I remember learning in my early teens that—in the state of New York, at least—juvenile records are "sealed" once you hit 18. (Having revealed when I learned this, I'll wait a bit before explaining how and why so as to build suspense.) I remember this little factoid for a number of reasons, most of which will become clear in due course. One thing I remember quite clearly was how emphatically I was assured that the records were "sealed," and that having been "sealed," no one, up to and including God himself, could ever "unseal" them. At the time it seemed kind of silly to me that they would even bother to keep a record that nobody was ever again allowed to view, but at the time I wasn't really in a position to question the way things worked. (I mostly just nodded and tried to look contrite.)
At 19, I decided to join the US Navy. This decision involved a couple of key factors. First, I'd just finished my freshman year of college, after which said college and I had mutually agreed that it wasn't working for either of us. The stated position of Potsdam State University of Arts and Snowdrifts was that I probably had some growing up to do. Personally, I think they had commitment issues. So, college didn't work out and I needed to try something new, but I decided to try something old instead, and moved back in with my parents for a while so I could soak up their disappointment at point blank range while I "figure out what I wanted to do with my life."
Apparently, what I wanted to do with my life was work at dead-end minimum wage jobs and stay out late drinking too much and getting far too stoned. Before long, I found that this goal was incompatible with my mother's primary goal at that time; to be able to stop crying from shame every time she saw me. Since I was pretty sure my behavior wasn't going to change any time soon, I figured I needed to at least do her the courtesy of removing myself from her sight so she could maybe get some sleep again or at least have some time to fuss over the problems her other 5 children were having with life.
Which is why I one day found myself walking into this huge black borg-cube of a government building in downtown Syracuse, where I filled out reams of forms, took a fairly easy test, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And... (you get the idea.)
Finally, some guy in a nice, crisp uniform came over and asked me to come with him. We went and sat down on opposite sides of his nice, efficient borg-cube desk, where we had a nice chat. Some time during this chat, he surprised me with a question I had not anticipated...
"You indicated on your dee-dee-one-eight-two-four-echo that you've never been convicted of a violent crime. What can you tell me about this incident?" At which point he slid a file folder to me across the desk.
(Resistance is futile.)
There, unsealed and laid bare for anyone—up to and including God—to see, were the records of certain exploits, undertaken by me, as well as the details of my apprehension, prosecution, and subsequent conviction. As it turns out, there is an authority beyond God, (at least where sealed records are concerned) and that authority had asked to have those records unsealed. What really messes with my mind to this day is that, in order to ask to unseal the records, the military first had to be aware that they existed. I suppose it's just as well that they could unseal them, because, in the final analysis, it is probably better to have the records unsealed and my sins known, than to simply have them know that I'd done something nefarious, the details of which were perhaps too horrendous to reveal.
Okay, so that's the background. As to the specific why and how of my learning about the sealing of juvenile records, I'm going to leave that for my next installment. I don't know about the rest of you, but I think this one's gone on long enough.
Friday, September 28, 2007
The scene of the crime... (Sealed with a court order, Pt. II)
The other day I started to share a story about how I learned that juvenile records are sealed and can't be gone into ever. In setting up that story I got as far as revealing that, upon attempting to enlist in the military I discovered that the government telling a naïve teenager, "we promise we'll never tell anyone about this," is akin to a football team telling a naïve cheerleader the same thing. In both cases the secret is good only so long as there's no upside to sharing it.
So it was bound to happen that one day the United States Navy was going to ask the City of Oneida if it had any good dirt on me, and the City of Oneida was going to blab. Fortunately for naïve cheerleaders everywhere, football teams keep lousy records. Unfortunately for me, cities keep pretty good ones.
There I sat, across the desk from Chief Warrant Officer I-Caught-You-In-A-Lie, staring at the folder he'd just shoved across the desk. It was a bit like one of those TV interrogation room moments, only without the cool soundtrack to help you know how to feel about what's happening. Fortunately, I knew exactly how to feel about it, with or without music.
"What can you tell me about this incident?"
(Bum-dum-DA-dummmmm!)
The folder contained various legal-looking documents, including police reports, court documents, and some rather impressive looking crime scene photos. I will ruin some of the suspense at this point and disclose that they were far more impressive than the actual crime warranted. No, I didn't eat my high school track coach. No, I didn't make a patchwork quilt of the local ladies sewing circle. My brief foray into violent crime was more of a creative outlet, than a way to vent any pent up rage or a desire to do any real harm.
You know how you always hear people whining about how kids are influenced by the violence they see on TV? Well, it turns out that, according to my admittedly limited personal research at least, there's some validity to their complaint. Given the opportunity and a sufficient level of boredom, I think kids will act on just about anything you put in their brains, up to a limit set by their personal moral compass. (In my defense, I believe someone had parked a rather large magnet next to mine that day.) Had my step-brother, Jim, and I spent the evening before watching The Sound of Music, we probably would have spent the afternoon skipping around the hillsides, singing, and dodging natzis. As luck would have it, the feature presentation the night before was "Helter Skelter."
Faced with a boring afternoon alone, we somehow decided it would be cool to see what we could mix up in the kitchen. We hit upon the idea of making fake blood, and after a few false starts, came up with a nice viscous, dark red liquid which we loaded into a few sandwich baggies and an empty dish soap squirt bottle.
Well, once you've made fake blood, you can't just sit there and look at it, you know? So, we needed to find something to do with it. We headed out into the neighborhood, and made our way into the open field across the street. There we yanked up dead corn stalks and had fun swinging them around and launching them—heavy dirt and root ball first—into the air; sort of a poor man's hammer toss. At some point this too became boring, and we still needed to find something fun to do with our fake blood.
It was about then that one or both of us noticed a particularly white garage which backed up to the field. We launched a few corn stalks at it, and the dirt balls exploded against the side like dusty black fireworks. Then one went through a window. (I'm still not sure to this day whether that first window was broken by accident or intent.) We hit the ground, hearts pounding for fear of the repercussions, but no one came running to see what had been broken.
Sociologists have written at length about the "broken window effect," which states that if you go into any neighborhood, break a window, and leave it broken, crime will rise. I am at this very moment, writing at length to tell you that this effect can also be instantaneous, because for some reason the fact that nobody responded when we broke that first window suddenly made it seem like a good idea to break some more. All of them, in fact. We threw corn stalks through every window of that nice tidy white garage. And then we remembered the fake blood. We threw the baggies at the walls so they splattered like the downwind view of a shotgun blast to the head. I used the squirt bottle to scrawl the words, "Helter Skelter," across the siding, and admired my horror-show handiwork as the letters ran and dripped.
Then we ran home and had a snack. (Mayhem makes kids hungry.)
So there you have the details of what was in that sealed folder. Of course, I still haven't described the actual time at which I learned about sealed juvenile records. I guess that'll just have to wait for part three.
So it was bound to happen that one day the United States Navy was going to ask the City of Oneida if it had any good dirt on me, and the City of Oneida was going to blab. Fortunately for naïve cheerleaders everywhere, football teams keep lousy records. Unfortunately for me, cities keep pretty good ones.
There I sat, across the desk from Chief Warrant Officer I-Caught-You-In-A-Lie, staring at the folder he'd just shoved across the desk. It was a bit like one of those TV interrogation room moments, only without the cool soundtrack to help you know how to feel about what's happening. Fortunately, I knew exactly how to feel about it, with or without music.
"What can you tell me about this incident?"
(Bum-dum-DA-dummmmm!)
The folder contained various legal-looking documents, including police reports, court documents, and some rather impressive looking crime scene photos. I will ruin some of the suspense at this point and disclose that they were far more impressive than the actual crime warranted. No, I didn't eat my high school track coach. No, I didn't make a patchwork quilt of the local ladies sewing circle. My brief foray into violent crime was more of a creative outlet, than a way to vent any pent up rage or a desire to do any real harm.
You know how you always hear people whining about how kids are influenced by the violence they see on TV? Well, it turns out that, according to my admittedly limited personal research at least, there's some validity to their complaint. Given the opportunity and a sufficient level of boredom, I think kids will act on just about anything you put in their brains, up to a limit set by their personal moral compass. (In my defense, I believe someone had parked a rather large magnet next to mine that day.) Had my step-brother, Jim, and I spent the evening before watching The Sound of Music, we probably would have spent the afternoon skipping around the hillsides, singing, and dodging natzis. As luck would have it, the feature presentation the night before was "Helter Skelter."
