by someone too powerful or too devious for the police to help you, there was Travis McGee.  For those of you that know Nick Myers, just think of Travis McGee as being a fictionalized version of Nick.  Only with a moral compass.  So, not like Nick Myers at all.

The Inspector Gamache series, Louise Penny.  Primarily involving the captivating village of Three Pines, Canada and its odd collection of inhabitants, this series is as much a study of human emotions, compulsions and choices as it is a detective series.  If it doesn't leave you thinking more deeply about people you know, then you are hanging around a much too wholesome crowd.

The Inspector Rutledge series, Charles Todd.  England in the aftermath of World War I.

The Jackson Brodie series, Kate Atkinson.  Beautiful writing.  And stories that tell us what horrible things people are capable of.  A strange and captivating balance.

Poetic Gems, William McGonegall.  William McGonegall has been labeled the worst poet to ever work in the English language.  Deservedly.  If someone could intentionally write this awfully, he would be a genius.

Chronicles of Bustos Domecq, Jorge Luis Borges.  This book proves my prior point--Borges (a genius) has written with a straight face a satire of literary pretention beyond description. 

Catch 22, Joseph Heller.  Nothing need be said.

Welcome to the Monkeyhouse, Kurt Vonnegut.  Same.

The Foundation trilogy, Isaac Asimov.  Science fiction with believable science!  Gotta love that.

Two Geezers Go To St. Pete

This past Monday, Cory and I took a boat trip to St. Petersburg.  It was an overnight trip, followed by a day in St. Petersburg, then an overnight trip back to Helsinki.  Well, I am no hoity-toity Mercator-Projection, global-positioning-satellite scholar, so it never occurred to me that there might be a second St. Petersburg on the globe in addition to the place where the TV stations run the same episode of "Golden Girls" every night, and nobody notices.

 

Not that St. Petersburg, Russia is very different from St. Petersburg, Florida.  Our boat trip began with a rousing game of shuffleboard, followed by dinner at 4:00 pm, followed by falling asleep in an easy chair in front of the TV at 6:12 pm.   

 

Seriously, though, we had a comfortable and safe trip from Helsinki to St. Petersburg.  The boat docked as scheduled at 9:00 am and we smoothly and effortlessly made our way through the friendly, efficient and welcoming passport control at the harbor.  Meaning that we spent an hour and a half inching our way forward in a sea of Russians obeying the first rule of Russian etiquette--the only thing better than pushing yourself in front of someone who is already in a line is to then jump to another line 50 feet away because it seemed to have moved two millimeters forward.

 

Cory amused himself during our wait by taking pictures of all of the confusion and crowding.  I amused myself trying to guess how long it would take Cory to learn the Russian for "keep your hands off of me; I belong to Boris" while serving his time in a Russian prison--it being expressly forbidden to take photos in the passport control area.  Luckily for us, that rule was not enforced any better than the rules about which lines were for Russians and which lines were for foreigners. 

 

When I reached the passport control officer, I thought that some courtesy might be wise (in case Cory continued his scofflaw ways and I ended up needing a friend in uniform).  I said "Good morning" in both Russian and English.  Which got me the fish-eyed stare.  Over and over.  Finally, she stamped my passport and pushed it at me like a cup of curdled milk.  Nonetheless, I said, "Thank you" in Russian and English.  And got no response.

 

In contrast, when we were exiting passport control to get back on the ship that evening, the gal at passport control was quite friendly.  Certainly much friendlier than any US passport control officer I have encountered in the past decade.

 

In retrospect, I think I should have anticipated the treatment I received.  If you are a Russian and you encounter a Westerner who is voluntarily going from Western Europe into Russia, you can reasonably assume that either (1) they are involved in some nefarious scheme; or (2) they are insane.  In either case, you do not want to make eye contact.  On the other hand, if someone is going to Western Europe and you're a Russian, then you're wanting to imply, "Hey, guy, I'm a fun girl!  Take me with you!" 

 

Anyway, once we got into St. Petersburg proper, we were able to see some spectacular sights.  And by "spectacular", I mean "if you were a peasant when the aristocracy was building these places, you'd be singing 'killed the czar and his ministers' right along with Mick."

 

 

 

 We started at St. Isaac's Cathedral.  If you think of Russian Orthodox as gloomy guys in black clothes, long black beards, and funny hats, you might want to add "and more gold than King Midas" to that image.  At least if you are ministering to the czar and his buddies from the altar at St. Isaac's.