Faced with a boring afternoon alone, we somehow decided it would be cool to see what we could mix up in the kitchen. We hit upon the idea of making fake blood, and after a few false starts, came up with a nice viscous, dark red liquid which we loaded into a few sandwich baggies and an empty dish soap squirt bottle.
Well, once you've made fake blood, you can't just sit there and look at it, you know? So, we needed to find something to do with it. We headed out into the neighborhood, and made our way into the open field across the street. There we yanked up dead corn stalks and had fun swinging them around and launching them—heavy dirt and root ball first—into the air; sort of a poor man's hammer toss. At some point this too became boring, and we still needed to find something fun to do with our fake blood.
It was about then that one or both of us noticed a particularly white garage which backed up to the field. We launched a few corn stalks at it, and the dirt balls exploded against the side like dusty black fireworks. Then one went through a window. (I'm still not sure to this day whether that first window was broken by accident or intent.) We hit the ground, hearts pounding for fear of the repercussions, but no one came running to see what had been broken.
Sociologists have written at length about the "broken window effect," which states that if you go into any neighborhood, break a window, and leave it broken, crime will rise. I am at this very moment, writing at length to tell you that this effect can also be instantaneous, because for some reason the fact that nobody responded when we broke that first window suddenly made it seem like a good idea to break some more. All of them, in fact. We threw corn stalks through every window of that nice tidy white garage. And then we remembered the fake blood. We threw the baggies at the walls so they splattered like the downwind view of a shotgun blast to the head. I used the squirt bottle to scrawl the words, "Helter Skelter," across the siding, and admired my horror-show handiwork as the letters ran and dripped.
Then we ran home and had a snack. (Mayhem makes kids hungry.)
So there you have the details of what was in that sealed folder. Of course, I still haven't described the actual time at which I learned about sealed juvenile records. I guess that'll just have to wait for part three.
Twelve angry teens... (Sealed with a court order, Pt. III)
I grew up in a small town in Madison County in Upstate New York. Some people actually recognize the name, "Oneida," because of the silverware of the same name. Those taking notes will want to know that Oneida silver was never actually made in Oneida. The Oneida Community and the silversmithing operation they ran was actually located in the nearby town of Sherrill. (Go figure.) History is hazy as to the reasoning behind this, but my guess is that they thought "The Sherrill Community" sounded like a lesbian conclave. (Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course.)
So, I come from a small, obscure town in New York, whose only claim to fame is a product that isn't made there. If you searched the Internet for other trivial facts about Oneida, you might stumble across something about their youth court system. Or you might not. I don't know about today, but back when I was a kid, the only way I found out it existed was when I was ordered to appear before it. I was told at the time that Oneida was one of the first places in the country to set up a court where kids tried kids, but then small towns are always claiming to be first at this or that. Nearby Canastota, NY bills itself as "Titletown USA" on signs beside the one major road into town. I doubt most people know what "Titletown" means, and I'm sure pretty much nobody cares. They could probably win an award for the nation's most undisputed claim to fame, but then they'd need a new sign.
Oneida's Youth Court served two purposes. First, it gave kids an opportunity to learn how the criminal justice system worked by actually taking part in "real" trials. (I use scare quotes around "real," because these trials were "real" trials in much the same way that a pet rock is a "real" pet.) Second, it gave local authorities a way to handle juvenile offenders who were too young or whose crimes were too silly to warrant throwing them into the actual juvenile justice system.
We were hauled into an actual courtroom, and seated at the little table where the guilty guy always squirms and looks evil on TV. After a few minutes, a chubby boy who was maybe sixteen squeaked, "All rise," which command his voice seemed more than happy to obey. We rose. Some kid who was probably taking time off from his hall monitor duties strode in wearing black robes safety-pinned at the hem so he wouldn't trip over them, and stood behind the judge's desk. Chubby squeaked, "Youth Court is now in session; the honorable Melvin "The Hammer" Thruffington, presiding." Somebody read the charges and asked us, "How do you plead?" One or both of us mumbled "guilty," managing to sound quite so.
Then Judge Melvin spoke. "By your actions in this case, did you intend any harm or threat to the victims." I assumed at the time that he meant the elderly couple who owned the garage, not the garage, windows, etc..
"Um, no."
Judge Melvin scribbled something on the pad before him. It was a legal pad, so you know it must have been something important. Then he asked, "Were your actions—specifically painting the words, "Helter Skelter," on the garage wall—meant to praise Charles Manson or his actions?"
Seriously??? I mean, if we did want to glorify Manson or follow in his footsteps or something, wouldn't breaking a few windows and smearing some corn syrup and red dye 7 on a wall be setting the bar a bit low? Can you imagine if word actually got back to Manson? "Hey Charley... some fans of yours went on a crime spree somewhere in New York." "Really? Cool! What'd they do?" ... "You're shitting me, right? Man, my followers are lame!"
"Um, no."
(Scribble...scribble...) "I hereby sentence you to four hours each, community service, to be served at a time and place to be determined later. Bailiff Skippy, escort them from the courtroom." It was upon exiting the courtroom that Jim and I had to sign a number of documents, and were told that, if we managed to stay out of trouble until our eighteenth birthday, these files would be sealed, and remain so, into perpetuity.
As for our punishment, we didn't have to wait long to find out what it was, and it will please you to know that you won't have to wait very long either.
So, I come from a small, obscure town in New York, whose only claim to fame is a product that isn't made there. If you searched the Internet for other trivial facts about Oneida, you might stumble across something about their youth court system. Or you might not. I don't know about today, but back when I was a kid, the only way I found out it existed was when I was ordered to appear before it. I was told at the time that Oneida was one of the first places in the country to set up a court where kids tried kids, but then small towns are always claiming to be first at this or that. Nearby Canastota, NY bills itself as "Titletown USA" on signs beside the one major road into town. I doubt most people know what "Titletown" means, and I'm sure pretty much nobody cares. They could probably win an award for the nation's most undisputed claim to fame, but then they'd need a new sign.
Oneida's Youth Court served two purposes. First, it gave kids an opportunity to learn how the criminal justice system worked by actually taking part in "real" trials. (I use scare quotes around "real," because these trials were "real" trials in much the same way that a pet rock is a "real" pet.) Second, it gave local authorities a way to handle juvenile offenders who were too young or whose crimes were too silly to warrant throwing them into the actual juvenile justice system.
We were hauled into an actual courtroom, and seated at the little table where the guilty guy always squirms and looks evil on TV. After a few minutes, a chubby boy who was maybe sixteen squeaked, "All rise," which command his voice seemed more than happy to obey. We rose. Some kid who was probably taking time off from his hall monitor duties strode in wearing black robes safety-pinned at the hem so he wouldn't trip over them, and stood behind the judge's desk. Chubby squeaked, "Youth Court is now in session; the honorable Melvin "The Hammer" Thruffington, presiding." Somebody read the charges and asked us, "How do you plead?" One or both of us mumbled "guilty," managing to sound quite so.
Then Judge Melvin spoke. "By your actions in this case, did you intend any harm or threat to the victims." I assumed at the time that he meant the elderly couple who owned the garage, not the garage, windows, etc..
"Um, no."
Judge Melvin scribbled something on the pad before him. It was a legal pad, so you know it must have been something important. Then he asked, "Were your actions—specifically painting the words, "Helter Skelter," on the garage wall—meant to praise Charles Manson or his actions?"
Seriously??? I mean, if we did want to glorify Manson or follow in his footsteps or something, wouldn't breaking a few windows and smearing some corn syrup and red dye 7 on a wall be setting the bar a bit low? Can you imagine if word actually got back to Manson? "Hey Charley... some fans of yours went on a crime spree somewhere in New York." "Really? Cool! What'd they do?" ... "You're shitting me, right? Man, my followers are lame!"
"Um, no."
(Scribble...scribble...) "I hereby sentence you to four hours each, community service, to be served at a time and place to be determined later. Bailiff Skippy, escort them from the courtroom." It was upon exiting the courtroom that Jim and I had to sign a number of documents, and were told that, if we managed to stay out of trouble until our eighteenth birthday, these files would be sealed, and remain so, into perpetuity.
As for our punishment, we didn't have to wait long to find out what it was, and it will please you to know that you won't have to wait very long either.
This train done need a good scrubbing, oh, this train... (Sealed... Pt. IV)
The human brain is an amazing machine. It oversees the day to day operations of the human body like a giant supercomputer, only considerably smaller and squishier. From the moment there are two neurons present in an embryo, they begin communicating, trying to make sense of their environment and the body's place in it. "Hey, what's all this?" "I don't know." "Me neither." "Where's everybody else?" "Oh hey, here's another one. Hi." "Say guys, what's that sound? ... Is someone vacuuming?" And so on.
Inherent in this search for meaning is a need to learn what things feel good and what things hurt. Most human beings, when they realize that something feels good, want more of it. Similarly, most humans will strive to avoid anything they identify as a source of discomfort. (The few exceptions to this rule are big Marilyn Manson fans.) This desire to avoid pain is key to the effectiveness of criminal punishment; we punish criminals in the hopes that they will associate the pain of punishment with their criminal behavior, and choose not to do it again. (Or at least, that's what we ought to do with criminals. Commentary on that issue will have to wait for another blog.)
As a reasonable facsimile of an adult, I am a firm believer in the punishment part of "crime and punishment." It should be swift and should fit the crime. Given that our crime involved vandalizing a garage, the authorities couldn't exactly simply vandalize us in return. (Though my step-father thought it appropriate.) Even in the hinterlands of Upstate New York in the mid '70's, they had some standards for what you could and could not do with kids (unless you were their parents or clergy).
Jim and I were ordered to appear downtown at the courthouse that following Saturday morning, dressed in work clothes and ready to work. Mom picked the most ripped and stained jeans from amongst our supply of ripped and stained jeans, we donned t-shirts and sneakers, and Dad gave us each a pair of work gloves, which he assured us we would pay to replace should they be lost or damaged. We hopped in the family truckster and headed downtown. At the courthouse, the police took custody of us from Mom, and told her when she could reclaim us. We took it as a good sign that they assumed she'd want us back.
The Pullman Sleeping Car was invented by cabinet-maker turned industrialist George Pullman in 1857. The Pullman Car parked on the railroad siding next to the court house, was probably one of the first to roll off the assembly line, and—if its condition that day was any indication—saw the hardest, dirtiest use during its day. Apparently the city or the county or the state had bought this hollow, crusty wreck of a thing and had plans to fix it up for use in bicentennial celebrations. The first stage in the car's rehabilitation coincided nicely with this first stage of ours; we were to clean it.
There we were, two teenagers with a fairly spotty record of cleaning something as simple and small as our own bedroom, and we're handed a train to clean. Looking back, I give them an "A" for creativity, but a "C-minus" in forethought. We were certainly likely to learn our lesson, but were they likely to get a clean train? Doubtful. Doubtful, at best.
The cops (we felt we knew them well enough by now to call them cops) gave us buckets, hoses, brushes, soap and a hose that ran all the way from the side of the court house. I imagined that they used this same hose to delouse prisoners, and so resolved not to drink directly from it. We started by filling the bucket with water, adding soap, soaking the brushes and sponges, and then picking an area to begin scrubbing. This was slow and fairly ineffectual work, so we eventually hit upon the idea of just hosing down the whole interior of the car, using the force of the water pressure to dislodge the crustier bits of the train's history.
Before long the car and Jim and I were thoroughly drenched and more than a little sudsy. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to tell you that water + soap = slippery. There we were, soaked to the bone, sliding all over the inside of the Pullman car, doing our best to scrub anything and everything that slid by. After a couple of hours we were surprised to see that the train was noticeably cleaner than before we started. The hot sun streaming through the broken windows and playing off the puddles and soap bubbles began to look more and more like a light at the end of this particular tunnel.
In the end, we served our time, and the train got clean. We were wet and exhausted, but we'd had fun. I don't think they'd bargained on that, but we did. If I sat down with a calculator and a calendar, I could compute the number of days in my childhood, and hazard a guess as to how many of those were days during which I had fun. It would be a big number, yet looking back, so few days stick in my mind. But that one did.
Did we learn our lesson? It's hard to say. We certainly never got into that specific brand of trouble again, but I'd be lying (and more so than usual) if I suggested that we were angels from them on.
Time and geography have frayed the bonds Jim and I once shared. When you grow up in the same house with someone who is the same age as you, you can't help but spend most of that childhood stumbling through the good and bad together. I like to think that the paths we each have taken since then were the right ones for each of us, that they diverged because we each needed to go where the other could not. But most of all, I like to remember that there was a time when we stood together, soaking wet, looking down a set of railroad tracks, and thinking that, like those two ribbons of rusty steel, we'd run side-by-side through the world forever.
Inherent in this search for meaning is a need to learn what things feel good and what things hurt. Most human beings, when they realize that something feels good, want more of it. Similarly, most humans will strive to avoid anything they identify as a source of discomfort. (The few exceptions to this rule are big Marilyn Manson fans.) This desire to avoid pain is key to the effectiveness of criminal punishment; we punish criminals in the hopes that they will associate the pain of punishment with their criminal behavior, and choose not to do it again. (Or at least, that's what we ought to do with criminals. Commentary on that issue will have to wait for another blog.)
As a reasonable facsimile of an adult, I am a firm believer in the punishment part of "crime and punishment." It should be swift and should fit the crime. Given that our crime involved vandalizing a garage, the authorities couldn't exactly simply vandalize us in return. (Though my step-father thought it appropriate.) Even in the hinterlands of Upstate New York in the mid '70's, they had some standards for what you could and could not do with kids (unless you were their parents or clergy).
Jim and I were ordered to appear downtown at the courthouse that following Saturday morning, dressed in work clothes and ready to work. Mom picked the most ripped and stained jeans from amongst our supply of ripped and stained jeans, we donned t-shirts and sneakers, and Dad gave us each a pair of work gloves, which he assured us we would pay to replace should they be lost or damaged. We hopped in the family truckster and headed downtown. At the courthouse, the police took custody of us from Mom, and told her when she could reclaim us. We took it as a good sign that they assumed she'd want us back.
The Pullman Sleeping Car was invented by cabinet-maker turned industrialist George Pullman in 1857. The Pullman Car parked on the railroad siding next to the court house, was probably one of the first to roll off the assembly line, and—if its condition that day was any indication—saw the hardest, dirtiest use during its day. Apparently the city or the county or the state had bought this hollow, crusty wreck of a thing and had plans to fix it up for use in bicentennial celebrations. The first stage in the car's rehabilitation coincided nicely with this first stage of ours; we were to clean it.
There we were, two teenagers with a fairly spotty record of cleaning something as simple and small as our own bedroom, and we're handed a train to clean. Looking back, I give them an "A" for creativity, but a "C-minus" in forethought. We were certainly likely to learn our lesson, but were they likely to get a clean train? Doubtful. Doubtful, at best.
The cops (we felt we knew them well enough by now to call them cops) gave us buckets, hoses, brushes, soap and a hose that ran all the way from the side of the court house. I imagined that they used this same hose to delouse prisoners, and so resolved not to drink directly from it. We started by filling the bucket with water, adding soap, soaking the brushes and sponges, and then picking an area to begin scrubbing. This was slow and fairly ineffectual work, so we eventually hit upon the idea of just hosing down the whole interior of the car, using the force of the water pressure to dislodge the crustier bits of the train's history.
Before long the car and Jim and I were thoroughly drenched and more than a little sudsy. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to tell you that water + soap = slippery. There we were, soaked to the bone, sliding all over the inside of the Pullman car, doing our best to scrub anything and everything that slid by. After a couple of hours we were surprised to see that the train was noticeably cleaner than before we started. The hot sun streaming through the broken windows and playing off the puddles and soap bubbles began to look more and more like a light at the end of this particular tunnel.
In the end, we served our time, and the train got clean. We were wet and exhausted, but we'd had fun. I don't think they'd bargained on that, but we did. If I sat down with a calculator and a calendar, I could compute the number of days in my childhood, and hazard a guess as to how many of those were days during which I had fun. It would be a big number, yet looking back, so few days stick in my mind. But that one did.
Did we learn our lesson? It's hard to say. We certainly never got into that specific brand of trouble again, but I'd be lying (and more so than usual) if I suggested that we were angels from them on.
Time and geography have frayed the bonds Jim and I once shared. When you grow up in the same house with someone who is the same age as you, you can't help but spend most of that childhood stumbling through the good and bad together. I like to think that the paths we each have taken since then were the right ones for each of us, that they diverged because we each needed to go where the other could not. But most of all, I like to remember that there was a time when we stood together, soaking wet, looking down a set of railroad tracks, and thinking that, like those two ribbons of rusty steel, we'd run side-by-side through the world forever.