Of course, this is just a small portion of the cathedral, since it takes a huge amount of gold, malachite, lazurite, paintings of Jesus holding a gerbil wheel, and stained glass to assure that several hundred million serfs and peasants are living in abject poverty.  And, of course, because there are those crackpots who think that "religion is the opiate of the people" (or in this case, looking at pictures of the general health and dental hygiene of Russian peasants of that time period, "the methamphetamine of the people"), there were cast bronze doors to keep out the "undesirable element".

As you can see, those doors no longer fulfill their purpose.  (However, in the event that I am ever asked to explain the meaning of the word "furtive" to a non-English-speaker, I will just show them this picture.  Mission accomplished.)

From St. Isaac's, we walked to the Winter Palace of the Czars, which houses the Hermitage Museum.  Although this museum bears the same name as Andrew Jackson's home in Nashville, Tennessee, to the best of my knowledge, Andrew Jackson never held the position of Czar of All the Russias.  For one thing, his idea of a settling differences with a political opponent through a duel was not exactly the way the czars preferred to deal with opponents, though gunfire was involved in both methods:

 But why would a czar have any critics?  Surely their top priority was to live a life of simplicity, poverty and service.  As demonstrated by the little shack that they called, tongue-in-cheek, the Winter "Palace."

Though, to be fair to the architect, for a building with such a modest exterior, it is surprisingly roomy on the inside:

As you can see, the Czars were all Ayn Rand Republicans.  In fact, a little-known fact about the founder of St. Petersburg is that Catherine I's pet name for Peter the Great was "Aqua Buddha."  (google this)

Cory and I spent 20 hours in the Hermitage, based on how sore my feet and back were when we finished, although the clock said we were there for 5 hours.  What a liar that clock was!  We only saw a small portion of the items on display there; we didn't even succeed in our primary goal of seeing all the pictures and statues of naked women.  It's hard being a dedicated supporter of the fine arts.

When too exhausted to continue trying to move through the crowds in the Hermitage (see, above, Passport Control), we walked to the Peter and Paul Fortress.  It includes a church in which most of the rulers of Russia from Peter the Great to the Revolution are buried.  And for the interior of this church   .   .   .   you guessed it   .   .   .   more gold than in a Donald Trump bathroom.

If you are interested in Russian history, or if you are a misanthrope and enjoy the thought of other people suffering, (and it is only logical to conclude that you must be the second if you are also the first) then a highlight of the Peter and Paul Fortress is the prison.  This was used as a prison for centuries but the historical records primarily focus on the years leading up to the Russian Revolution and the early years after the Revolution.  The prison was not nearly as horrible as, for example, the "black sites" where the US has sent suspected enemies for "enhanced interrogation."  (As a side note, I understand that the CIA forces prisoners at those black sites to read this blog.  It breaks the prisoner's will much more effectively than waterboarding or electrodes to the testicles.)

The prison rooms were relatively large, and the prisoners got beds and sinks.  On the negative side of the ledger, prisoners did not get any heat or edible food and were kept in solitary confinement.  Back on the positive side, the Russian government was an equal opportunity oppressor, with women as well as men routinely sent to this prison.

I consider myself as much a left-wing nut case as anyone who ever listened to Timothy Leary, but even I found that the trip to the prison furthered my education, because of the following plaque:

I had not know that Lenin had a brother who was hanged by the czarist government.  That may help explain why he wasn't big on the idea of working for change from within the system.

Of even greater importance to me, though, was to discover that Alexander Ulyanov had been a member of a Terrorist Fraction.  I was aware that many anti-government groups have a terrorist faction but this is the first proof I have discovered of the existence of Terrorist Fractions. 

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not naïve.  I have suspected that terrorist fractions existed ever since the fourth grade, when I was forced to find Least Common Denominators.  Now I know that my fears were justified.  And so are yours.  (I know that you secretly view fractions with fear and loathing.)  So if you are ever in line to board a plane and you see 7/8 or, even worse, 11/13 ( a terrorist fraction if I ever saw one) getting on the plane ahead of you, don't take any chances.  Just turn around and book a different flight.  I know that I will.  Because the last thing I want is to end up like this guy:  (actual warning sign below the window of my cabin on the ship to St. Petersburg).

I don't know if he is being attacked by flying eels, sea snakes or electrified water, or all of these things at once.  But I'm sure Terrorist Fractions are behind this torture.