Friday, September 21, 2007
No preste ninguna atención a este blog...
I was thinking the other day how cool it is that my daughter has been learning a little Spanish here and there since her first days in Kindergarten. This seems to be fairly standard for elementary schools in North Carolina. I assume our children are being taught Spanish starting at such an early age so that those who drop out of school prior to graduation will be able to get work on a road crew or at the drive thru of a fast food restaurant. Speaking of fast food places, am I the only one who's noticed that the only chain not being completely staffed by Latinos these days is Taco Bell? (Yo quiero explicación!) The one place I really want to hear a Mexican accent, and I'm greeted by, "Y'all wanna try our new Scrapple Chalupa?"
I tend to assume that the nice, hard-working people taking my lunch orders and slowing my progress on local roads are here legally. I also tend to assume that I may be wrong about that, but since I can't tell just by looking at someone whether he or she came here through proper channels or by clinging to the underbelly of a tanker of pomegranate juice, I'm inclined to treat everyone I meet with at least as much respect as the next person who can't understand most of what I'm saying. (You know who you are.)
The issue of illegal immigration is a hot topic these days, and while I don't harbor any animosity for anyone who's trying to improve their lot in life, I do have a bone to pick with those trying to pretend that illegal aliens are anything else. Words mean things; that's why we don't just grunt at each other. (Unless we've got a big mouthful of chalupa, of course.) Those who have tunneled or ridden or skipped or catapulted across our borders without going through the proper channels aren't undocumented immigrants any more than a bank robber is just making an undocumented withdrawal. They're breaking the law, which makes them illegal. Noting that does not make me a bigot, it just makes me someone who recognizes the legitimate meaning of words.
And they're not immigrants at all; as much as it may (apparently) hurt some feelings for me to say it, they are aliens. Immigration is a legal process, one these people have specifically and intentionally avoided undergoing. They did not immigrate to our country, they snuck in. These people are illegal aliens. That's the proper term. (And I expect you all to use it.)
And don't give me that "we need them to do the jobs no one else will do" crap. Here's how we fill those jobs... We start deporting illegal aliens en masse, and for every individual we send back across our borders, we kick one person off of welfare. See? There's now a new hungry person in need of work to replace the one who we got rid of. Problem solved! Of course, this hungry person in need of work happens to be a U.S. citizen and so is actually able to legally work in our country.
For the record, I'm no xenophobe. (I'll wait while you look that up... okay, moving on.) Yes, it infuriates me to know that someone can take their driver's license test in Espanol, but only because these people then have to go drive on roads dotted with signs written in English. How many rusty, pale blue pickups go careening out of control off of bridges in January because we don't have signs reading, "El puente congela antes de camino"?
If private businesses think they can make a buck by advertising in Spanish or printing "El Cheetos" on my bag of cheese puffs, that's their business. I'm not sure the government should be doing business in any language other than English, but aside from things like that driving test, I don't really care. Of course, doing so creates something of a slippery slope. How many languages should Wake County print it's forms in, and how much more does it cost us, the taxpayers, to do so? Perhaps we'd all be ahead in the long run if we used some of our tax dollars to fund ESL classes for new immigrants.
Oh, and I'd like to send a shout out to Mexico's president, Felipe Calderón. In his recent state of the union address, he stated that "Mexico does not end at its borders," and that. "Where there is a Mexican, there is Mexico." Um, I don't mean to quibble, but I feel the need to make a minor point of clarification... Mexico pretty much ends where and when we say it does. Felipe would do well to remember that. (After all, if we ever did decide to take a few battalions down to the Rio Grande and golpee algún asno con el pie, it's not like Felipe could put up much of a fight; all his able-bodied young men are over here.)
I tend to assume that the nice, hard-working people taking my lunch orders and slowing my progress on local roads are here legally. I also tend to assume that I may be wrong about that, but since I can't tell just by looking at someone whether he or she came here through proper channels or by clinging to the underbelly of a tanker of pomegranate juice, I'm inclined to treat everyone I meet with at least as much respect as the next person who can't understand most of what I'm saying. (You know who you are.)
The issue of illegal immigration is a hot topic these days, and while I don't harbor any animosity for anyone who's trying to improve their lot in life, I do have a bone to pick with those trying to pretend that illegal aliens are anything else. Words mean things; that's why we don't just grunt at each other. (Unless we've got a big mouthful of chalupa, of course.) Those who have tunneled or ridden or skipped or catapulted across our borders without going through the proper channels aren't undocumented immigrants any more than a bank robber is just making an undocumented withdrawal. They're breaking the law, which makes them illegal. Noting that does not make me a bigot, it just makes me someone who recognizes the legitimate meaning of words.
And they're not immigrants at all; as much as it may (apparently) hurt some feelings for me to say it, they are aliens. Immigration is a legal process, one these people have specifically and intentionally avoided undergoing. They did not immigrate to our country, they snuck in. These people are illegal aliens. That's the proper term. (And I expect you all to use it.)
And don't give me that "we need them to do the jobs no one else will do" crap. Here's how we fill those jobs... We start deporting illegal aliens en masse, and for every individual we send back across our borders, we kick one person off of welfare. See? There's now a new hungry person in need of work to replace the one who we got rid of. Problem solved! Of course, this hungry person in need of work happens to be a U.S. citizen and so is actually able to legally work in our country.
For the record, I'm no xenophobe. (I'll wait while you look that up... okay, moving on.) Yes, it infuriates me to know that someone can take their driver's license test in Espanol, but only because these people then have to go drive on roads dotted with signs written in English. How many rusty, pale blue pickups go careening out of control off of bridges in January because we don't have signs reading, "El puente congela antes de camino"?
If private businesses think they can make a buck by advertising in Spanish or printing "El Cheetos" on my bag of cheese puffs, that's their business. I'm not sure the government should be doing business in any language other than English, but aside from things like that driving test, I don't really care. Of course, doing so creates something of a slippery slope. How many languages should Wake County print it's forms in, and how much more does it cost us, the taxpayers, to do so? Perhaps we'd all be ahead in the long run if we used some of our tax dollars to fund ESL classes for new immigrants.
Oh, and I'd like to send a shout out to Mexico's president, Felipe Calderón. In his recent state of the union address, he stated that "Mexico does not end at its borders," and that. "Where there is a Mexican, there is Mexico." Um, I don't mean to quibble, but I feel the need to make a minor point of clarification... Mexico pretty much ends where and when we say it does. Felipe would do well to remember that. (After all, if we ever did decide to take a few battalions down to the Rio Grande and golpee algún asno con el pie, it's not like Felipe could put up much of a fight; all his able-bodied young men are over here.)
Meet me in St. Louis, Louie, but get directions first.
I had to fly to St. Louis recently. I say "had to" because nobody goes there by choice. Don't get me wrong... there's nothing wrong with St. Louis, it's just... well, it's not someplace else; any place else. St. Louis is that other place. The place you go when you can't be where you wanted. Or at least that's how it seems to me. I suspect people who live there will feel differently, and will have stopped reading by now, in a huff. Of course they should... I mean, who the hell am I to cast aspersions on a city I've only been to once now? Anyone reading this should know to either ignore my opinion entirely, or at least take it with a healthy dose of sodium (chloride, not pentothal).
They say that "all roads lead to Rome." Well, if that's true anywhere it must be doubly so in St. Louis. I assume that all the roads in St. Louis lead to Rome, because I can assure you that none of them led to where I wanted to go. I performed more U-turns than a female sheep rolling down a hill. (Wait for it... ba-dum-bum!) My brother, who was driving, finally resorted to the most extreme of measures and stopped to ask directions. I don't know whether our route was especially difficult, or whether the people at the Stop-N-Go were just shocked to see a grown man stop and ask "how do I get there from here, and by the way, where is here?"
Oh, we were there for a funeral. Not at the Stop-N-Go; they're full service, but there are limits. No, we were in St. Louis for a funeral. My uncle, my father's brother, died. His was one of those ends that had been coming for a long time. There was no shock, no surprise for anyone. Uncle Sam (yes, I have/had an Uncle Sam) lived for seven years with the cancer that took my father in four months.
I liked Uncle Sam a lot. In a way that's kind of strange, because I had seen so little of him in my life that I really didn't know him. I'd like to chalk it up to my having a "sense" about people, but I don't. People, to me, are closed books. Oh, and they're still wrapped in cellophane and stacked on a shelf where I need to ask for help to even get the book down, but I don't, because I'm not good about asking for help, even with the small stuff. That said, I believe I felt I knew Sam because Sam was one of those people, one of those men, who spent his life in life.
What?
I know, I know... Lemme 'splain.
With me at any given time there's the guy I'm trying to be, the guy I'm trying to show to others, and then—somewhere hidden safely from view—there's the real me. Whoopy, right? I mean, that's most of us, isn't it? Heck, most of you who like to go around believing that you're showing the world the real you have just crafted a mask out of "hey world, this is the real me." Pretending to be real is the mask you wear. And that's cool. There are plenty of worse masks out there. (How about the, "Hey world, I like the taste of human flesh" mask?)
But Sam. Recognizing that I didn't know the man well and that I'm mostly full of shit most of the time, I think that Sam was one of those rare individuals who really lived as who he really was.
I heard a lot of nice things said about him at his funeral. Now sure, funerals are not generally places where people jump up to tell you all the worst dirt they have on the deceased, but I'm inclined to believe what I heard. One of the most, no, the most memorable thing I heard said about Sam was that when he talked to you he was more interested in what you had to say than in what he himself had to say. That struck me as a wonderful trait, probably because it is so patently lacking in me. Half the time when I'm on the listening end of a conversation my attention is 100% committed to planning my next comments. The other half the time, I'm asleep.
Yes, I suck. I'd love to be like Sam in this regard, but I'm not.
The funeral was beautiful. Sam's children, my cousins, both got up and spoke about their father, and his best friend shared some comments as well. I couldn't help thinking how much I hoped that people would speak as well of me when I'm gone, but neither could I kid myself that they would. That's not false modesty; I'm not looking for disagreement here. The reality is that—by my own measure (the only one that really matters for me)—I am not living up to the potential I believe I have. I feel as though I'm sleepwalking through my life, and while it's a pretty good dream most of the time, there's a part of me that yearns to wake up, shake off the lethargy that's gripped me for far too long, and really live.
Or maybe I just need another cup of coffee.
They say that "all roads lead to Rome." Well, if that's true anywhere it must be doubly so in St. Louis. I assume that all the roads in St. Louis lead to Rome, because I can assure you that none of them led to where I wanted to go. I performed more U-turns than a female sheep rolling down a hill. (Wait for it... ba-dum-bum!) My brother, who was driving, finally resorted to the most extreme of measures and stopped to ask directions. I don't know whether our route was especially difficult, or whether the people at the Stop-N-Go were just shocked to see a grown man stop and ask "how do I get there from here, and by the way, where is here?"
Oh, we were there for a funeral. Not at the Stop-N-Go; they're full service, but there are limits. No, we were in St. Louis for a funeral. My uncle, my father's brother, died. His was one of those ends that had been coming for a long time. There was no shock, no surprise for anyone. Uncle Sam (yes, I have/had an Uncle Sam) lived for seven years with the cancer that took my father in four months.
I liked Uncle Sam a lot. In a way that's kind of strange, because I had seen so little of him in my life that I really didn't know him. I'd like to chalk it up to my having a "sense" about people, but I don't. People, to me, are closed books. Oh, and they're still wrapped in cellophane and stacked on a shelf where I need to ask for help to even get the book down, but I don't, because I'm not good about asking for help, even with the small stuff. That said, I believe I felt I knew Sam because Sam was one of those people, one of those men, who spent his life in life.
What?
I know, I know... Lemme 'splain.
With me at any given time there's the guy I'm trying to be, the guy I'm trying to show to others, and then—somewhere hidden safely from view—there's the real me. Whoopy, right? I mean, that's most of us, isn't it? Heck, most of you who like to go around believing that you're showing the world the real you have just crafted a mask out of "hey world, this is the real me." Pretending to be real is the mask you wear. And that's cool. There are plenty of worse masks out there. (How about the, "Hey world, I like the taste of human flesh" mask?)
But Sam. Recognizing that I didn't know the man well and that I'm mostly full of shit most of the time, I think that Sam was one of those rare individuals who really lived as who he really was.
I heard a lot of nice things said about him at his funeral. Now sure, funerals are not generally places where people jump up to tell you all the worst dirt they have on the deceased, but I'm inclined to believe what I heard. One of the most, no, the most memorable thing I heard said about Sam was that when he talked to you he was more interested in what you had to say than in what he himself had to say. That struck me as a wonderful trait, probably because it is so patently lacking in me. Half the time when I'm on the listening end of a conversation my attention is 100% committed to planning my next comments. The other half the time, I'm asleep.
Yes, I suck. I'd love to be like Sam in this regard, but I'm not.
The funeral was beautiful. Sam's children, my cousins, both got up and spoke about their father, and his best friend shared some comments as well. I couldn't help thinking how much I hoped that people would speak as well of me when I'm gone, but neither could I kid myself that they would. That's not false modesty; I'm not looking for disagreement here. The reality is that—by my own measure (the only one that really matters for me)—I am not living up to the potential I believe I have. I feel as though I'm sleepwalking through my life, and while it's a pretty good dream most of the time, there's a part of me that yearns to wake up, shake off the lethargy that's gripped me for far too long, and really live.
Or maybe I just need another cup of coffee.
Burning off steam...
One night, at a time significantly beyond the hour at which I and my brothers, Mark and Jim, were supposed to have been sleeping, we were instead raising Cain; one of my step-father's many clever phrases for doing that which you were not supposed to do. Whatever we were playing at or arguing about or throwing back and forth or tooting on or dismantling at the time has long since been forgotten, but it must have been something interesting to have included all three of us.
You see, being only six months apart, my step-brother, Jim, and I shared a room. It wasn't unusual for us both to be called on the carpet after bedtime. If either one of us was either not sleepy or in the mood for mayhem, the other really had no choice but to be pulled into the fun and the subsequent punishment. Mark, being older by two years, had his own room down the hall. For him to be pulled into the mix meant that this was no ordinary shenanigans. Since I don't recall what we were up to at the time, I'll make something up.
So there we were, playing monkey-in-the-middle with some of Dad's fissionable material. I'm pretty sure it was a baseball-sized chunk of strontium 90, but Mark remembers it as being uranium 238. I was in the middle, of course. Jim and Mark were both active, sports types, and as such were quite adept at throwing, catching, and the basics of ridicule. For my part, the countless hours I had spent with my nose buried in books were paying off as I jumped up and down, flailing at but failing to catch each successive throw, and complaining that it wasn't fair with a fairly impressive vocabulary for a six year old.
But, as often happens when kids get caught fooling with their father's radioactive isotopes, we were hauled up short by a shout from downstairs. Dad was mad. "Put that down in a safe, lead-lined container, and get back to bed!" This being the third time he'd yelled up at us that night, we knew he meant it. So, being as rational as the next six, six, and eight year old you might meet, we kept at it a bit longer.
We lived, eight of us, in a rather old house. I think it was built in the 1920's, but I'm not sure (and I'm too lazy to check). Being an old house, the floors creaked whenever you so much as thought about walking on them. Sneaking around at night without making noise was simply impossible, yet somehow Dad could just appear anywhere he wanted in the house without making a sound. So, there we were, out of bed and misbehaving, when suddenly there he was, right in the middle of it.
"That's it. You boys have that much energy, let's give you an opportunity to burn it off. Come with me."
We followed quietly. Not frightened really, but worried. The normal consequence of the kind of behavior we'd been engaging in was a good spanking, some yelling, maybe a bit of both. But a chance to burn off some energy? We had no idea what that meant, but we were each quite certain it wouldn't be good. Mark, being the eldest and most rooted in the way things actually work, assumed it meant we'd be pressed into service cleaning the house or some such menial activity for a few hours. It was a reasonable assumption, as this would have served well both as a punishment and as a way to tire us out and burn that excess energy off. It also would have served a useful purpose; that of cleaning the house. Yes, Mark's was a reasonable assumption, but it was wrong.
Jim, being the more optimistic of the three of us, thought that perhaps Dad was about to challenge us all to an impromptu game of touch football in the backyard. Never mind that it was dark out and that we had no real lights for the backyard back then. Forget that we had never once played touch football with Dad up until that day (nor have we since). Given all the possible options Jim's brain presented, this one was the most fun, and so he settled on it, and began planning how to ensure that Dad picked him for Dad's team. Sadly, Jim also turned out to be wrong.