Paavo and Me

When I wrote about Helsinki's Keskuspuisto (aka, Central Park) last month, the response was overwhelming.  "Tell us more!"  "Give us pictures!"  "What about the statue of Paavo Nurmi in front of the Olympic Stadium?"  "Are there any signs on the trails giving mysterious warnings in Finnish and Swedish?"

If, because of some tragic character flaw, you were not asking one of these questions, do not despair.  I do not hold it against you that you are misguided and/or deluded into believing that your life deserves your attention more than being fixated on the crazed ramblings of some crackpot living in a foreign country (or, if you are Finnish, "some crackpot from a foreign country").  I will now provide you with a report on my running experiences in Keskuspuisto so detailed and extensive that no court in either my former country or my new country would have any hesitancy in declaring me mentally incompetent.

 

Let me start with the question that uppermost in your mind--which is, of course, "what was Paavo Nurmi's secret that let him win 9 Olympic gold metals and to simultaneously hold world records in the 1500 meters, 5000 meters and 10000 meters?" 

 

I have learned the answer to that question through my running in Keskuspuisto, but rather than merely telling you Nurmi's secret, I will "go the extra 1500 meters", as we cosmopolitan track-and-field buffs say, and I will show you his secret.  All is revealed in the statue of Paavo Nurmi located in the park by the Olympic Stadium, as shown here:

 

 

When I say that "all is revealed", I--of course--mean that the secret to Nurmi's success is clearly shown by a close examination of the statue.  That secret, for those of you not as perceptive as I am:  Paavo Nurmi is running NAKED! 

 

It is obvious to an eminent scientist like me that "no clothes" is less weight to carry than "some clothes."  Giving Nurmi an insurmountable advantage. 

 

I need hardly say that every time I run past this statue, I feel great inspiration for my own running efforts.  Inspiration to, too, take off my clothes and stand in one place.  Luckily, I live only a 10 minute run from the statue, so I have--so far--always been able to get back home before I let my inspiration take charge.

 

On those few occasions when I continue running past the statue, I go almost directly into heavily forested trails.  This next picture is a 5-minute run for me from the Nurmi statue.  Or, for any normally fit person, a 5-minute walk.  Nay, a 5-minute stroll, or perhaps a 5-minute meander; possibly even a 5-minute dawdle or frolic.

 

 

 

 If this looks to you like a dirt trail through an old growth forest, then it is accurate.  Or if this looks to you like a major highway through the best land for miles around, and you are from the Deep South (meaning southern Indiana, southern Ohio or southern Illinois), then it is also accurate.

 

This truly is like a major highway.  People bike to work on it every work day, as well as walking, walking with children, walking with dogs (like walking with children, but with less screaming involved), walking with trekking poles, and jogging.

 

Of course, there are also real trails for those that believe that "trail running" should not involve dodging baby strollers.

 

I avoid this sort of "sissy running" myself, living by Immanuel Kant's doctrine of the Categorical Imperative.  Which can be translated into English as saying, "If you are not running somewhere that you risk being smashed into by someone zooming along on 'cross-country practice skis' (short metal skis on wheels), then it doesn't really count as running." 

 

 

 

[This is certainly not an accurate translation of the Categorical Imperative, but rather is proof that a person with an extremely limited knowledge of German--such as the writer of this blog--CAN make such a poor translation.]

 

In case you are doubting my account of the high usage of this trail in the Central Park, based in all probability on the fact that I generally make up sh*t at every juncture in my life, let me point out that, in this case, it was simply too much work to try to come up with anything more dubious than the truth.  If you look at the following picture, you will see "two roads diverge in a yellow wood" [thank you, Robert Frost].

 

 

 

Actually, it's two roads diverging in a green wood with a yellow sign, but I'm willing to give Robert Frost a break--I'm sure it was just his trying out that "poetic license" technique.

 

Anyway, that sign proclaims, in Finnish, "EI TALVISKUNNOSSAPITOA."  Not that that means anything to any of us who speak the One True World Language (American).  Luckily, the sign also has a translation below the Finnish announcement, namely: "EJ VINTERUNDERHALL".  (Actually, there is a little circle over the "A", but my keyboard only types real letters, not those silly, made-up Scandinavian letters.)  It's a good thing that my Swedish is almost as fluent as my German, so that I can translate the Swedish announcement as follows:  "This land belonged to King Gustav Vaasa in 1550, and it still belongs to Sweden.  And we will come back to claim it.  As soon as we can do so without having to have a fight.  Because we are a big bunch of pussies."