If Mark was the most realistic of the three of us and Jim the most optimistic, then I was the most fanciful. My imagination wasn't quite so tethered in reality as Mark's, nor quite so thoroughly ensconced in rose-colored glass as Jim's. Mine was shaped by a simple, overwhelming, and deep-rooted belief that life was pretty much the way they depicted it on TV and in movies. And so it was that as Dad led us downstairs, I imagined that our ultimate destination was the basement, where we would spend the hours until dawn shoveling coal into the rusty, monolithic blast-furnace that crouched at it's center, waiting to devour our childish joy along with shovelful after shovelful of jet black coal. Never mind that our furnace ran on oil, and was a boxy, pale-green affair that would frighten no one.
As you might have guessed, I was also wrong. We all were. Dad didn't take us downstairs and present us with mops, brooms, pails, and dust-rags; he didn't grab a football and call us into a huddle in the backyard; he didn't drag us kicking and screaming into the searing, sepulchral dark of our basement. No, he took us out onto the front porch and into the cool night air of an Upstate New York fall.
"You boys have so much energy, how about you run it off?"
"Wha??"
"Quiet. I want you to run around the block right now."
"But we're in our pajamas..."
"Now! Get, before I lose my temper!"
And off we ran. At first I think we thought he'd call us back, but once we turned the first corner, I think it dawned on us that he meant to have us actually circumnavigate the block. It's important to point out here that this was a reasonably small town and a reasonably quiet neighborhood. In fact, during most of the time my family lived there (and my parents remain there to this day) about the only thing that ever seemed to cause any problem or present any real danger to anyone was our family. So, while it might seem like a very foolish thing to do when viewed through a lens of today's world and views, it was a harmless, reasonable solution to the problem of three boys with energy to burn at bedtime.
And so we ran. Once we realized that this was our punishment, we got over being scared as to our fate and began to enjoy this strange romp around the neighborhood. We'd never done anything like it in our lives, and though we didn't know it at the time, we never would again. We ran and skipped and laughed. We ran so fast that our slippers flew off, and we had to go back and slip into them again and again. At the second corner, we decided to cut the corner and run across the front lawn. Apparently, people doing this was something the owner was trying to discourage, because at roughly the half way point across the lawn we simultaneously flipped in midair and fell flat on our backs. Startled and still laughing we climbed back to our feet and felt just there at about waist high for kids our size... a thin wire stretched from the corner of the house to a pipe driven in the ground at the corner of the lot. Mark and I stepped carefully over it and headed off down the sidewalk. Jim, who thought flipping over the wire had been a riot, took a few steps back and ran straight at it again. Apparently, it was just as funny the second time.
We made it the rest of the way around the block without incident. When we ran up to our own front porch again, winded, but sporting huge smiles, Dad said, "Now get to bed, and I'd better not hear another peep out of you." He sounded stern, but despite the darkness there on the front steps I could have sworn he was smiling too.
You see, being only six months apart, my step-brother, Jim, and I shared a room. It wasn't unusual for us both to be called on the carpet after bedtime. If either one of us was either not sleepy or in the mood for mayhem, the other really had no choice but to be pulled into the fun and the subsequent punishment. Mark, being older by two years, had his own room down the hall. For him to be pulled into the mix meant that this was no ordinary shenanigans. Since I don't recall what we were up to at the time, I'll make something up.
So there we were, playing monkey-in-the-middle with some of Dad's fissionable material. I'm pretty sure it was a baseball-sized chunk of strontium 90, but Mark remembers it as being uranium 238. I was in the middle, of course. Jim and Mark were both active, sports types, and as such were quite adept at throwing, catching, and the basics of ridicule. For my part, the countless hours I had spent with my nose buried in books were paying off as I jumped up and down, flailing at but failing to catch each successive throw, and complaining that it wasn't fair with a fairly impressive vocabulary for a six year old.
But, as often happens when kids get caught fooling with their father's radioactive isotopes, we were hauled up short by a shout from downstairs. Dad was mad. "Put that down in a safe, lead-lined container, and get back to bed!" This being the third time he'd yelled up at us that night, we knew he meant it. So, being as rational as the next six, six, and eight year old you might meet, we kept at it a bit longer.
We lived, eight of us, in a rather old house. I think it was built in the 1920's, but I'm not sure (and I'm too lazy to check). Being an old house, the floors creaked whenever you so much as thought about walking on them. Sneaking around at night without making noise was simply impossible, yet somehow Dad could just appear anywhere he wanted in the house without making a sound. So, there we were, out of bed and misbehaving, when suddenly there he was, right in the middle of it.
"That's it. You boys have that much energy, let's give you an opportunity to burn it off. Come with me."
We followed quietly. Not frightened really, but worried. The normal consequence of the kind of behavior we'd been engaging in was a good spanking, some yelling, maybe a bit of both. But a chance to burn off some energy? We had no idea what that meant, but we were each quite certain it wouldn't be good. Mark, being the eldest and most rooted in the way things actually work, assumed it meant we'd be pressed into service cleaning the house or some such menial activity for a few hours. It was a reasonable assumption, as this would have served well both as a punishment and as a way to tire us out and burn that excess energy off. It also would have served a useful purpose; that of cleaning the house. Yes, Mark's was a reasonable assumption, but it was wrong.
Jim, being the more optimistic of the three of us, thought that perhaps Dad was about to challenge us all to an impromptu game of touch football in the backyard. Never mind that it was dark out and that we had no real lights for the backyard back then. Forget that we had never once played touch football with Dad up until that day (nor have we since). Given all the possible options Jim's brain presented, this one was the most fun, and so he settled on it, and began planning how to ensure that Dad picked him for Dad's team. Sadly, Jim also turned out to be wrong.
If Mark was the most realistic of the three of us and Jim the most optimistic, then I was the most fanciful. My imagination wasn't quite so tethered in reality as Mark's, nor quite so thoroughly ensconced in rose-colored glass as Jim's. Mine was shaped by a simple, overwhelming, and deep-rooted belief that life was pretty much the way they depicted it on TV and in movies. And so it was that as Dad led us downstairs, I imagined that our ultimate destination was the basement, where we would spend the hours until dawn shoveling coal into the rusty, monolithic blast-furnace that crouched at it's center, waiting to devour our childish joy along with shovelful after shovelful of jet black coal. Never mind that our furnace ran on oil, and was a boxy, pale-green affair that would frighten no one.
As you might have guessed, I was also wrong. We all were. Dad didn't take us downstairs and present us with mops, brooms, pails, and dust-rags; he didn't grab a football and call us into a huddle in the backyard; he didn't drag us kicking and screaming into the searing, sepulchral dark of our basement. No, he took us out onto the front porch and into the cool night air of an Upstate New York fall.
"You boys have so much energy, how about you run it off?"
"Wha??"
"Quiet. I want you to run around the block right now."
"But we're in our pajamas..."
"Now! Get, before I lose my temper!"
And off we ran. At first I think we thought he'd call us back, but once we turned the first corner, I think it dawned on us that he meant to have us actually circumnavigate the block. It's important to point out here that this was a reasonably small town and a reasonably quiet neighborhood. In fact, during most of the time my family lived there (and my parents remain there to this day) about the only thing that ever seemed to cause any problem or present any real danger to anyone was our family. So, while it might seem like a very foolish thing to do when viewed through a lens of today's world and views, it was a harmless, reasonable solution to the problem of three boys with energy to burn at bedtime.
And so we ran. Once we realized that this was our punishment, we got over being scared as to our fate and began to enjoy this strange romp around the neighborhood. We'd never done anything like it in our lives, and though we didn't know it at the time, we never would again. We ran and skipped and laughed. We ran so fast that our slippers flew off, and we had to go back and slip into them again and again. At the second corner, we decided to cut the corner and run across the front lawn. Apparently, people doing this was something the owner was trying to discourage, because at roughly the half way point across the lawn we simultaneously flipped in midair and fell flat on our backs. Startled and still laughing we climbed back to our feet and felt just there at about waist high for kids our size... a thin wire stretched from the corner of the house to a pipe driven in the ground at the corner of the lot. Mark and I stepped carefully over it and headed off down the sidewalk. Jim, who thought flipping over the wire had been a riot, took a few steps back and ran straight at it again. Apparently, it was just as funny the second time.
We made it the rest of the way around the block without incident. When we ran up to our own front porch again, winded, but sporting huge smiles, Dad said, "Now get to bed, and I'd better not hear another peep out of you." He sounded stern, but despite the darkness there on the front steps I could have sworn he was smiling too.
If Dr. Bendover calls, tell him I just left...
I spent 36 hours at the dentist yesterday. Okay, it wasn't actually 36 hours, but it seemed like it. Don't get me wrong; I don't dislike going to the dentist, per se. See, my wife works for a dentist, so that's the practice I take my teeth to. They specialize in prosthodontics, which I assumed meant you could pay both to have your teeth fixed and for sex. (My bad.) Turns out that means they focus on dentures, bridges, and—for the most part these days—implants. (Once again, not the kind I was initially thinking.) It's a good practice, so I'm not harmed by the lack of choice, but I really have no choice; if I need something done to my teeth, I have to go to that dentist. (There's a very good analogy to be made here relating to another activity that my marriage constrains me to undertake with one specific individual only, and which lack of freedom likewise causes me no harm whatsoever... but my wife might just read this one day, and I don't need that headache.)
On the whole, I consider it a plus that I actually know the people who work on my grill. It doesn't get much more personal than having someone spend half their day up to their elbows in your mouth. Being able to share a laugh with them, even if that laugh sounds like the death rattle of a drowning harp seal, well... it takes something patently un-fun and makes it almost fun. Of course, the perceived value of this familiarity drops off rapidly as the portion of your anatomy they are working on nears your middle bits. As much as I enjoy knowing, socially, the people who work on my teeth... I would rather discuss environmental issues with Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio than socialize with my proctologist. (If it happened, through some bizarre twist of circumstance and fate, that I discovered that Dr. Bendover was a friend of a friend, I would have to relocate to Guam.)
But back to my teeth. I was there to get a crown placed on a tooth. (My understanding is that this means that the tooth will be able to move in both directions on the checker board, capturing enemy teeth as it moves.) At least I thought I was there to get a crown. As it turns out, the last time I was there, they gave me a filling instead of a temporary crown. I've looked into this, and as far as I can tell they did this because they had an overstock of amalgam and novacaine, and needed my help to get rid of the stuff. So, instead of the quick, painless pop and glue procedure for which I'd planned, I got to enjoy the whole needle, numb, and grind thing (again). Add to that the fact that the tooth in question is apparently located so far back in my head that it's technically considered part of my ankle bone, and... well, it's hard to imagine having less fun while having so much fun.
Of course, I did not complain. When it comes to doctors or dining out, I think it's best to smile and go with the flow, because in each case the people you're dealing with are in a position to make it very unpleasant for you if you piss them off. Of course, in this particular setting I'm even more constrained to behave like the prototypical model patient, because if I whine or complain or bleed too much when they lance my tongue with the drill I'll hear about it later at home. I think I'd get less flack from fondling the hygienist than I would if it got back to my wife that I was a difficult patient. No... best to grimace and bear it. And that's what I did.
In the end they managed to get the filling out and a temporary crown pressed in place, and I laughed around the instruments and grunted in answer to questions about my kids, my band, my world. I suppose it was as much fun as you can have in a dentist chair, at least without the gas. In a couple of weeks I'll go back and they'll replace this temporary with a nice shiny gold crown. All in all, I should probably consider myself lucky that my wife works where she works, affording me the ability to find some small enjoyment in an otherwise un-enjoyable setting. (And thank God she doesn't work for Dr. Bendover.)
On the whole, I consider it a plus that I actually know the people who work on my grill. It doesn't get much more personal than having someone spend half their day up to their elbows in your mouth. Being able to share a laugh with them, even if that laugh sounds like the death rattle of a drowning harp seal, well... it takes something patently un-fun and makes it almost fun. Of course, the perceived value of this familiarity drops off rapidly as the portion of your anatomy they are working on nears your middle bits. As much as I enjoy knowing, socially, the people who work on my teeth... I would rather discuss environmental issues with Al Gore and Leonardo DiCaprio than socialize with my proctologist. (If it happened, through some bizarre twist of circumstance and fate, that I discovered that Dr. Bendover was a friend of a friend, I would have to relocate to Guam.)
But back to my teeth. I was there to get a crown placed on a tooth. (My understanding is that this means that the tooth will be able to move in both directions on the checker board, capturing enemy teeth as it moves.) At least I thought I was there to get a crown. As it turns out, the last time I was there, they gave me a filling instead of a temporary crown. I've looked into this, and as far as I can tell they did this because they had an overstock of amalgam and novacaine, and needed my help to get rid of the stuff. So, instead of the quick, painless pop and glue procedure for which I'd planned, I got to enjoy the whole needle, numb, and grind thing (again). Add to that the fact that the tooth in question is apparently located so far back in my head that it's technically considered part of my ankle bone, and... well, it's hard to imagine having less fun while having so much fun.
Of course, I did not complain. When it comes to doctors or dining out, I think it's best to smile and go with the flow, because in each case the people you're dealing with are in a position to make it very unpleasant for you if you piss them off. Of course, in this particular setting I'm even more constrained to behave like the prototypical model patient, because if I whine or complain or bleed too much when they lance my tongue with the drill I'll hear about it later at home. I think I'd get less flack from fondling the hygienist than I would if it got back to my wife that I was a difficult patient. No... best to grimace and bear it. And that's what I did.
In the end they managed to get the filling out and a temporary crown pressed in place, and I laughed around the instruments and grunted in answer to questions about my kids, my band, my world. I suppose it was as much fun as you can have in a dentist chair, at least without the gas. In a couple of weeks I'll go back and they'll replace this temporary with a nice shiny gold crown. All in all, I should probably consider myself lucky that my wife works where she works, affording me the ability to find some small enjoyment in an otherwise un-enjoyable setting. (And thank God she doesn't work for Dr. Bendover.)
No Room For Whom?
I go to church. Not always; sometimes not even often, but I go. I really wouldn't call myself religious, I just have a thing for stale bread that's been handled by other people, especially if I can dip it in some really cheap wine and gulp it down in front of an audience. I keep hoping one Sunday I'll take my crappy little piece of pita, and find as I move to dip it that the chalice is filled to the brim with sour cream and onion dip. Body of Christ; blood of salivation...
Admittedly, there are a lot of Sunday mornings when I'd rather stay in bed than go get my weekly infusion of Godliness. Okay, that's pretty much every Sunday morning. Sometimes the bed wins, and sometimes God wins. Actually, I'd rather think that God always wins, it's just that sometimes what God wants most is for me to keep dreaming about being king of Greglandia; where I am worshipped by all the gentle citizens as something of a... well, kind of like a god, but not so much that it would offend you-know-who.
I bring this up by way of explaining my overall view on religious belief, and specifically my attitude toward the beliefs of others; that being that whatever you may believe that makes you happy and causes you to at least try to be good to those around you is cool with me. I have my own beliefs, and I while I have no firm conviction that they are "true," I think they fit what I am able to observe of the world and give me some fleeting sense that I understand the universe and my relationship to it. I like to think I have a pretty good bead on the really big picture, but that doesn't mean I don't have room for other points of view. In fact, it is only by remaining open to other points of view and new information that I have come to my beliefs as they exist today.
What I believe here in 2007 is quite different than how I viewed the universe in 1997, and that evolution has only been possible by reading and listening and remaining open to points of view that often told me, in effect, "you're off your nut." As it turns out, from time to time I have been just that, and only by listening to others have I been able to move toward a more enlightened personal view of the cosmos.
The thing is, not everyone is that open-minded when it comes to their religion. Were I to share some of my more heretical views at church, I have no doubt that those decrying my notions regarding the nature of the soul and whether Jif or Peter Pan makes the better peanut butter would be legion. I understand that. I suspect that most people are fairly closed-minded about their personal view of the world, and few are moreso than those who are willing to conclude that everything they need to know or ought to think about the fabric of reality can be found in a single book. I don't look for debate at church, because I recognize that debate isn't what the other people came there for. People go to church to be uplifted and admonished; and these are both flip sides of a single well-worn coin engraved with the words "In My God I Trust." The world is for questions; church is for answers.
Sadly, I'm finding more and more devout believers demanding that their views not be questioned or challenged out here in the world. "There is no room for debate," is their mantra, and their dogma comes from the First Universal Church of Global Warming. With climate, as with spirituality, where I see questions these people see answers. Where I'm taking notes in pencil, they've scrawled "WE KNOW!!!!!" in ultra-bold Sharpie. I'm all for a lively debate between people of conviction, but what hope is there for such when one side proclaims loudly and with pride, "There is no room for debate." Really? No room at all? Couldn't those of you who know so much make some room for those of us who don't, maybe shepherd us into the warm light of knowing so damn much?