 

 

 

(This image actually from the second row of photos--not the second page, the second row--when I Googled "Swedish fashion" images.  Geez, I just hate it when I try to slander an entire nation and I accidentally just tell the truth.)

 

Anyway, back to my Robert Frost poem about two announcements diverging on a yellow sign.  It turns out that both announcements are telling users of the trail to the left that it will not be plowed in the winter.  Which might seem to you, as it seemed to me, to rank up there with the warning on lawn darts not to catch them with your face.  (Some exceptions apply.)  However, a careful examination of the picture, sign, and intellectual level of this author will cause you to realize far sooner than he did that the trail to the right does have the snow plowed all winter.  Because people do ride and walk to work, school and shops all year round.  And jog and run, I guess.  Since the later works of Immanuel Kant acknowledge that having your shin broken by actual cross-country skis is the ethical equal to having it broken by a metal ski on wheels.

 

And, as everyone knows, I am all about The Ethics!

 

The fondue; the Octoberfest; the beret and Gauloises cigarette; the Gouda cheese; the Motown Sound; the Bocce ball in the park.

 

(As you can see, these ancient Bocce ball players were actually aware of Paavo Nurmi's competitive edge even before he was.)

 

Oh, wait!  Did I say that I was all about "The Ethics"?  I meant, I'm all about "The Ethnics."  I never give any thought to The Ethics.

 

 

 

Foreign Tongues--Not Nearly As Interesting As It Sounds

Like 117% of Americans, I know three things: (1) that I am exceptionally good at math; and (2) that I am exceptionally good at language.

How, then, is it possible that learning foreign languages is so difficult for me and my fellow Americans?  Well, as much as I hate to brag, the answer to me is obvious.  As all Americans know, foreign languages are stupid.  But, to be fair, we shouldn't expect anything better from those poor foreigners.

 

And, clearly, some of them are trying to speak English.  With the Germans ("Was ist dass?" "Habst du ein Bier fur mich?") and even more so with the Dutch ("Ik heb pijn.  Waar is het ziekenhuis?"), it is obvious that, if they were only a little smarter, they would actually be speaking English.

 

To a lesser extent, if you listen closely to what people in Great Britain are saying, there may be some vague similarity to the English language.  As long as you don't venture into Scotland.  There, it is quite clear to language experts such as myself, they are not speaking any language at all, but merely engaging in a random series of noises.  Which makes sense.  Since the time of the Roman Empire only two thoughts have been expressed by residents of the land north of Hadrian's Wall:  "This weather sucks."  and "Give me a whisky."

 

Actually, in 1995, the residents of Scotland tried to find sufficient grunts and snorts to express a third thought:  "Who the fick is Mel Gibson to pretend to be a Scottish heroic figure?"

 

Unfortunately, that thought proved to be too complex for the whisky-soaked brain of the greatest living Scottish philosopher:

Rumor has it that the strain of trying to express a new idea has so enervated this great Scottish thinker that now he plans to retire to a farm, where he will have only a pig, a cow, a dog, and three vowels: e, i and o.  We wish him well.

But now it is time--nay, it is past time--to talk about ME.  And how it is my great misfortune to have moved to a country that has followed the misguided notion of creating their own language rather than the much better option of choosing to speak some version of "English lite."

 

To begin with, Finland doesn't even call itself "Finland" but rather gives itself the name "Suomi."  Two different names for the same place?!  Are they trying to keep Americans away?  Even France, which pretends not to wish that it was a territory of America, calls itself "France."  And Holland calls itself "Holland."  And Canada calls itself "Canada, eh?".  Of course, England calls itself "The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland", but we all know they are just a bunch of pompous bastards (excluding good old Prince Harry, of course).

 

 

I trust that I have made my point about foreign languages now.  You youth out there that are suffering under the oppression of a dictatorial teacher, demanding that you research and write an essay on some meaningful topic, I encourage you to submit this document, verbatim.  (Also feel free to copy it word-for-word.)  And do not feel any obligation to mention my name, but rather take full credit for this as your original thoughts.  And, no need to thank me.  As we educators like to say, it is the least I can do to help you learn an important lesson.

 

Ta-ta for now and cheerio!