Couldn't we maybe find a little room to debate the value of the data being gathered by weather monitoring stations built in the middle of airports and in front of air conditioning exhausts? Isn't there at least a little room for discussion about whether a temperature monitoring enclosure with a 60 watt light bulb burning inside it might understandably be registering higher temperatures than were measured back before Edison harnessed electricity for light and gave us the single best visual metaphor for the good idea?*
Of course, I'm fairly certain that most of the global warming faithful are blissfully unaware of these facts; but wouldn't engaging in a healthy debate on the issue leave room for them to become informed? How then are we to enlighten those who already deem themselves fully and completely enlightened? Hell, they not only believe they know everything they need to know about the issue (many of them knowing absolutely nothing of substance, when it comes right down to it) but they also label anyone who deigns to ask questions about the issue "flat Earthers."
While the climate warming faithful's mantra of "No room for debate," is intended to convey the certainty with which the question has been answered, what it actually means is "we're not willing to have a debate; our minds are closed." Their conviction is not just similar to that of the devoutly spiritual, it is exactly the same thing. These people have imbued the issue of saving the planet from human-induced climate change with all the fervor and (apologies to the devout) willful ignorance of the most absurd caricature of the Bible-thumping redneck.
Cite scientific reports that suggest warming is not occurring, that warming is natural, that anything they believe is not as they believe, and they respond as if you were telling them there is no God. It's as if these people think the world is inflicted with a terminal case of cancer, yet when you try to show them evidence that maybe, just maybe the test results indicate the planet is going to be okay, they respond with anger and vitriol. "Hey, maybe your mom is going to live..." "NO SHE'S NOT, YOU CRETIN!!!!" (And before you know it they are suggesting that you think their mom is flat...)
Again, I am NOT suggesting that I know all there is to know about global warming; I'm not one of those claiming there is "no room for debate" on the issue. I'm simply suggesting that, based on a considerable amount of reading on my own part, it seems clear to me that there is ample room for spirited debate among those open to learning more about what everyone seems to agree is an important issue. "But wait!" someone is even now saying aloud to himself as he reads this, "what about the ice fields in Antarctica that are getting thinner?" Yes, I've read about those, but I've also read about the other areas of Antarctica where the ice has been getting thicker over the same period. Surely if we're going to draw global conclusions based on what's happening to the amount of ice at the poles, we need to consider all the information about what's happening there, not just the half that suggests we're all doomed.
As with the question of God's existence, there are voices raised with conviction on both sides of this issue; and I'm reasonably sure that these people are all screaming at each other with the best of intentions. So, it doesn't surprise me that very few people are even aware that some of us are quietly, calmly reading and taking in information and searching desperately for others with whom to discuss global warming. If only we could find some room, somewhere, where it would be alright with Leonardo DiCaprio if we debate it.
==
* Here's a link to the Surfacestations.org Website, for anyone interested in reading about some of the stations being used to gather temperature data; data which is being used as the basis for global climate modeling which is cited as indicating and predicting a global warming trend.
Admittedly, there are a lot of Sunday mornings when I'd rather stay in bed than go get my weekly infusion of Godliness. Okay, that's pretty much every Sunday morning. Sometimes the bed wins, and sometimes God wins. Actually, I'd rather think that God always wins, it's just that sometimes what God wants most is for me to keep dreaming about being king of Greglandia; where I am worshipped by all the gentle citizens as something of a... well, kind of like a god, but not so much that it would offend you-know-who.
I bring this up by way of explaining my overall view on religious belief, and specifically my attitude toward the beliefs of others; that being that whatever you may believe that makes you happy and causes you to at least try to be good to those around you is cool with me. I have my own beliefs, and I while I have no firm conviction that they are "true," I think they fit what I am able to observe of the world and give me some fleeting sense that I understand the universe and my relationship to it. I like to think I have a pretty good bead on the really big picture, but that doesn't mean I don't have room for other points of view. In fact, it is only by remaining open to other points of view and new information that I have come to my beliefs as they exist today.
What I believe here in 2007 is quite different than how I viewed the universe in 1997, and that evolution has only been possible by reading and listening and remaining open to points of view that often told me, in effect, "you're off your nut." As it turns out, from time to time I have been just that, and only by listening to others have I been able to move toward a more enlightened personal view of the cosmos.
The thing is, not everyone is that open-minded when it comes to their religion. Were I to share some of my more heretical views at church, I have no doubt that those decrying my notions regarding the nature of the soul and whether Jif or Peter Pan makes the better peanut butter would be legion. I understand that. I suspect that most people are fairly closed-minded about their personal view of the world, and few are moreso than those who are willing to conclude that everything they need to know or ought to think about the fabric of reality can be found in a single book. I don't look for debate at church, because I recognize that debate isn't what the other people came there for. People go to church to be uplifted and admonished; and these are both flip sides of a single well-worn coin engraved with the words "In My God I Trust." The world is for questions; church is for answers.
Sadly, I'm finding more and more devout believers demanding that their views not be questioned or challenged out here in the world. "There is no room for debate," is their mantra, and their dogma comes from the First Universal Church of Global Warming. With climate, as with spirituality, where I see questions these people see answers. Where I'm taking notes in pencil, they've scrawled "WE KNOW!!!!!" in ultra-bold Sharpie. I'm all for a lively debate between people of conviction, but what hope is there for such when one side proclaims loudly and with pride, "There is no room for debate." Really? No room at all? Couldn't those of you who know so much make some room for those of us who don't, maybe shepherd us into the warm light of knowing so damn much?
Couldn't we maybe find a little room to debate the value of the data being gathered by weather monitoring stations built in the middle of airports and in front of air conditioning exhausts? Isn't there at least a little room for discussion about whether a temperature monitoring enclosure with a 60 watt light bulb burning inside it might understandably be registering higher temperatures than were measured back before Edison harnessed electricity for light and gave us the single best visual metaphor for the good idea?*
Of course, I'm fairly certain that most of the global warming faithful are blissfully unaware of these facts; but wouldn't engaging in a healthy debate on the issue leave room for them to become informed? How then are we to enlighten those who already deem themselves fully and completely enlightened? Hell, they not only believe they know everything they need to know about the issue (many of them knowing absolutely nothing of substance, when it comes right down to it) but they also label anyone who deigns to ask questions about the issue "flat Earthers."
While the climate warming faithful's mantra of "No room for debate," is intended to convey the certainty with which the question has been answered, what it actually means is "we're not willing to have a debate; our minds are closed." Their conviction is not just similar to that of the devoutly spiritual, it is exactly the same thing. These people have imbued the issue of saving the planet from human-induced climate change with all the fervor and (apologies to the devout) willful ignorance of the most absurd caricature of the Bible-thumping redneck.
Cite scientific reports that suggest warming is not occurring, that warming is natural, that anything they believe is not as they believe, and they respond as if you were telling them there is no God. It's as if these people think the world is inflicted with a terminal case of cancer, yet when you try to show them evidence that maybe, just maybe the test results indicate the planet is going to be okay, they respond with anger and vitriol. "Hey, maybe your mom is going to live..." "NO SHE'S NOT, YOU CRETIN!!!!" (And before you know it they are suggesting that you think their mom is flat...)
Again, I am NOT suggesting that I know all there is to know about global warming; I'm not one of those claiming there is "no room for debate" on the issue. I'm simply suggesting that, based on a considerable amount of reading on my own part, it seems clear to me that there is ample room for spirited debate among those open to learning more about what everyone seems to agree is an important issue. "But wait!" someone is even now saying aloud to himself as he reads this, "what about the ice fields in Antarctica that are getting thinner?" Yes, I've read about those, but I've also read about the other areas of Antarctica where the ice has been getting thicker over the same period. Surely if we're going to draw global conclusions based on what's happening to the amount of ice at the poles, we need to consider all the information about what's happening there, not just the half that suggests we're all doomed.
As with the question of God's existence, there are voices raised with conviction on both sides of this issue; and I'm reasonably sure that these people are all screaming at each other with the best of intentions. So, it doesn't surprise me that very few people are even aware that some of us are quietly, calmly reading and taking in information and searching desperately for others with whom to discuss global warming. If only we could find some room, somewhere, where it would be alright with Leonardo DiCaprio if we debate it.
==
* Here's a link to the Surfacestations.org Website, for anyone interested in reading about some of the stations being used to gather temperature data; data which is being used as the basis for global climate modeling which is cited as indicating and predicting a global warming trend.
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